BWV 43 - Gott fähret auf mit Jauchzen

Week 43 (21 July – 26 July 2015)

Recording: Philippe Herreweghe, Collegium Vocale Gent; Barbara Schlick, soprano; Catherine Patriasz, alto; Christoph Prégardien, tenor; Peter Kooy, bass

For Americans of my generation, the rocket and shuttle launches of the U.S. space program have been defining moments. I have never witnessed a launch in person, but have seen them many times on television – the spectacular clouds of steam and exhaust gasses out of which emerge brilliant flames as the rocket shoots upward at maximum speed to escape the earth’s gravitational field. The camera follows the rocket as it grows smaller and smaller, dwindling to a tiny point of reflected light before disappearing into the heavens.

 

If transported into our time, a space launch would be one modern invention Bach would have the intellectual framework to comprehend: he immediately would have identified it with the Ascension – so vividly portrayed in this great cantata, which intentionally falls just shy of oratorio proportions (although there is no denying the Mary Magdalene character of the last three solo movements). For Ascension 1726, this work shows the master at the height of his cantata-making powers, and, as with the rocket, the cantata begins in an explosion of exuberant instrumental and vocal color, which grows progressively more inward-looking until at last, the miraculous being has departed, leaving uncertain mortals marveling in his wake.

 

The flow of the narrative is sure and smooth, unencumbered by lengthy da capo arias, although all four voice parts receive meaty solos. A brief 6-measure adagio draws listeners into the world of the cantata, focusing their attention on the text from Psalm 47 as set in a sparkling coro. This text, used by many composers, from Palestrina’s Ascendit Deus to Gerald Finzi’s God is gone up, is considered to be a reference to the Ascension, although whether that is consistent with Old Testament interpretations of the Messiah’s coming and departure is not for me to say. At about four minutes, the coro is a wonderful and challenging anthem with a text that, while Bach used it for Ascension, can be used multiple times in the church year. The opening contrapuntal section, illuminated by upward movement on fahret and auf, resolves in a (mostly) homophonic coda that encourages all singers present with emphatic repetitions of lobsinget. Having been away from these choruses for a few months, this one brought back to me the difficulties and the rewards of the big Bach choral movements, where what at first seems impossible for both individual and ensemble, emerges after focused study and rehearsal as so inevitably right that it becomes easy and natural. This coro has a particularly good alto line, even providing (M. 41) the opportunity to sing the fugue subject a fifth above the sopranos! Replete with celebratory trumpets, this movement provides the “blast-off” for the cantata.

 

The following secco recitative for tenor features wonderful text (such as the enumeration of the worldly blessings in M. 9) and is an indispensable lead-in to the killer aria that follows. Only those who have mastered their scales have a shot at survival. Prégardien provides a marvelous model here, with the dexterity and range (D4↗A6) that are critical to success. But if you have these technical elements, the aria is great fun for you to sing and for the audience to hear. An unusual feature is the ending of the vocal line on a sustained G4 for 5 measures – Bach deprives the tenor of a final flourish but composes music appropriate for the sung word erliegt (to succumb).

 

The short soprano recitative on Gospel text concisely describes the Ascension event. That Bach assigned this text to the highest voice, rather than a more authoritative (lower) voice, could indicate that he wanted to portray the element of childlike wonder so necessary to literal belief (the music would have originally been sung by a child soprano).

 

The next six movements use a text from an unknown poet, whose work utilized a definite structure of two sets of three verses each. The last two lines of each verse in the first set address heaven, earthly power, and celestial thrones respectively as means to glorify the ascended Jesus. The final three verses – the Mary Magdalene verses – express her feelings as she stands on the road looking after the vanished Christ, “I…look after him joyfully (longingly, thankfully)”. The first three verses contain exhortatory statements, the last three are visionary.

 

The soprano aria offers the singer a good entry-level Bach selection for an Ascension Sunday service. The melismatic portions (M.26 and M.28) are scale-derived and not overly demanding. This aria concludes the first part of the cantata, paving the way for an apposite sermon.

 

Bach often uses the stentorian tones of a bass voice to awaken the congregation after the preaching, and does so in BWV 43. Part II begins with an accompagnato recitative which contains possibly the most fiendish passage (M.10-11) the master ever tossed to his bass soloist. Peter Kooy astonishes with his rapid-fire dispatch of this passage, which may need to be marked possibile for the rest of us. A boisterous and challenging aria follows, with a text that forms the theological center of the cantata, as it tells of the teurer Kauf that has gained salvation for mortals. This aria can be used in various church seasons, and is especially worthwhile if a trumpeter is available for the obbligato part. For the ambitious singer, the instrumental style of the vocal writing provides an excellent exercise in interval work (e.g., M. 13-16). Bach does not word-paint in this aria, but sets an overall mood of passionate devotion.

 

The alto recitative and aria are a hauntingly beautiful evocation of the solitude of sudden bereavement mixed with an anticipatory joy of the blessings now guaranteed to come. M.7 of the recitative contains a quite stunning melismatic treatment of the text. My question was why Bach chose to set the verb schaue in this way, rather than place the melisma on the obvious (and usual) choice of freudig. In trying to make sense of it, I saw in the dictionary, adjacent to schauen (to look at, or observe – i.e., a passive action), the similar verb schauern (to shudder, shiver). If you can accept this blending of cognate verbs, the music then implies a trembling with joy, perhaps tinged with terror as the observer watches the rocket streak off into space.

 

The aria is a great solo, for Ascension or any time you can use it, with some technical challenges in the chromatic passages (mournfully descending for Jammer, longingly ascending for sehnlich). The difficult passage M. 72-76 makes a fine exercise in phrasing and intonation. The tempo in Catherine Patriasz’ rendition for Herreweghe’s recording seems a bit fast to me, but each performer must strike a balance between the florid passages (such as M. 39-40 for the soloist – and throughout the movement for the challenging instrumental parts) and the sustained notes in the contrasting section M. 45-53. The operatic feeling of the aria must not distort the evenness of the 16^th-note figures but exist within the rhythmic framework.

 

A soprano recitative concludes the verse settings with words of resignation tinged with hope and gratitude. A lengthy chorale setting of Johann Rist’s alternate text to the Johann Schop tune originally composed for Rist’s Weinachtsgesang, Ermunt’re dich, concludes the cantata. Schop was a famous violinist in his day (mid-17^th-century) and some of his instrumental compositions still exist, but he is principally remembered for his settings of Rist’s sacred texts. His melodies, some of which remain in the Lutheran hymnal today, were adapted by various composers, and Bach also used this tune for one of the chorales in BWV 11 (another Ascension cantata). The chorale setting in BWV 43 is substantial enough to be used as an anthem or offertory; in this recording, Herreweghe’s choir is perfection.

 

 

Johann Schop – Frontispiece of Johann Rist’s Himmlische Lieder (1652 edition)

 

The lengthy caesura in this project is certainly not the fault of this cantata, but simply the inevitable intrusion of real life. I have been very fortunate though in having several wonderful opportunities over the past year to travel to Germany and Switzerland, including hearing an unforgettable Mass in b minor conducted by Sir John Eliot Gardiner in Lucerne this past March. I am slowly checking a few Bach boxes of my own as well, having now touched BWV 4, 10, 93, and 190 as a soloist, performing experiences which enrich and reinforce my analyses. And I do hope to eventually perform the alto aria from BWV 43 – it’s a great one! I’m very glad this week I have finally been able to return to the precious gifts of the master, and blast off into the next phase of this project with the goal to study (and sing) more of these profound works.

 

BWV 42 - Am Abend aber desselbigen Sabbats

Week 42 (15 July – 20 July 2014)

Recording: Helmuth Rilling, Gächinger Kantorei Stuttgart/Bach-Collegium Stuttgart; Arleen Augér, soprano; Julia Hamari, alto; Peter Schreier, tenor; Philippe Huttenlocher, bass

“Is a puzzlement!” Oscar Hammerstein’s protagonist declares in The King and I. Some cantatas are more difficult than others, in the questions they raise and the unsolvable puzzles they pose. Puzzles for which we will never have all the pieces, not with 100 lost cantatas, extremely limited written documentation of Bach’s life and ideas, and the impossibility of viewing what does survive through a lens other than that of our own time.

Here is a chorale cantata – or at least a cantata written during Bach’s project of composing chorale cantatas – with no major choral movement derived from a chorale tune. Why? Perhaps because BWV 42 was composed for Quasimodogeniti, the “low” Sunday following Holy Week and Easter, when Bach may have found it impractical to rehearse a complex choral piece. The final 4-part movement, where he employs two well-known hymn tunes, could have been performed by the soloists, allowing the choir to have a Sunday off.

And perhaps we should review the meaning of the obscure noun Quasimodogeniti? If this word sounds familiar at all, it’s probably in the context of Victor Hugo’s novel The Hunchback of Notre-Dame, where the title character takes his name from the day on which he was discovered abandoned on the steps of the great cathedral. However, the term comes from the first words of the Latin introit for this Sunday, I Peter 2.2: “Quasi modo geniti infantes…” (In the manner of newborn babes [desire the true word even as milk, that you may be nourished by it].

But that’s just some incidental trivia since these words don’t play any role in the cantata, and neither does the famous scripture assigned to this day, where Thomas’ doubts at Christ’s resurrection are put forth and then vanquished. What Bach focuses on (at a pastor’s request, maybe?) is the idea of Christ’s followers banding together in the face of persecution – the texts, patched together from an unknown poet’s contributions and various hymns, repeatedly exhort the listeners to stand strong against the attacks of detractors. Just who would have persecuted the Leipzig Lutherans in Bach’s time is unclear, although undoubtedly there was ever the shadow of the Thirty Years’ War. That long conflict was only a few decades in the past when Bach was born, and in his youth he probably heard recollections of the devastation of those religious wars from veterans, with the specter of a repetition still hovering over late 17^th-century Europe.

So to reinforce the need for vigilant and proactive resistance (a theme with which he was possibly not very comfortable), Bach assembled an angular work, suggesting to many analysts that it was not through-composed but incorporated music from existing compositions – perhaps the master even acknowledged this in his repeated setting of the verb versammeln, which can be translated as “to gather together” or “to assemble”. For this Sunday, Bach may have decided it made sense to utilize music with which his instrumental ensemble was already familiar: for example, various scholars assign the opening sinfonia to another larger work, either an instrumental concerto or a secular cantata. In cheerful D major, the movement isn’t exactly consistent with the mood of what follows, but this set piece (about 6 minutes long in Rilling’s brisk version) with its gentle solo oboe in the central cantabile section, can indeed stand independently of the cantata and deserves that opportunity on occasion.

The alto aria is a puzzle piece: the music as well as the text seems cobbled together from two separate thoughts. The B section has an unusual shift into 12/8 that feels unrelated to the extraordinarily beautiful A section, where the cascading oboes and strings provide the image of the faithful gathering together (and the text matches our favorite old Harold Friedell anthem Draw Us in the Spirit’s Tether). The musically stronger A section can be used on its own; if allowed to flow at a reasonable tempo it can be a wonderfully calming 4-minute anthem at any time of the church year, as well as a tremendous study in phrasing (e.g. M. 65-66). Otherwise, the aria, with its discontinuities in text and music, and a 12-minute overall length, is better left within the cantata. This long aria, coupled with the substantial sinfonia, creates an imbalance, with most of the musical weight in the first part of the cantata (assumedly heard prior to the sermon). This also suggests that Bach was stitching together pieces to make a patchwork musical quilt – but then again he could also just have wanted to use his lovely sinfonia for a different audience.

The short soprano/tenor duet is based on a text now generally attributed to Jakob Fabricius, said to have been written for morning prayers prior to the Battle of Lützen (a decisive battle in the Thirty Years’ War). In Rilling’s recording the tempo is quite fast, in keeping with the militaristic provenance of the words, but the piece comes across as stertorous. I prefer a more relaxed and flowing approach, possibly with the contrast of starting softly, and then at M. 22 injecting more motion and aggressiveness. Both vocal parts have appropriately thorny lines (in canon) in M. 21-33 on the operative verb verstören (to destroy), and it's a useful piece for recital purposes, but maybe not quite the thing for your weekly anthem.

The bass aria dramatizing the Jesus' protection for his faithful is a fine one, and Philippe Huttenlocher is about as fine an interpreter as you could ask for – few other basses can sing with this buoyancy, precision and robustness. He convincingly energizes the crowd, who should listen attentively to the perfectly managed melismas. Thankfully we have also the RIAS sessions that preserved the (very) young Fischer-Dieskau, almost at times unrecognizable in his light and unaffected rendering (although at a slower pace). If you are puzzled by Huttenlocher's choices, compare them to DFD's.

The final movement takes its texts from two different sources: Martin Luther’s Verleih’ uns Frieden and Johann Walter’s Gib unsern Fürsten. Both stanzas are pleas for peace, acknowledging that this lies not entirely in God’s power if men choose to ignore His guidance. These texts don’t seamlessly flow out of the main ideas of the cantata, but the words appear to be sentiments that Bach particularly wanted to express. Perhaps.

Excerpt of Walter's Gib unsern Fürsten from Das christlich Kinderlied (1566)

 

BWV 42 invokes another puzzle, one even more difficult to confront or to resolve. The scriptures Bach used, as well as the unknown poet’s text, directly refer to the Jews as “the enemy” (Feinde), and the persecutors of the early Christians. These references remain in English translations of John 20:19, (even in the new KJV), and if your perspective of the Bible is that it is in large part a historical document, this kind of language can be interpreted as simply documentation of one faction warring against another. But commentators have long noted the “problem” of the John Gospel with respect to its focus on the Jewish people as enemies, and because Bach composed a much more famous work rooted in this Gospel, much has been written about his supposed anti-Semitism. An excellent and concise article (http://www.jidaily.com/127c4) addresses this speculation through the most commonly cited instance – the turba choral settings in the St. John Passion - and discusses to what extent, if any, modern performances should alter the texts of “problem” works in consideration of audience and performer sensibilities.

However, neither in the SJP or in BWV 42 did Bach have the freedom to alter the Luther Bible – this restriction was a condition of his continued employment. This may have been fine with him: all we know for certain is that we can never know Bach’s thoughts on the subject. We cannot travel back in time to gather information to evaluate him in his contemporary framework, and we cannot judge him by the standards of our own post-Holocaust world. Realistically, he was probably no more and no less biased than his peers. Like them, Bach probably did not know any Jews personally, and would have based his opinions on hearsay rather than actual experience. What we do know is that he composed page after page of music that speaks to the highest, noblest aims of mankind. These pages – whether Bach would have wanted them described this way or not – are profoundly humanist statements rather than reflections of a particular sect’s dogma.

Although there is documentation of Jewish life in Leipzig in Bach’s time, particularly in connection with trade fairs, there was no significant Jewish population until the 19^th-century. By then the Jewish community, which included a young composer who among his other accomplishments would resuscitate Bach’s music, had grown large enough to support the building of a great synagogue. The Leipzig Synagogue was located on Gotthardstrasse for more than eighty years until it was destroyed on Kristallnacht. A memorial now marks that site, while elsewhere in the revitalized city a new synagogue has risen. There the Leipziger Synagogalchor preserves the European Jewish liturgical music traditions; the chor numbers among its past directors a tenor who earlier in his career frequently sang the Evangelist in the St. John Passion. Every year (for this year, Sunday 9 November), the choir joins with other Leipzig church musicians to remember the victims of Kristallnacht at an ecumenical service…in the Thomaskirche.

 

The Old Leipzig Synagogue

 

BWV 41 - Jesu, nun sei gepreiset

Week 41 (8 July – 13 July 2014)

Recording: Helmuth Rilling, Gächinger Kantorei Stuttgart/Bach-Collegium Stuttgart; Helen Donath, soprano; Marga Höffgen, alto; Adalbert Kraus, tenor; Siegmund Nimsgern, bass

The vagaries of the BWV cataloging system resulted in a New Year’s cantata following BWV 40, a work intended for Christmastide – although BWV 41 was composed for 1 January 1725, two New Years after the Christmas in which BWV 40 premiered. New Year’s Day seems to have inspired the master to compose music of exuberant optimism, and it’s nice to think that perhaps Bach shared with many of us the not entirely rational belief that with a new year we get to make a fresh start: if we keep our resolutions everything will have to get better.

As a chorale cantata, the coro beginning the piece requires one voice on the cantus firmus and here the sopranos draw the short straw, but the rest of us get to have a fun time. Beginning with a cheerful trumpet motif set against thrumming strings – balancing jubilation with inner joy – instrumental passages alternate with (per Sir Hubert Parry) “brilliantly congenial” contrapuntal and fugal choral settings for each of the first four stanzas from Johannes Herman’s well-known hymn. The first section of this chorus is a set piece in its own right – many composers would be happy to end at M. 102. But at the text Dass wir in guter Stille, Bach inserts a 16-measure adagio in ¾ time (the tempo marking inserted into the Breitkopf & Härtel vocal score does not appear in the manuscript but the shift to a simpler homophonic structure, together with the text, suggests some relaxation). The winds are now prominent, and a brief turn into the minor key indicates that not all of the previous twelve months has been perfect. Perhaps not all his listeners felt the guter Stille, but Bach’s soothing music, especially the bass’ sustained D3 on Stille, provided a brief respite from their troubles.

Changing the mood abruptly at M. 119, Bach initiates a presto fugue (again, I don’t see this marking in the manuscript sources, and an appropriate tempo is not what we would call a modern presto), contrasting the highly melismatic A section with emphatic quarter notes that give the impression of homophony, consistent with the text pledging renewed dedication to God. This imposing section in some ways echoes the Dona nobis pacem in the B minor Mass. The final two lines of the hymn revert to the joyous music of the A section, closing the coro as it began, with talismans of resounding brass.

The Rilling recording provided the opportunity to become reacquainted with Helen Donath’s bright, clear soprano. The American singer had a long and brilliant career here and in Europe, and she does so much so well in this deceptively simple da capo aria. First and most importantly, she maintains the tempo and the evenness of the triplet figures, which can have a tendency to slow down, especially when there are technical challenges in the mix. In this aria, the tempo needs to be set by the singer, as what you have to do vocally is much more difficult than the instrumental parts. Donath meets the challenge of the difficult fifths (for example, the D5 to A6 in M. 17) which – either in notated pitch or Baroque pitch – cross breaks in the adult voice, and can make keeping the vocal line problematic. For English speakers, pay attention also to the handling of the repetitions of sei, where the diphthong must vanish gently after sustaining the pitch on [ɑ]. This aria is a nice selection for those “low” services after Christmas, and while the A section can stand on its own, if time is not a consideration, the B section, with melismas on Hallelujah that are both excellent technical exercises as well as lovely word painting, should be included.

The unknown poet provided a wonderful text acknowledging the divine blessings bestowed upon the faithful, which Bach set as a secco recitative for alto. He usually gave this type of authoritative declaration to the bass, so be worthy of that das A und O!

As seen in BWV 16, the master didn’t cut the tenor any slack on New Year’s Day – but while difficult, the dal segno solo in BWV 41 is not as unremitting in its demands. Accompanied by the violoncello piccolo, a 5-string variant that as its name implies exists somewhere between a “real” cello and an overgrown viola (no jokes, please). Bach’s Cello Suite No. 6 in D major (BWV 1012) was written for this instrument’s unique timbre, and it is very well-suited to blending with a solid tenor voice. Adalbert Kraus, in addition to singing with taste and discipline, also provides an excellent German diction lesson. The generic text allows this solo to be sung at any time of year, but it should not be performed without the cello: the character of the aria is an instrumental duet where the voice takes one separate but equal part.

The secco bass recitative is notable for the interpolation of a brief 3-part choral commentary, which uses a line of Martin Luther’s Deutsches Litanei. The bass holds an Ab4 which sounds somewhat discordant against the F major chord in the S/A/T. But all voices resolve as the snake is trampled underfoot.

A familiar melody of Melchior Vulpius becomes in the master’s hands a majestic conclusion to the cantata. If I had lived in Sir Hubert’s time, I probably would have said, as he did, that “a fine unity of sentiment” is established through the integration of the first movement trumpet motif with the chorale tune. The movement is long by Bach chorale standards, and includes another 16-bar ¾ section, which can perhaps swing a bit.

One experience denied by even the best recordings is the physical and aural sensation of brass flourishes resounding through the arches of a great kirche. As he composed, that is the sound Bach would have had in his mind – a sound both festive and awe-inspiring, and definitely intended to sober up the New Year’s Day listeners at the cantata’s premiere. Whatever may have occurred in 1724, or whatever was to come in 1725 – in those moments, as Bach’s trumpets climbed ever higher on their first journey through BWV 41 in the Thomaskirche, the Lutheran faithful of Leipzig had to feel certain that the coming year would indeed be blessed and happy.

BWV 40 - Darzu ist erschienen der Sohn Gottes

Week 40 (1 July – 6 July 2014)

Recording: Ton Koopman, Amsterdam Baroque Orchestra and Choir; Bogna Bartosz, alto; Jörg Dürmüller, tenor; Klaus Mertens, bass

Due to the “evolution” of this project’s schedule, I have been enjoying “Christmas in July” for the last couple weeks with this peppy cantata, one of an impressive set of new compositions, including the original Eb-major version of the Magnificat, written for Bach’s first Christmas season in Leipzig (1723). For some reason, BWV 40 isn’t performed at the holidays much anymore, even though nothing says Christmas like the devil, his reptilian emissary, and eternal damnation! Not that this cantata threatens fire and brimstone – the references serve to illustrate that Christ’s appearance in human form provided the ultimate victory of good over evil. The cantata texts hearken back to the most fundamental, black-and-white meaning of the nativity, pre-dating Victorian sentimentality and 20^th-century commercialization.

The scripture used for the opening chorus is not from the Gospel of John, but from I John, a letter recommending to the faithful the “practice of righteousness” (as the chapter is titled in the new KJV). Written long after the events of that first Christmas, this text conveys the sturdy conviction of unquestioned faith, rather than the awestruck revelation of a witnessed miracle. Bach has artfully matched the sequencing of voices and rhythmic structure to capture this mood of confident assertion, while using only the same two lines of scripture in each portion of the resulting coro. Philipp Spitta makes the remarkable observation, “For novelty, boldness, and breadth of structure this is far superior to all the choruses of the Magnificat…”! That comment could serve as fodder for quite a few late-night debates, but let’s just say that sometimes the whole is greater than the sum of its parts.

The chorus consists of a central fugue book-ended by homophonic declamations. After a festive instrumental opening, the A section builds to four measures of contrapuntal climax, focused on the word zerstöre. At M. 25 the alto line is “destroyed” through the notated rhythm and its interaction with the hemiolas in the soprano and tenor voices. (A similar broken, or interrupted, line will subsequently occur in the tenor aria.) A rhythmic transition (M. 29) gives the effect of half-time without changing tempo, and the fugue begins rather gently. As the vocal lines become more complex, the destruction of evil is once again emphasized through the melismatic treatment of zerstöre until a triumphant resolution at M. 64 ushers in the recapitulation. Bach then ends the movement by bringing voices and instruments together on a bright F major chord, without any orchestral postlude.

This opening movement provides an excellent opportunity to wade incautiously into the great Bach tempo debate, and I hazard it only because I found it interesting that here two of the leading exponents of period performance arrived at opposite conclusions. Overall, Koopman’s performance of the cantata was too fast for my taste, with this coro clocking in at 3 ½ minutes, crossing the finish line well ahead of the rest of the field, and almost a full minute ahead of Nikolaus Harnoncourt. Gardiner and Rotzsch arrive somewhere in the middle: both these renditions unfold at a natural and unforced tempo that Bach could have reasonably approached with his available singers and instrumentalists.

A comparison of the tempi in the tenor recitative is also instructive. Koopman sails through it – I wouldn’t say the meaning of the words is neglected, but there is simply no comparison with the carefully thought out approach on Rotzsch’s performance with Peter Schreier. Of course, Rotzsch was working with a once in a generation singer who was already conducting these works in his own right. But if you need convincing, just listen to M.3 on both recordings: the apparently simple and obvious device of an ascending scale matched to bestrahlt. One is fine baroque styling, the other is the light of the world encircling the globe. And in M.8, if the tempo is too fast, you can completely miss the lovely detail in the continuo at the word bedenkt.

The forceful bass aria is fun to hear and sing, but probably would surprise a modern congregation if programmed for an Advent Sunday service – or maybe for any Sunday service. Technically, the music is not difficult, requiring little agility, but the aria benefits from a dramatic approach, and a soloist with a brightness in the top register (although the low notes are needed, too). The trampling of the snake connects this Christmastide cantata back to the prophesy in Genesis 3:15: “And I will put enmity between you and the woman,/and between your offspring and hers;/he will crush your head,/and you will strike his heel.”

The alto has a brief accompagnato recitative that completes this reference. It’s a strange thing to sing – where you think there should be fireworks there is instead the gently rocking string accompaniment which leaves no room for rubato. Still, the words are important and should not be thrown away, and this movement was one where I liked Koopman’s tempo, which allowed for quiet reflection: a Christmas lullaby.

The tenor aria is all about joy but Bach bedeviled his soloist with the virtuosic demands. I can imagine the nervous soloist standing up to sing, as the congregation settles in cheerful expectation. The horns enter with jubilant flourishes in the introductory material, further raising the stakes, while the unfortunate tenor is cursing Bach under his breath and sweating bullets before embarking on his 50-odd measure melisma. One of the piéces de resistance of the Bach tenor repertoire. In Jörg Dürmüller, Koopman has a rarity – a voice that comes naturally to the florid music, easily rocketing through the endless sixteenth-note patterns without apparent effort. This requires a certain placement of the voice superimposed on technical ability, you are either born with it or not – no amount of practice can produce this if the basic equipment is lacking. In contrast, Schreier is not as effortless, but sings commandingly at full voice. He does not take any shortcuts, and triumphs through sheer will and vocal discipline.

Three chorales provide structure and grounding for the cantata, almost giving it the character of a “lessons and carols” service – although this architecture also aligns with Bach’s large-scale choral works. The texts represent the work of three early 17^th-century literary figures: first, Kaspar Füger’s hymn Wir Christenleut, which uses a melody of Johann Crüger that Bach later used in the Weihnachts-Oratorium. The second, central chorale invokes the ancient superstition of shaking the head to shake the devil off one’s back, with a wonderful onomatopoeic effect provided by the Amsterdam Baroque Choir (however, Rotzsch’s Thomanerchor one-ups them with a highly-idiomatic emphasis on Kopf, and goes on from there to own the piece). This less well-known verse of Paul Gerhardt’s Schwing dich auf zu deinem Gott still appeared in unaltered form in 19^th-century German-American hymnals. Lastly, for a joyous ending, Bach selected Christian Keimann’s Freuet euch, ihr Christen alle, which employs a tune by Keimann’s musical colleague in Zittau, Andreas Hammerschmidt.

As you begin to dig deeper, you see how many threads have been brought together here – theological, literary, folk traditions – all woven into a tapestry by Bach’s genius. Tracing those threads back to their respective spindles is a fascinating, but time-consuming labor – for instance, despite an hour’s searching of various digital library collections from Stockholm to Berlin to Atlanta, I was unable to find an illustration of the relevant volume of Hammerschmidt’s Musicalische Andachten: so an excerpt of the aforementioned Gerhardt hymn from the old Lutheran Gesangbuch will have to do.

Paul Gerhardt's Schwing dich auf zu deinem Gott in a 19th-Century Hymnal

 

Through repeated listenings, the Rotzsch recording, with Schreier at his vocal and interpretive prime, and the estimable Siegfried Lorenz calling out the serpent, stood out not just for these fine soloists, but for the overall drama that the performing forces brought to this cantata. It is easy to imagine, listening to the Wie Christenleut choral, and the choir’s repetition of the word Sünd on the modulation that begins the second measure, that one is back in Leipzig in 1723, hearing exactly what the master intended. This is the sound of a congregation of believers intoning a hymn melody that it knows well, to words of lifelong familiarity. Again and again, this sense of authenticity – in an experiential sense, if not, perhaps, a musicological one – permeates this performance. The performers make a case not just for this cantata as a work of art, but as an essential part of the Advent and Christmas worship sequence. Maybe it’s time to shake things up a bit, program BWV 40 this December, and nearly three hundred years after Bach showed the way, go back to the basics of what Christmas is about.

BWV 39 - Brich dem Hungrigen dein Brot

Week 39 (24 June– 29 June 2014)

Recording: John Eliot Gardiner, Monteverdi Choir/English Baroque Soloists; Gillian Keith, soprano; Wilke te Brummelstroete, alto; Dietrich Henschel bass

That Bach found himself in less fortunate financial circumstances than many of his musical contemporaries was the unglamorous reality: he had to provide for a very large family. Surviving documents detail his attention to every penny in a business transaction; however, as far as his salary, he appears to have sought only the compensation that had been promised to him, rarely to petition for more. Despite being a recognized “name” by his early 20’s, he never capitalized on his renown as did, for example, Handel. Bach kept to his teaching post and church job, living in a humble manner and abjuring worldly goods – with the exception of a sizable library, his estate was by our modern standards that of a very poor man. But he came from a poor background, and had lived a hard childhood and youth, travelling on foot from town to town in search of education and employment. He probably often depended on “the kindness of strangers” for housing and food in those early days. So he could approach setting the texts for BWV 39 from the perspectives of the one with enough to share, as well as the one in need.

 

The motif that opens the cantata has been compared by many commentators to the depiction of the “breaking of bread”, but John Eliot Gardiner sides with Albert Schweitzer who interprets it as the needy being led into the home where they will be given food and assistance. Schweitzer comments that “the monotonous instrumental accompaniment with the regular crotchets in the bass, has more the character of a march…it is as if we heard uncertain, tottering steps defiling past us.” With the recorders (or flutes) taking the highest instrumental line, the plaintive pairs of eighth notes descend through the oboes and into the strings: perhaps more like a hunger-weakened cry of distress, echoing through history, which is then answered by the text from Isaiah 58, a command to share one’s possessions with those less fortunate. Looking at the entire chapter of Isaiah puts the selected verses in context: this chapter reminds us that acts of faith tear down barriers, remove inqualities, and resolve injustices. The line that gives the cantata its title is a metaphor – the breaking of bread represents the act of sharing.

 

The opening choral movement functions independently of the cantata, a 7-minute demonstration of all the compositional techniques that Bach had now brought to maturity. Sir John labels this chorus “immense” – an accurate description. Written in the same timeframe as the St. Matthew Passion, the coro neatly divides into three sections. But while Bach gives some weight to the declaration from which the cantata takes its name, the bulk of the first section of the coro deals with the second portion of the verse, which describes a more profound act of charity: “und die, so in Elend sind, führe ins Haus”. Following a brief homophonic passage that gracefully transitions into a contrapuntal setting of these words, the tenors initiate a fugue on the same text. Rather than the typical full stop of all voices before a clean start introduces the fugue subject, the tenors begin by singing Brich dem Hungrigen dein Brot against the other three voices, emerging from this thicket to focus the listener’s attention on the plight of “und die”. In succession, the altos, sopranos and basses imitate the line, until at M.70 all arrive in the house, and the music revisits the opening structure. Sequential utterances of und die ascend through the voices, leading to a Brahmsian climax (M.88 et. seq.). A short middle section provides contrast, with the instruction to clothe the naked (both literally and metaphorically), and to not turn away in disgust.

 

The master concludes this great chorus with a lively section that is a set piece in its own right. Any extra stuff in the vocal score accompaniment needs to be cleared out – only continuo should be used until the full orchestra enters at the end of M.129. This allows the wonderful interweaving lines of the fugue to be heard in clarity, particularly the extended melismas on Morgenröthe. A short and sweet contrapuntal section yields to a final fugue, that focuses on the glory, Herrlichkeit that will seize hold of you in return for selflessness.

 

The cantata text is attributed to Ernst Ludwig I, Duke of Saxe-Meiningen, and employer of the master’s cousin, Johann Ludwig Bach, the “Meiningen Bach” we met back in BWV 15. The Leipzig Bach performed many of his cousin’s cantatas, and apparently used some of the texts as well. The gentle, uplifting quality of these words must have appealed to Bach – once the magnificent chorus resolves in its triumphant G major chord, the succeeding recitatives and arias have a much more personal quality. To quote Sir Hubert Parry, we have “a charming aria for alto …a rather melancholy bass aria…a bright aria for soprano.” All three are suitable for extraction and short enough for Sunday anthems – none are da capo, perhaps because the master had used most of his allotted time with the coro!

 

Following a nicely-worded but generically set bass recitative (one suspects a student was given this task), the alto aria is sweet and tender, and with obbligato oboe and violin, would make a lovely recital piece. The text is a much milder version of “as you sow, so shall you reap”, complete with melismatic scattering of seeds on the verb streuet. This line (beginning M.71) is a useful technical exercise, and the whole aria is especially valuable for teaching handling of the breath, although few will best Anna Reynolds in Richter’s recording, who apparently had no need to breathe in any of these passages.

 

In the original scheme, a sermon followed this aria – and a wise parson would have kept it short, to allow the music to resume with the voice of the divine embodied in the bass aria. This movement stands or falls on the singer’s interpretive skills – the music is secondary to the words in this case. But they are the mildest of admonishments, swept away by the lilting soprano aria. Accompanied by flute (or recorder) in the cantata, this movement would be a lovely church anthem, with or without the obbligato. The aria is not technically difficult, and is excellent material to introduce a young singer to the Bach aria repertoire, with minimal interpretive demands. Here just laying in the line is enough, Bach has already done all the explication in the music.

 

Last but certainly not least – particularly from the alto’s perspective! – is a long alto recitative that essentially consists of three thoughts. The more aria-like and less Sprechstimme this can be sung, the better. Accompanied by hushed string chords, the singer is given a wonderful text to communicate from a very personal level. I would approach the first lines (asking what we can return for the gifts we hourly receive), at a slightly faster tempo, so that the next section – the beautiful and poignant list of what we can return, beginning at M.9 with Ich hab’ nichts als den Geist – can exist in all its solemnity, moving inward until the final und, wenn es dir gefällt, den schwachen Leib der Erd’. The last portion of the recit can be faster and more extroverted, providing a strong transition to the sturdy chorale that utilizes a text from David Denicke’s Beatitudes.

 

Delving into Schweitzer’s Bach biography has added another essential book to my reading list. Just skimming a few pages, I found this unassailable statement: “There is only one way to avoid falling into the fantastic [i.e. fanciful interpretations of the meaning of the music], - a comparative study of all the cantatas. They explain each other.” He goes on to say “No one can conduct one cantata properly unless he knows them all.” That’s a pretty tall order, and how lucky we are today that we have all these recordings by great conductors who made it their life’s work to know this music and present it to us in their own considered interpretations. Masterpieces like BWV 39 can be interpreted and experienced on so many levels – if one insists on hearing the breaking of bread (perhaps stollen handed out to urchins in the street), I’m sure the master would not begrudge it. He wanted his music to make us think, and to contemplate ideas transcending our daily lives. If one person’s bread is another’s march or still another’s sighs for help – he probably would have delighted in all those different impressions – as long as they eventually led back to the reason the music exists in the first place.

BWV 38 - Aus tiefer Not schrei ich zu Dir

Week 38 (4 February – 9 February 2014)

Recording: Karl Richter, Münchener Bach-Chor/Orchester; Edith Mathis, soprano; Trudeliese Schmidt, alto; Peter Schreier, tenor; Dietrich Fischer-Dieskau, bass 

Out of the depths I cry to you, o Lord. Whether in English translation, the Latin de profundis clamavi ad te, Martin Luther’s Aus der Tiefen rufe ich, Herr, zu dir in the German Bible (the Biblical text was set by Bach in his much earlier BWV 131), or his chorale paraphrase used as the basis for this cantata, few verses more powerfully and concisely express desolation than the opening line of Psalm 130. Included from early Christian times in the “Penitential Psalms”, the psalm is often used for funerals and occurs in many requiem settings. However, in Hebrew, the psalm is titled a “song of ascents”, carried over into Latin as canticum graduum, a “song of steps”. The speaker suffers, and seeks a path – an upward path – out of his despair.

The Hungarian writer George Klein introduces Pietà, his volume of essays, by examining the human ability to survive extremes of personal suffering – either physical deprivation or psychological depression. In the latter category, he cites several creative personalities who “won” this battle over self (Thomas Mann, Rainer Maria Rilke). Klein asks, “How [did] they build up their inner strength and use it to turn their personal demons into constructive and obedient little helpers...? It is not only the process of creativity that is driven by these tamed furies, but also the ability of the creative machinery to reach others. They are the source of the machinery…They are the volcanic crater and the narrow path along its rim where one can leisurely stroll.”

At the time Bach composed BWV 38, he was nearing the age of forty, and had already endured more hardship than most of us will have in our much longer lifetimes. Although his experiences may not have been that much different from his contemporaries, the susceptibility of a creative personality to these personal tragedies set him apart. That he profoundly felt these sorrows is etched into his music; that he triumphed over them is proven by the very existence of the music. In the midst of Not, Leiden, Sorgen, Sünden – Bach and his unknown poet find an answer to the sorrows and failures of life in the recurring theme of this cantata, Trost: holding the word up like a shield, even embedding it in the soprano recitative as the unheard text referenced by the instrumental chorale.

Despite the availability of four study recordings, I did not find a version of the opening chorus that gave me what I was looking for: a middle ground between high drama and historically-informed precision, with emphasis on pulling out the words Not and schrei as they crest the waves of the various vocal lines. Richter’s cluttered performance will grate on some sensibilities as it in no way represents the current Bach aesthetic. But he captures a desperation that is visceral and very true to the meaning of the text: every other version sounds subdued by comparison.

Although written in stile antico, the construction is dense and tormented, the music flows organically from the opening line of text, replicating into an outpouring of pain that continually resolves only to begin again (the next phase of the ascent). Bach brings all his tricks to the writing: fugues, chromatic lines, syncopation, all laid against the plaintive soprano cantus firmus. The marvelous descending chromaticism on the phrase Sünd und Unrecht (M. 103 et. seq.) is nothing less than the sound of shame. As with BWV 2, the instrumental score calls for a quartet of trombones. John Eliot Gardiner observes “what they bring to the overall mood, besides their unique burnished sonority, is ritual and solemnity.” This is a heavyweight chorus, opening a dramatic work that is severe in tone – the triumph is never achieved easily.

The short alto recitative is a dramatic monologue, a sequence of thoughts that requires shifts in tonal color. It also provides the ultimate expression of original sin with the opportunity to sing the untranslatable word Sündengräuel – a strong mixture of mortal sin, horror, and atrocity, all pointing back to the petitioner.

The tenor aria is the only solo aria in the cantata, and in Richter’s performance it is expertly interpreted by Peter Schreier. Study and learn: for example, how (M.34) he drives through sustained sorrow (Leiden) to turn the corner, modulating into Trost. The buoyant figures in the continuo are like air bubbles rising from the depths, pushing the drowning one toward the surface: this is a sturdy expression of comfort through faith. At around six minutes, this da capo aria with its lovely text is a worthwhile recital piece, especially if the obbligato oboes can be included to enliven the instrumental interlude that frames the A section.

The following soprano recitative is a bit unusual, beginning with the marking a battuta (“to the beating”, or, precisely in tempo). Why? I was not able to come up with a good explanation, except possibly the use of the instrumented chorale. But I suspect this recit was the result of the master tutoring a composition student, allowing them the opportunity to participate in writing a section of the weekly cantata – details in the setting of the text suggest other ideas are at play. Note, however, the diminished 7th chord on the word Zeichen – Bach’s game of deploying the musical accidental signs (F#, Eb, C♮) to underline this word. As with the alto recit, the text is a dramatic reading, requiring the soloist to act the part of a believer questioning herself. The words include a lovely metaphor for a soft, or weak, spirit with rain-softened ground. Arleen Augér (on Helmuth Rilling’s recording) shows how it’s done.

The recitative leads into an unusual terzetto for S/A/B soloists. One reason I used Richter’s version was the irresistible allure of his trio singers: Klaus Hoffmann notes the “operatic quality” of the terzetto, and who better to capture that than this “cast”. This may not be a purist’s “Bach”, but it is some great singing. Rilling’s crew uses more détaché which is very helpful for clarifying the vocal lines. But altos, be warned – you will not be heard in certain parts of this trio, which actually is a blessing in disguise, since it offers the chance to breathe discreetly. The image of chains drives the use of the three individual voices, intertwining and linking on to each other. The Trost we search for is never more present than in this movement, in the repeated figures of des Trostes Morgen, the morning of comfort, that are a comfort and a joy to sing.

Well, the cantata project incurred a significant interruption due to procrastination, a job change, a computer hard drive replacement, and a very busy spring, which included performances of Vaughan Williams’ magnificent Dona nobis pacem and Britten’s seminal War Requiem as well as many other works. Other than the unique experience of attending a dance concert choreographed to the Art of the Fugue at Holy Trinity Lutheran in New York (one of the few American churches regularly performing the cantatas, by the way), there has not been much Bach for me. I’m hopeful that I can get back on track now that life has settled down: this is work that feeds the intellect, the musical intelligence, and the soul. It was great to get back in the saddle this week, so onward and – like the master’s music in BWV 38 – upward!

BWV 37 - Wer da gläubet und getauft wird

Week 37 (21 January – 26 January 2014)

Recording: Ton Koopman, Amsterdam Baroque Orchestra and Choir; Sibylla Rubens, soprano; Bernhard Landauer, alto; Christoph Prégardien, tenor; Klaus Mertens, bass

Although nominally an Ascension cantata, this short work is first and foremost about Glaube – belief. The text (by an unknown poet) emphasizes the Lutheran concept that salvation will not be won by good deeds alone, but through unwavering, unquestioning faith. The word Glaube and its various grammatical forms appear in every movement but one (the chorale for soprano and alto) so that in Hubert Parry’s assessment, “…the whole work seems suffused with one idea, which is amply enforced by the music.”

The eingangschor echoes older models with “traces of the motet tradition,” as Klaus Hofmann notes. In its unembellished, sturdy 3/2 construction, the chorus is reminiscent of the opening choral movement from the Weimar cantata BWV 12 (albeit without the expressive force of that piece), suggesting the BWV 37 coro might be a remnant from Bach’s pre-Leipzig years; however, the form may simply be the master’s compositional response to the text. Setting a scripture verse, Bach avoids complex counterpoint in order to emphasize words. A notable instance of this begins in M. 63, where the higher voices (S/A) declaim the first line of the verse, with the T/B joining at M. 68 to emphasize der wird selig werden; this sequence is then reversed. Although recent recordings tend to move this coro briskly along, the words and structure seem to call out for a more relaxed, stately tempo. While Ristenpart for RIAS is a bit too lugubrious, he does provide a reference point (his other tempi for the ensemble movements in this cantata are not significantly different from Koopman’s, recorded a half-century later). This is a case where Karl Richter would have provided a guidepost, but unfortunately, he never recorded BWV 37.

Note that the public domain vocal score available on IMSLP omits the umlaut in gläubet, as does the Breitkopf & Härtel full score; in the RIAS recording, the German choristers pronounce the word glaubet. I believe the latter form is acceptable grammatically, in that it is a gender change to the pronoun (He that believes compared to The one who believes). However, consistent with modern performance practice (as well as the surviving manuscript parts), you should write in and sing the umlaut.

Bach scholars have agreed that a violin obbligato part belongs with the tenor aria, although the manuscript part has been lost. Ton Koopman reconstructed the part for his recording; Helmuth Rilling also uses a reconstruction; while the RIAS recording relies primarily on the original continuo part. As with Mozart cadenzas, this will probably be a matter of taste: I prefer Rilling’s version, but here, too, a Richter recording would provide a valuable insight.

The aria is a pleasant, confident statement that faith (dieses Kleinod) is a birthright; one has only to claim it. For a high tenor, the dal segno aria is not particularly demanding, but due to the problem with the scoring, this aria is probably not a good candidate for use outside the cantata.

The duetto utilizes again Nicolai’s Wie schön leuchtet der Morgenstern, which means I’m back where I started about a year ago! In contrast to the chorale duet for soprano and alto in BWV 36 (which benefits from voices of similar timbre), this piece works better for high soprano and contralto, creating a different sonic world that echoes an older tradition. The blend of voices in Koopman’s recording is authentic, but in keeping with the chorale feel, I prefer a slightly freer tempo (Rilling, again). The movement can also be done with more than one voice on a part, although this will obviously increase the difficulty of maintaining ensemble in the melismatic passages, particularly the long concluding passage starting M.35. Whether soloists or sections, the singers need to be sensitive to the constantly changing prominence of their part. For example, in M. 10 the alto voice hands off to the soprano in a lovely sequence of triplet figures, but immediately in M. 11 the alto is again the most important voice for several beats, crossing above the soprano and then back down at which point both voices are given equal material on the final beat.

Some corrections to note for the IMSLP vocal score: there are missing dots on rests and the bracketing of the rhythms is inconsistent. The word eia (also eya) is an exclamation of praise, roughly equivalent to Hurrah, and if the recordings are any guide, with variable pronounciation: [æja] or [eja] both seem to be acceptable. Danish organist Peter Baekgaard has provided a transcription of the duetto for organ solo on IMSLP. Since it is in the same key as the vocal parts, his arrangement could also be used as an alternative to the piano reduction in the vocal score, which would make for a very nice anthem selection.

Note that Bach has used a similar dotted eighth and 32^nd-note figure to set the word Glaube in both the tenor and bass arias, though the similarity between arias ends there. The word-painting in the bass aria is more extensive and the writing more complex, e.g., the nice cadence in M. 34. The challenging melisma on the final getaufet depicts the water falling on the one being baptized, with the aria overall benefitting from a sprightly tempo such as Klaus Mertens achieves. Paired with the recitative, this is an excellent aria for worship or recital, and contains the most inspired text of the cantata – the imagery of faith giving the soul wings.

Some background on Johann Kolrose, the author of the text for the concluding chorale, since this is the only time in the project that we will encounter him. Born in the late 15^th-century in Germany, he eventually made his way to Basel where he ran a school and among other accomplishments published a book on orthography (that is, spelling – and yes, I had to look it up). His hymn Ich dank dir, lieber Herre, which provides the verse that Bach set, was published in Musika Deutsch (1532) and subsequently used by many composers, including Hassler and Buxtehude.

IMSLP also has Robert Franz’ arrangement of BWV 37 for augmented 19^th-century orchestral forces (including the addition of flute, clarinet, bassoon and horn). Remembered today for his lieder, Franz studied with a former Thomaskirche organist, and was consequently very familiar with Bach. More at home with the older forms than the blossoming Romanticism of his time, he himself said, “my music generally has its basis less in Schubert and Schumann than in Bach and Händel”. He produced editions of Bach’s major choral works as well as ten cantatas. These arrangements are ignored today in the name of authentic practice, and even in his own day were disparaged by some critics, but Franz sincerely intended his publications to bring a neglected body of work to a larger audience (and it would be interesting to hear the tenor aria of BWV 37 as Franz envisioned it). Later in life, having been forced by deafness to resign his professional positions, Franz began a quixotic search throughout Germany for Bach manuscripts: he never discovered any.

 

 

 

 

Cover Page from Robert Franz' Edition of BWV 37 (c.1875)

 

Finally, I have to give a shout out to the liner notes for Sir John’s Pilgrimage recording of BWV 37, which include a numerology factoid. The significance of numerology in Bach’s works is far beyond the scope of this project, but I wanted to reference it at some point, and this is a most convincing example. The liner notes present the analysis showing that the numerical values of the letters in the first line of text (the opening line of scripture) add up to the number of measures in the cantata (283 for both), “a bit too exact to be coincidental,” in Gardiner’s opinion. The mind boggles – as if composing a musically-complex and spiritually-profound expression of faith on a weekly basis wasn’t enough, the master set himself these additional challenges and/or constraints as well. Just all in a day’s work – Soli Deo Gloria!