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.