Now as the world starts to freeze, we make up for it with bursts of
excess. Here we see Bach pointing the way to Christmas with flashes
of intense beauty and vigorous theatricality. On 3 December 1724, as the Leipzig sun
rose behind the windows of St Thomas's, it must have given his congregation a kick in their Sunday morning sleepiness. The long sequence of Sundays
after Trinity has ended; the liturgical year has turned. On we go!
We start off with a hard-driven chorus. Underneath the string figures
that descend like birds of prey on a fieldmouse, the bass line booms
out a stern elongated melody. Even without the words, the
congregation would have recognised it as the opening line of one of
Martin Luther's own chorales- “Nun komm, der Heiden Heiland”-
“Now come, Saviour of the Nations”, itself a translation and
musical adaptation of the ancient Advent plainchant hymn Veni
Redemptor Gentium. This is music that had been at the heart of
German worship for centuries, and always at this very time of year.
Almost as a confirmation- “yes, it is really that one”-
the oboes take up the unmistakable tune at a quicker speed; the
anticipation heightens as the lower voices begin to sing the words,
but not yet to the
tune- and at last, the trebles soar above the whole array with words
and music united in their most resonant, familiar form. It's a moment
of brilliant release. At last, “not yet” gives way to “now”.
And the pattern repeats itself; the melody is heard rising through
all the parts four times, until the last moment of the chorus, just
after the oboes have again sounded the fanfare- it stops. It's a
masterpiece of misdirection: “not yet”.is here to stay, at least
for the next few weeks of Advent. We must look forward still.
What
do we have to look forward to? We all know that Christmas is coming,
and the tenor aria that follows gives us a view of the astounding
plenitude of that gift. On the words “Der
höchste Beherrscher erscheinet der Welt”-
the highest Ruler appears to the world- there's a wonderful flowing
arabesque line, and the second section gives us a beautiful swinging
triple-time lilt when it talks about the treasures of heaven and
divine Manna. It's a long aria, and it's always nice to think about
what Christmas presents we're getting.
But
we're not there yet. And the bass recitative and aria that follow
show us that the presents have to be earned. We're in a heroic,
operatic mode here: a quick declamatory recitative addresses Christ
as “Held
aus
Juda”-
the hero from Judah. The resonances are with Judas Maccabeus, the 2nd
century B.C. Jewish rebel. He's described in the Apocrypha of the
Bible as a general all-round freedom fighter against the forces of
Greek imperialism. And the
aria that follows is absolutely in the spirit of Handel's oratorio
Judas
Maccabeus- exciting,
dynamic, dramatic, and ever so slightly clunking if you're not
careful with the performance.
The
orchestra plays in unison under the bass's voice- no filigree string
figuration here. And the words are essentially a call to war. Christ
isn't adored as passive weeping sufferer here, condemned to be
emptied out in flesh for the pain of humanity. We address him as the
super-hero, enfleshed to make man stronger than he's ever been.
“Streite,
siege, starker Held! Sei vor uns im Fleische kräftig!”- Fight
and win, strong hero! Be strong in flesh for us!” It reminds me of
the amazing Norman font at Eardisley in Herefordshire, carved by
unknown masters six hundred years before Bach's time. There, Christ
bodily rips the figure of the sinner out of the knots of Hell with a
weight-lifter's thrust of the quadriceps. Here, the struggle is depicted
in a hard, but triumphant pattern of fast semiquaver turns,
gradually fighting higher and higher.
 |
| You're coming with me, mate! (Carving on the font at Eardisley Church, Herefordshire, c. 1160) |
We're
left with a two tantalisingly brief movements to end, rather like a
“coming next week” trailer. First there's a soprano-alto duet
that lasts barely a minute; then half a verse of chorale to finish
with a threefold shout of praise. They're a moment of extraordinary
beauty that sparks interest, but is a little unsatisfying in itself:
like a tiny box of incense given to a royal baby before he comes into
his Kingdom.
(A note: Bach had already written another cantata in around 1716 with this title for the first Sunday of Advent, which has the catalogue number BWV 61. The general consensus seems to be that it's more satisfying than BWV 62. But who wants to be completely full up by the first week of December?)
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