Live from Lucerne It's BWV 245 - The St. John Passion

Did Bach ever visit Switzerland? It’s doubtful, although history records he was well-travelled within his own “country” (Germany was not a unified country during his lifetime). Supposedly he made a 250-mile journey on foot to study with Buxtehude – probably not an unusual venture in those days, but remarkable to us today. He certainly would have seen much of his own land and its people. He was one of them, from beginning to end: a devout boy from a working class family, not a son of the nobility. The family trade just happened to be music. And a trade it was, as evidenced by the continuous compositional demands as well as music directing and teaching, not to mention familial responsibilities, Bach undoubtedly had very little, if any, opportunity for leisure travel.

I have been lucky enough to visit Switzerland several times, and to hear many fantastic concerts there. The main Bach event of my visit last week to the Lucerne Easter Festival was a performance of the St. John Passion by some authoritative performers: the Monteverdi Choir and English Baroque Soloists, led by the dean of the “British school” of historically-informed performance, John Eliot Gardiner. The excellent acoustics of the Kultur- und Kongresszentrum Luzern (KKL) enabled the relatively small forces to sing and play within their normal dynamic levels even in a large, non-Baroque space. The oratorio was presented without intermission, which sustains the dramatic tension and arc of the narrative even as it avoids the distraction of a return to the secular world when the audience gets up mid-stream to return phone calls and have a drink. It’s obviously a challenge to do this, for both musicians and listeners, but so worthwhile. Gardiner’s performance kept this listener engaged without any loss of momentum – although I did detect some of the audience getting a bit restless during the last few movements.

The tuning of the various Baroque instruments at the opening of the concert ushered you into the tonal universe of the composition, and the aspirated “h” of the choir’s opening exclamation “Herr!” was unforgettable and set the stage for all that followed. The singing and playing, while firmly within what we think of as period performance, did not lack interpretive drama. This was particularly demonstrated by baritone Peter Harvey, who was called upon to perform the contrasting “roles” of Pontius Pilate, in recitative, and a nameless follower of Christ in his arias.

One treat was hearing a real oboe da caccia (in the soprano aria Zerfließe, mein Herze). Recordings – at least on my audio system – can’t capture its unique timbre. Overall, the period instruments in the KKL acoustic provided a warm, rich sound while not losing their character.

I left the concert thinking that while I didn’t always agree with some of the artistic choices, I had heard in person the opinion of one of the greatest modern Bach experts as to Bach’s intentions when he composed the work in 1724 (the original version was performed, not later emended editions). And how often do you get to do that? It’s an experience I’ll always treasure.

If not for being already booked at the SJP, I would have been able to actually hear a cantata (BWV 131). The J.S. Bach-Stiftung (http://www.bachstiftung.ch/en/), head-quartered in St. Gallen (about an hour northeast of Zürich) has embarked on a vast enterprise: the performance and audio/video recording of all the cantatas over a period of 25 years! They began in 2006 and the process works like this: a cantata is prepared and performed on a monthly basis, with the concert consisting of a performance of the complete cantata, a lecture relating to the cantata, and a repeat performance. Since the cantatas are so short, this serves the purpose of filling up the evening as well as providing the audience a chance to digest and re-visit a (typically) unfamiliar work. It also rewards the hard work of the young professional singers who are engaged to do the concerts (additional goals of the project are to provide significant performance opportunities for them, as well as to make this music interesting and accessible to a young audience who perhaps can better relate to it when seeing their peers on stage).

Poster for BWV 131 Performance by J.S. Bach-Stiftung, St. Gallen, Switzerland

Several recordings of the series have already been released and are available both on the website and on amazon.com (search under J.S. Bach-Stiftung, or Rudolf Lutz, the conductor for this project). The music is available as MP3 downloads as well as in CD format. Examples from performances are available on the site and on YouTube.

Unfortunately, this very noble endeavor may not be insulated from the financial upheaval that has affected so many arts organizations: I first learned of their project from a recent New York Times article: http://www.nytimes.com/2013/01/25/world/europe/swiss-city-fears-for-cultural-legacy-in-wake-of-a-banks-fall.html?_r=0. Considerable resources need to be committed to this type of project, and when talking about such a sustained period of time, even the most optimistic supporter has to admit this will be a difficult goal to attain in the current economic environment.

And it begs the question: is there a need for another recorded Bach cantata cycle? Or one done in this manner? Those are valid questions when there are already superb complete cycles by Rilling, Koopman, and Harnoncourt/Leonhardt, using world-class soloists, with partial cycles by Richter, Gardiner, Suzuki, and Herreweghe. The St. Gallen project, like those others, will utilize a changing body of performers, and will be a product of a unique time, place, and philosophy. Consequently, these recordings will provide another educated and considered perspective – and for this, especially for Bach’s music, there should always be room.

Now that I know about the J.S. Bach-Stiftung, and have visited beautiful St. Gallen, my goal is to hear one of their performances – sometime in the next (20) years!

No matter where I travelled in Switzerland, I bumped into J.S.: on the streets of St. Gallen, where the advertising columns were plastered with the Stiftung’s poster (shown above and illustrating their very unified marketing concept); in the St. Laurenzin Kirche (the Reformed Evangelical church in St. Gallen) where a display on the history of the church included a segment on music, with a prominent place given to the master; on lovely flyers posted in various cities for performances of the B minor Mass, to be presented in the pretty lakeside town of Romanshorn and at the Fraumünster in Zürich over Easter weekend; and in Lucerne, where at the Hans Erni Museum, the catalog raisonné of this prominent Swiss artist’s lithographs included an interpretation of the well-known Haussmann portrait. And of course, at the KKL.

Hans Erni (Swiss b. 1909), Johann Sebastian Bach (1980, lithograph)

I’m grateful for all these memorable encounters and hope that the little bit of cantata work I have done to date helped inform my appreciation of the SJP. But time marches on, VACATION is over and it’s time to get back to work. In fact, it’s time for BWV 12!

BWV 11 - Lobet Gott in seinen Reichen

Week 11 (12 March -  17 March 2013)

Recording: Ton Koopman, Amsterdam Baroque Orchestra and Choir; Sandrine Piau, soprano; Bogna Bartosz, alto; James Gilchrest, tenor; Klaus Mertens, baritone

The first question to clear up is if this composition referred to as the “Ascension Oratorio” (Oratorium Festo Ascensionis Christi as shown on the cover page of the manuscript in C.P.E. Bach’s writing) is a cantata or an oratorio; the second is if we should care about the distinction. BWV 11 is not much longer than a typical Leipzig cantata, has a chorale-based choral movement, and features only two solo arias (the standard allocation for a cantata). However, the score specifies a “role” – the Evangelist – that provides connective narration using several secco recitatives. The other recitatives, particularly the sequence that open the second part (the work was designed in two sections to bracket a sermon), have a distinct dramatic nature as voiced by supporting characters: the men of Galilee and (possibly) Mary Magdalene. The composition follows a narrative arc where all the movements advance the drama, from the opening chorus of praise to the final chorale where those left behind wonder impatiently when they will arrive before Christ in his glory.

So the piece fits the general description of an oratorio, and we should care about the distinction because in the scheme of vocal music in Bach’s time, this transitional form bridged the sacred cantata form to the secular (and decidedly profane) form of opera. While the fullest realization of the cantatas requires singers who can both sing the notes and communicate the text, the oratorios make an additional requirement on the singer to assume a theatrical role. Bach’s series of oratorios is as close as he came to writing an opera, and in perhaps the greatest of them – the St. Matthew Passion – he demonstrates that he most definitely could have. Although what would have been the point, having already set the “greatest story ever told”?

The brilliant opening chorus is an excellent standalone selection for the Easter season – or any time that brass can be utilized (it does really need the trumpets). For us in the U.S., it could benefit from a 21^st-century English translation, and maybe that’s a side project for me. It surely is fun to sing though, and speaking of projects if someone is looking for a nice exercise in arranging, this chorus would be great fodder for a SATB/organ version (with a good English translation!). I’ll sign up to buy sixty copies!

The alto aria is famously the springboard from which the great Agnus Dei in the B minor Mass was developed. I expected more structural similarity: however, it boils down to shared introductory instrumental material and the main 4-measure theme of Ach, bleibe doch being adapted in a stream-lined form for the qui tollis section of the later aria. The BWV 11 aria does not require the sustained phrasing of the Agnus Dei, nor the interpretive authority that is required to turn the final corner of the Mass and lead into the Dona nobis pacem. In this sense, Ach, bleibe doch is an excellent training piece, but it may seem overly long and repetitive to the casual listener. In order to "sell" it, you have to create that oratorio character and figure out how to make all those requests of bleibe doch meaningful. When C. Hubert Parry describes this as “the pathetic solo for alto” – he is using the word in the sense of it’s parent word, pathos, evoking compassion, not with the less favorable connotation of our modern usage.

Hearing both arias together would be instructive. One interesting approach might be to use the arias to book-end a recital, with Ach, bleibe doch at the beginning. The tempo of the piece does not necessarily need to be similar to Agnus Dei – the arias serve different functions in their respective works, and in fact, since Ach, bleibe doch is a plea for Christ to remain with his followers on earth, it has more urgency at a slightly faster tempo.

The middle voices on Koopman’s recording do not fare as well as on some of his other cantata performances. For a female alto, moving the pitch down to Baroque standard creates a difficult tessitura in the aria – it then requires a true contralto. A fine performance for study purposes is Catherine Patriasz on Herreweghe's version – nearly flawless singing, although at a very slow tempo.

The soprano aria is a lovely selection for worship or recital for a high soprano (or down a half-step for those not so high sopranos and altos). Parry notes the absence of a bass voice in the continuo, saying the aria “seems to hover in the air and subtly to suggest kinship with the serenity of a cloudless sky.”

The text of the oratorio may be by the author known as Picander, the pseudonym of Leipzig attorney Christian Friedrich Henrici, who is known to have written many cantata texts for Bach starting about 1725. Very little is known about Henrici – if not for his association with Bach he would in all likelihood be forgotten, a fact noted by Bach’s first great biographer, Philipp Spitta, who writes that authoring sacred texts was “utterly foreign to [Henrici’s] nature” (Henrici was writing satires to supplement his meager income at the time he was asked to produce some verses for Bach). The poet himself wrote in the forward to his collected cantata verses of 1728-29 that “I flatter myself that the lack of poetic charm may be compensated for by the loveliness of the music of our incomparable Kapellmeister Bach”.

But back to that question – cantata or oratorio? It shouldn’t affect your enjoyment of this lovely work in either case, but we do know what the master thought, and he left his description scrawled on the first page of the score:

Since I will be on vacation next week, BWV 12 will have to wait! Listening to recordings on the plane is one thing, but I have been trying to practice the arias and choral parts, as that is where the real insights generally occur. That rehearsal time and space won't be available as I travel. But in talking about this project, I have compared it to a vast buffet of the most delectable pastries imaginable – row after row of chocolate torte, raspberry napoleon, spice cake with cream cheese frosting, etc. The only way to experience it without inducing sugar shock is to limit yourself to a few nibbles on each slice. Even then, an occasional break is required, and here will be the first one.

However, there will definitely be some Bach-related musings when I return: I have a ticket for a performance of the St. John Passion, and there may be a couple other opportunities for encountering the master as I sojourn. You never know where he will show up!

BWV 10 - Meine Seel erhebt den Herren

Week 10 (5 March -  10 March 2013)

Recording: Ton Koopman, Amsterdam Baroque Orchestra and Choir; Sibylla Rubens, soprano; Annette Markert, alto; Christoph Prégardien, tenor; Klaus Mertens, baritone

OK, so the tenor recitative in Movement 6 made this old battle-ax tear up – get over it. I challenge you to put on this recording, (or even better, Helmuth Rilling’s version with the great Aldo Baldin), and listen without emotion as the words describing the fulfillment of the divine prophecy to Abraham, initially set in standard recitativo secco style, suddenly transition to the most gorgeous, Mozartean accompagnato at the text Sein Same musste sich so sehr wie Sand am Meer. The chordal progression traverses a number of centuries before settling comfortably back in 1720’s Leipzig at the concluding G minor chord. I haven’t heard anything else in Bach quite like it: an example of what one writer refers to as the composer’s “ever self-renewing modernity” (Ernest Newman, International Cyclopedia of Music and Musicians). The reason for it, perhaps, is that the words form the climax of the cantata, and indeed describe the foundation of the composer’s faith, about the deliverance of mankind from sin, death, and allen Bösen through the birth of Christ, which event is imminent in this cantata depicting the meeting of Mary and Elizabeth.

This cantata sets the tune referred to as the ninth psalm tone, using verses from the German Magnificat, Martin Luther’s translation of the Latin text which Bach had already used in the great Magnificat in 1723 (BWV 243). I don’t know how profitable a comparative study of the two works would be: they are completely different in structure, instrumentation and purpose. However, it is interesting to consider the choices Bach made in setting the German version. The material for the first four movements of the Magnificat is here captured within the first chorus, quite an impressive chorale-based construction in itself, and definitely a piece that can stand on its own for a capable choir and accompanist.      

The soprano aria bears hallmarks of having been composed for a boy soprano. It requires energy and an easy top: this aria and Quia respexit from Magnificat would be an interesting recital pairing (or for church if requested to do two solos within a service), presenting two different expressions of Mary’s experience. If you can sing this movement as adroitly and tastefully as Sibylla Rubens does, you will always be able to find employment as a Baroque soloist!

The bass aria is truly for a bass, venturing down to low F# in notated pitch. Here again is the word pfuhl from a couple weeks back (correct pronunciation: [ful]), and not just any pfuhl but a Schwefelpfuhl, a sulphurous pit, i.e., the Biblical brimstone. The piano reduction by Bernhard Todt, who seems to have provided very good vocal scores as a rule, here includes some strange treble clef obbligato which does not exist in the manuscript or in the BGA full score, and goes well beyond any conceivable interpretation of the figured bass. It’s a mystery why it was introduced or what it was intended to be – maybe fire to go with the brimstone! In Rilling’s BWV 10 recording, the harpsichordist is allowed a few tasteful embellishments, but nothing like this. So if you decide to tackle this quite difficult aria, your pianist or organist can cross out all those 32^nd note passages and concentrate on the real accompaniment.

One common feature of BWV 10 and BWV 243 – although it’s stretching the point – is a lovely alto and tenor duet. In the Magnificat, it is the wonderful Et misericordia, in 12/8 meter, and in Meine Seel the music in 6/8 time uses the German text of Suscepit Israel. The BWV 10 version is short and sweet, not nearly as musically inventive or difficult as the duet from Magnificat, but certainly worthwhile if you are looking for a tasty morsel of Bach to offer in a worship service. There is nothing technically demanding for soloists or accompanist, and the duet can be put together easily. But it’s still high-quality workmanship and will be enjoyed by the congregation.

BWV 10 repays careful listening, and there is certainly more to analyze here, especially for someone familiar with the evolution of Bach’s compositional technique during this period. The pairing of the Latin and German Magnificats has been recorded several times: to program them together for a choral concert would be interesting but demanding on both audience and performers, and the only real way to do it is to put the chronologically later piece first in the performance – although it’s a fine work, it can’t compete with BWV 243.

This week I’m claiming the first milestone in the project – I’ve now completed the first volume of cantatas as published by Breitkopf & Härtel in the Bach-Gesellschaft Ausgabe (Kirchencantaten, Band 1, 1851). This volume of ten cantatas is approximately 5% of the total number of surviving church cantatas. So I’ve finished 5% of the project! Now, you can look at that percentage in another way, of course, but I’m going to focus on the positive! I still can’t define exactly what inspired this effort, but I can say that I have already been immeasurably enriched by it. I’ve added several very fun and challenging pieces to my repertoire and improved my musicianship in the process. I have met memorable historical figures, discovered great singers and conductors, and found myself repeatedly in awe of the genius expressing itself through these compositions. And therefore, on to 10%...

For a final thought this week, I attended a symphony concert this past Thursday which included a performance of Mendelssohn’s violin concerto. The soloist played a 1725 Stradivarius, and listening to that magnificent instrument, it occurred to me that as that violin was in the process of being “born”, BWV 10 was first being performed in Leipzig. The master almost certainly did not have access to instruments of the quality of a Stradivarius, a creation that was made for the music of its time but carried within it the capability to perform the subsequent centuries of violin repertoire. Knowingly or not, the luthier built in the potential for a future he could not even have comprehended, that down through the centuries would challenge the player to be worthy of the instrument. In much the same way, Bach’s cantatas were written for the musicians he had available, with the potential for full realization only in a future he probably could not have imagined – or perhaps he did, we must be careful not to underestimate this unique intelligence. Maybe he thought something like “There isn’t a tenor in Germany that can sing this music – ha! – but perhaps someday there will be.” He was composing for his own time but for the future as well. And we’re still trying to meet his expectations.

BWV 9 - Es ist das Heil uns kommen her

Week 9 (26 February - 3 March 2013)

Recording: Karl Richter, Münchener Bach-Chor and Orchester; Edith Mathis, soprano; Julia Hamari, alto; Peter Schreier, tenor; Dietrich Fischer-Dieskau, baritone

This week I have had the pleasure and privilege of performing Bach’s Mass in B minor, the Mt. Everest of sacred choral music. I had only sung portions before, and Thursday night marked my first time singing the complete Mass. Friday night’s concert all too likely will have been the last time – the opportunity to do this masterpiece doesn’t come around that often. But any singer who has performed this work will tell you to have participated in it even once is one of the great experiences for a musician. And I sang it twice! With a world-class ensemble and soloists, by the way. I’ve been very lucky. Although I wasn’t sure if I would also get through a cantata this week!

This composition about the means to salvation strikes the modern and non-Lutheran reader as somewhat contrary to the current Protestant mainstream. The theme of the text is that salvation is only obtained through faith – good works get you nothing. Whereas “good works” tend to be the raison d’être of the contemporary church: they build the profile of a church within a community, attract members, and draw in additional income to support the internal workings of the church. And what about the extrapolation from that theory, which implies you can have faith but not do good?

But at the time the original chorale was written, more than two hundred years before Bach set it, the church was a more forbidding and paternalistic authority. Especially in the early days of the Reformation, the role of the church in enforcing a moral code and training the lambs not to stray was still very much in the tradition of Catholicism. The author of the chorale, Paul Speratus, was a converted priest who helped Martin Luther compile the first Lutheran hymnal, the Achtliederbuch (1524, named for the eight hymns it contained, including this one).

This cantata is an excellent illustration of how Bach viewed worship music – not as an end in itself but as a vehicle for the message and subservient to it. The structure of the cantata is built around three basso recitatives that, as described by one commentator, form a “sermon”. The textual and musical crux of the sermon occurs in Movement 4, with such details as the treatment of unschuldig in M.7, emphasizing the listener’s inherent guilt in contrast to the guiltless one who died to redeem him or her. At the M.14 arioso, the voice carries on in recitative format, but the accompaniment references the chorale tune.

More evidence that Bach had it in for tenors is provided by the solo aria  which depicts the sinner trying futilely to resist the abyss – the upwardly surging strings are continually weighed down as they appear ready to break free, pulling the one without true faith back into sin. The illustrated letter E that begins the words of Es ist das Heil uns kommen her in the Achtliederbuch suggests the struggle.

Illustrated Letter from Achtliederbuch (1524)

The hapless tenor soloist receives a difficult vocal line that doesn’t always make melodic sense, until you remember this piece is about struggle and torment. The chosen 12/16 meter makes for some tricky rhythms and even trickier notation. The aria requires strength throughout nearly a two-octave range, at one point (M.66) requiring a rapid and massive leap from D3 to A5. You can almost hear the master laughing as he put ink to paper. (And a bass soloist snickering while he waits to do a few recitatives for which he is getting paid the same amount as the tenor.)

The soprano/alto duet is really a quartet: the introduction consists of alternating flute and oboe d’amore melodies that evolve into the vocal lines where the soprano and alto respectively sing variations on the flute and oboe parts, with the winds rejoining after the voices are established. The text is secondary, what Bach was interested in was creating this interweaving of instrument and voice. The words ride lightly on this lace-like cloth: just listening to the movement without knowing any German, one would not guess that the text essentially says it doesn’t matter how “good” you are – only unquestioning faith will be accepted at the pearly gates.

I can’t help loving it when the sopranos get assigned the cantus firmus, as by default this guarantees an interesting alto part. The two choral movements of BWV 9 have fine structure and great alto parts. One interesting bit is the B section of the coro, where on the text der hat g’nug für uns all’ getan the fugal entrance of the lower three voices (M. 100) is followed by the detached repetitions of that text, which he somehow manages to bring into synchronization in M. 105 to produce an emphatic g’nug für uns. Enough has been done for us, now it's our turn. This chorus is not as catchy as, say, the first movement of BWV 8, as it requires the listener to pay attention to detail to appreciate. But it's very fun to sing - at least the alto part is!

For recording this cantata, Karl Richter assembled a “dream team” – it’s hard to imagine any better singers for these parts were available at the time. Fischer-Dieskau is definitive as the “preacher” or whatever you want to term the basso role, and in addition to all his regular estimable qualities, he presents a lesson in impeccable ornamentation. If you program this cantata, you need to take as much care in selecting the bass-baritone as the more glamorous S/A/T parts. The voices of Mathis and Hamari blend magnificently with a fresh, youthful sound and natural phrasing – an excellent model to study and copy. Peter Schreier handles the twisting line and outlandish intervals of the tenor solo with a precision and panache that would have probably annoyed (but secretly delighted) J.S.

Although one source indicates that the component movements were recorded by Richter and his soloists at separate times, that in no way impairs the unity of the final product. In some ways it mirrors how the composer worked, often re-organizing earlier material to piece together a seamless new work. As, for example, the Mass in B minor…

Dona nobis pacem

BWV 8 - Liebster Gott, wenn werd ich sterben

Week 8 (19 February - 24 February 2013)

Recording: Philippe Herreweghe, Collegium Vocale Ghent; Deborah York, soprano; Ingeborg Danz, alto; Mark Padmore, tenor; Peter Kooy, baritone

The question “when will I die” coalesces in our early youth, as soon as our conscious mind begins to grasp the concept of mortality, and persists with more or less psychological distance throughout our lives. We all know we must die: only the time and circumstances are in question.

The question of when we will die also interests, among others, insurance companies that base payouts for life annuity policies on actuarial tables estimating probable life spans based on an individual’s age at time of purchase. Actuarial science begins to assume modern form with the empirically-based work of polymath Briton Edmund Halley (1656-1742) – he of comet fame – and a 1693 article for the Royal Society which created a primitive actuarial table with the goal of allowing the British government to sell life annuities as a way to raise money. Halley realized that any meaningful mathematical model required actual birth/death data for verification, but he had no data for either London or England as a whole. However, he was able to obtain a set of birth and death statistics for the German town of Breslau, compiled by a preacher-academician-poet whose interest in demographics had led him to collect a significant amount of mortality data. This accidental statistician was Caspar Neumann (1648-1715), whose more philosophical ruminations on this topic are reflected in his hymn text Liebster Gott, wenn werd ich sterben. And so we arrive at the cantata of the same name, by Johann Sebastian Bach (1685-1750).

Halley’s actuarial table

The title might lead you to expect a morbid exposition on death and dying, but Bach’s interpretation walks the question through a series of responses, also in the form of questions, that answer the original in the most positive and hopeful manner, arriving at the conclusion that dying is the best thing that will ever happen to you. The first movement coro is dominated by winds, with an insistent, proto-Verdian figuration in the flute. The repeated sixteenth notes, hammering at a given pitch and sometimes discordant with the accompaniment, seem to indicate the ticking of a clock, or a rapid heartbeat, perhaps caused by the underlying anxiety of not knowing which day will be our last. Hubert Parry compares it to “shuddering at the thought of death”; I’m not sure I agree with that, but it’s a good thought. The strings play pizzicato throughout the movement, adding another layer of unrest. The short choral phrases are interjections without much development but with a nice modulation into minor on the word sterben (4^th beat of M. 15). The movement ends with the last rappings of the flute leading into a final staccato eighth note chord – and just like that, it will all be over.

Herreweghe approaches this movement with a contemplative attitude; the chorus is immaculate and self-reflective, as if the question is here posed by an individual. For a different approach, since it’s becoming evident I’m partial to Helmuth Rilling’s Bach interpretations, I listened to his version, and his faster tempo makes it all come together very gracefully with a chorus just as immaculate albeit with a fuller, less Baroque sound. This chorus is a congregation asking the same question as a unit, in the character of a hymn.

The A-B format tenor aria asks why we should be so anxious, given that death is the fate of mankind and so many have gone before us. In a typical genius touch, Bach takes the line “wenn mein letzte Stunde schlägt” and sets it to music that portrays exactly that: the clock striking the last hour. The “viel tausend” of souls who have gone before are represented by apparently thousands of notes – in the tenor part alone, about (125) notes are utilized in the various repetitions of “tausend”.

The alto recitative has an operatic character: Furcht…Sorgen…Schmerz and the singer portrays the doubter who expresses the universal worries of mankind, such as how will those who are left behind when we pass find comfort.

The response to these concerns is given in joyous A major by the following bass aria Doch weichet, ihr tollen, vergeblichen Sorgen. Here the question posed is: at death you are called to go to Jesus – and what believer wouldn’t want to go? This is a virtuoso showpiece requiring detached, agile singing, skipping along the line and matching the articulation of the flute, which in this movement takes the role of some colorful bird flitting through a sunlit morning. Both Huttenlocher (Rilling) and Kooy (Herreweghe) are fabulous, providing lessons in how large voices can back off and allow the melisma to happen. There is also hope for the future in a live performance of this cantata recorded last October in NYC (someone in America is still programming and presenting this wonderful piece – yay! http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bcnihlW-y8Q), where the young American baritone David Tinervia gives an impressive reading.

At first glance this aria appears to be an A-B-A da capo form, but it is A-B-A'. Apparently Bach didn’t feel the bass had been sufficiently challenged in the first go-round and so he changed up the last part of the recapitulation! I am plotting to co-opt this aria for my own use – it’s convenient that the bass part taken up an octave lies perfectly for me; the text is not gender-specific; and the flute part can be extracted from the full score with minimal effort so the instrumentalist has a clear copy to read (interestingly, the autograph for transverse flute is almost perfectly legible as well). It will be a fun piece to work on this summer!

Bach develops the final chorale more fully than in some of the cantatas, and the text kept bringing to mind the words of the baritone solo in Deutsches Requiem: “Herr, lehre doch mich, das mein Leben ein End hat”.

The vocal score on IMSLP is derived from an old engraving where “they” have inserted a text underlay in modern typeface. This edition was sucked into one of the “CD Sheet Music” compilations that provide a cheap way to acquire music, but with no guarantee of quality. There are some problems with the text, both in alignment with the notes as well as typographical errors and incorrect (in some cases non-existent) words. For an edition like this, I go with what’s on the recording if there’s a question.

What an enjoyable contemplation of the hereafter this week has been. It would be interesting to try to find out if the paths of Halley, Neumann, and/or Bach crossed during their lives, although it’s unlikely they did. For the current purpose, it’s sufficient to understand the intellectual environment at the time Bach composed this (and many other) cantatas. Major scientific discoveries were imminent, that would forever alter the interpretation of religious texts. Very soon, men would rely on numbers and analysis more than Biblical concepts. But the composer knew that in the end all scientific theories are irrelevant – there is only the inevitability of death and an individual’s personal response to it. Bach’s unequivocal response in this cantata is that when it comes time to let go of the baggage of earthly existence, eternal joy will be there waiting for us. Who would want to miss out on that?

BWV 7 - Christ unser Herr zum Jordan kam

Week 7 (12 February – 17 February 2013)

Recording: Helmuth Rilling, Gächinger Kantorei Stuttgart/Bach-Collegium Stuttgart; Helen Watts, alto; Adalbert Kraus, tenor; Wolfgang Schöne, bass

The BWV 7 vocal score obtainable through IMSLP had been scanned out of order and at first I thought the end of the alto aria was missing – the melisma on verdammlich trailed off into oblivion. But all the music is there, and it was easy to re-arrange into the correct sequence. Wikipedia provided a link to an article in the Baltimore Sun a few years back that related a more interesting “missing pages” story. A NYC lawyer and Bach expert bought the manuscript of the organ part from this cantata at auction many years ago, knowing that several pages were missing. He had loved the cantata since hearing it while in college, and was in a financial position to acquire it when it came on the market (Bach autographs don’t go cheaply). In a remarkable series of events, a French attorney subsequently found the missing pages in a suburban Paris library. While the pages weren’t for sale, the American had a good perspective:

“Just pick it up and a funny electricity goes through your body. You are holding in your hands something Johann Sebastian Bach held in his…What I acquired was the privilege, the pleasure, and, above all, the responsibility, of being its custodian for a while. My father used to say '40 percent of something is better than 100 percent of nothing.' I have 75 percent [of this].”

The attorney is Teri Noel Towe, who among other pursuits hosts a classical music program on WPRB, Princeton University’s radio channel. In an interview for a documentary on Bach (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sY5dv2bpRbE), he shows this manuscript, flipping through the pages gently and with obvious reverence.  But all I could think was – I can’t believe he’s handling it without gloves!

So what made Mr. Towe love this piece so much? Maybe he was a tenor, since the magnificent tenor aria is the keystone of this cantata. Even if you’re not a tenor, you will perk up your ears when you hear the almost modern-sounding sequence of minor-major-minor modulations that occurs throughout the piece in the orchestra, and in the vocal line at carefully selected moments, such as on the words erkauft and Zweifel. I haven’t heard anything similar in the Bach vocal works with which I’m familiar. The rolling triplets for the competing violins, as well as for the soloist, depict the miracle of baptism through the life-giving water: the washing away of sin; the connection with Christ (who receives the sacrament during his earthly time as a human); and the representation of the Trinity.

With skilled keyboard accompaniment, the aria and preceding secco recitative would make a bravura selection for church or recital for a bright, lyric tenor voice with flexibility. Adalbert Kraus, not a household name, does an admirable job for Rilling, making the most of those unique passages with exemplary diction and articulation. His is the kind of voice that “releases” creating a brilliance that works well in operatic repertoire. Both Kraus and Schöne had major opera careers in Europe, and not only their very disciplined and precise singing, but also their ability to interpret text theatrically comes through on this recording. I’m starting to be of the opinion that to be a great Bach singer you have to (a) play (or have played) an instrument – particularly a string instrument – to a high level of accomplishment and (b) be a great singing actor. It’s about the communication of the text – the cantatas were not ends in themselves, but supplements to the spoken word.

The direct address of the congregation through both recitatives and arias is especially obvious in BWV 7. The bass and alto arias function as mini-sermons to drive home the message. The bass aria is long for a church solo, and probably should remain within the cantata. The bass has perhaps a finer moment in his recitative, where at the moment he starts speaking Jesus’ words to the disciples, recitativo secco transitions to accompagnato. It’s a quintessential Bach detail.

The alto aria could be used as a church piece, and has several unique features. Consistent with its sermonizing text, there is no introduction: the concluding G major chord of the bass recitative provides your starting pitch for the statement “Menschen, glaubt doch dieser Gnade, dass ihr nicht in Sünde sterbt”. The brief orchestral passage that follows almost seems to function as an introduction for the aria proper. The tessitura is fairly low, even in modern pitch, but the music is idiomatic and flows easily. The big melisma comes on the word verdammlich, starting in M. 39; it can be broken for breath after the 4^th beat in M. 40 if needed. Be careful to use the correct vowel pronunciation of the syllable pfuhl – [u] (“pit” as in the “pit of Hell”) – not exactly a frequently-used word in German vocal repertoire – to differentiate it from pfühl – [y] (“cushion”). Helen Woods’ sound as represented on Rilling’s recording is not the most beautiful, but in repeated listening, I came to appreciate the emphatic interpretation – as mentioned, this is a sermon – as well as her breath control and support. It’s not a bad model, although a slightly faster tempo may be more comfortable for most singers.

The coro, vigorously performed on Rilling’s recording, is book-ended by a sinfonia that, disassembled, rearranged and transposed, provides the underlying material for Martin Luther’s verses. In these, the choral writing brings to life the washing away of sin, the drowning of death, and in a glorious modulation into the major key, the gaining of new life. To diagram this movement fully would be a several-hour project in itself – so that will have to wait.

I feel like I’m leaving much undone this week, but the more you dig into these works, the more there is to discover and explore. Unlike Mr. Towe, I will never own this or any other Bach manuscript, but just to have made its slight acquaintance is better than not to have encountered it at all.

BWV 6 - Bleib bei uns, denn es will Abend werden

Week 6 (5 February - 10 February 2013) 

Recording: John Eliot Gardiner, Monteverdi Choir, and English Baroque Soloists; Bernarda Fink, alto; Steve Davislim, tenor; Julian Clarkson, bass

BWV 6 is sometimes referred to as the “Emmaus” cantata. The overarching concept stems from the meeting of the disciples with the risen Christ on the road to Emmaus (near Jerusalem). The disciples do not know the identity of the stranger they meet, but nevertheless they welcome him into their home “as even falls”. The Biblical text describes literal darkness, but the cantata is based on the exploration of metaphorical darkness.

If you sing this cantata, one skill you will soon perfect is the placement of the consonants [bl] before the beat. The opening chorus contains many repetitions of the phrase Bleib bei uns, and those words alternately serve as poignant plea, humble request, and righteous demand (as in the central fugal section which is anchored by the cantus firmus-like call of “Bleib bei uns” in voices and instruments). Gardiner’s version is more “baroque” in style, but I love what Rilling does with the opening phrase of this chorus – intensifying and connecting the two repetitions of “Bleib bei uns” that occur in the first four measures to immediately create a sense of urgency to the people’s pleading. This fairly short chorus has enough variety (with challenging parts for all voices) to stand on its own, although without orchestra it would also provide a substantial challenge for the organist!

The cantata includes a lovely, short (approximately 3 ½ minutes) aria for alto. Although the obbligato is written for oboe da caccia, this piece would work well as a church solo with organ accompaniment only. The quality of the soloists, acoustics, and cohesion in Gardiner’s “Cantata Pilgrimage” recordings can vary, but the rendition of BWV 6, performed at St. John’s in London, is very respectable, and has an excellent alto soloist in Bernarda Fink. The aria is not as easy as it first appears, particularly with finding places to breathe that don’t interrupt the flow – although note that Ms. Fink takes the time needed at advantageous locations such as M. 65 where the accompaniment has a well-placed quarter rest. Sometimes they just have to wait for you!

This aria is a very useful exercise for developing skills in Baroque ornamentation and trills. The Rilling version of this cantata with Carolyn Watkinson is done at a slower tempo in modern pitch making it easier to follow for study purposes. Although her voice has a larger vibrato than is generally accepted in this music today, she is very meticulous with ornamentation. And as with the opening coro, the alto soloist gets many opportunities to practice good diction with “Bleib, ach bleibe unser Licht” the central phrase of the B section of the aria.

Although text repetition is the rule in Baroque music, looking at the manner in which Bach sets this aria shows the amount of thought behind his approach. The opening phrase “Hochgelobter Gottessohn” is repeated twice, using the same music (good news for the singer, who once having mastered it gets multiple duty from it). The next line of text is also repeated twice, with slightly different music. Then arises the interesting question: why did Bach only use the next phrase “dass wir itzt vor deinem Thron” once? He sets the words to the music used for the opening text of the aria, and a lesser composer might have continued re-using what was done before. But perhaps Bach felt that the direct address to divinity needed the emphasis of repetition, while the description of the action (“we come now before your throne”) is just a bridge to what occurs there (“eine Bitte niederlegen” – “to offer up a request”, which phrase receives two repetitions, each with its own distinct music). There is just never anything casual about the workmanship of these pieces.

Gardiner’s performance uses the soprano section for the third movement chorale, Ach bleib bei uns, and this seems to make sense given the tessitura of the vocal part and the instrumentation for the accompaniment. The chorale calls for a “violoncello piccolo”, a shadowy Baroque stringed instrument about which not much seems to be known. If this movement is done with a modern cello, a small group of sopranos would better balance the instrument and continuo while also providing more depth of sound without introducing vibrato. For a soprano soloist, it is difficult to achieve the weight to balance with the instruments without making a soloistic sound – as beautifully as Edith Wiens sings on Rilling’s recording, it just does not sound like the solo voice belongs here, unless of course the entire cantata is being performed by a solo quartet only (and it has been recorded that way).

The tenor aria is also a short A-B piece and it is built around a wonderful violin solo. Rilling’s concertmaster plays with an insistent pressure to create a horizontal tension that mirrors the tenor’s “[dass wir nicht] auf der Sündenwegen gehen”. There are some fun licks in here, including some word-painting melismas (“scheinen”, “meinen”), but this aria needs the violin if you want to perform it.

In thinking about what Bach’s solo vocalists had to contend with, not only musically but in simply trying to read the handwritten music every week, I did a little investigation to get an idea how far we’ve come. The archive at www.bach-digital.de provides the fascinating capability to view many of Bach’s extant manuscripts (extreme close-up is possible for the really serious researcher). Here is a snippet from the alto aria Hochgelobter Gottessohn showing (top to bottom): J.S. Bach’s manuscript; the Bach Gesellschaft Ausgabe edition by Breitkopf & Härtel (1851 – engraved plate, retaining the alto clef notation); and the piano reduction by Bernhard Todt based on the BGA full score, also published by Breitkopf & Härtel (1890 – engraved plate). Take a look at the evolution of legibility and consider how good we have it:

The third movement was later used by Bach as the basis for an organ chorale (one of the Schübler Chorales, BWV 649). So in a quest to check out the organ music to understand just how closely the two versions are related, there was a slight detour which, with the inevitability this type of project tends to have, led me to the recordings of German organist Helmut Walcha. These will soon be giving me some listening pleasure when I’m in a “non-cantata” mood.

Blind for his entire adult life, Walcha committed Bach’s organ music – all of it – to memory, learning each voice individually by listening to someone play it. He is quoted as having said:

“Bach opens a vista to the universe. After experiencing him, people feel there is meaning to life after all.”