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.