Saturday 20 April 2013

Shepherds throw the best parties- Der Herr is mein getreuer Hirt- Cantata for the second Sunday after Easter

Bach is fed up. He's been denied the resources to do his job properly and is not happy about it. This week's cantata comes from April 1731, well after Bach's astounding rush of creativity of 1724-25 when he was inspired to produce a new cantata every week. Then, he seemed content in his new job as Kantor, the lynchpin of the musical life of Leipzig. Now, it's a different story. The previous August, he wrote a memorandum to his employers complaining that a large chunk of the so-called choristers at St Thomas' School did not “understand music at all and can barely sing a chorale with difficulty”- “so keine music verstehen, sondern nur nothdörfftig einen Choral singen können”. His astounding flow of new weekly cantatas has slowed down to a dribble. Is Bach just bored of getting his boneheaded pupils to sing new masterpieces?

Part of it is that by now, Bach has done a large chunk of the task he set himself- to provide a “well-ordered church music”. He's composed at least two more or less complete cycles of music for the whole church year. There are only a few gaps to be patched. Some of these gaps are due to the weirdness of the liturgical calendar. For example, there are rarely twenty-seven Sundays between Trinity Sunday and Advent, so Bach only got round to writing a cantata for that particular obscure Twenty-Seventh Sunday after Trinity in November 1731. Ironically, that's a stunning masterpiece, and probably the most famous of all cantatas- Wachet Auf, ruft uns die Stimme. So we can't say that Bach was just sick of church music by the early 1730s. But he was certainly spending more time writing secular music for the caffeine addicts at Zimmerman's coffee house than new cantatas for the congregation at St Thomas's.

So this cantata is brief- shorter even than the single alto movement from last week's instalment. But never mind the length, feel the quality! The text is a 1530 metrical translation of Psalm 23, “The Lord is my Shepherd: I shall not want”. It's the one that everyone has heard at their grandparents' funeral (including mine, for that matter). Nearly every other composer, from Schubert to Howard Goodall (he of the Vicar of Dibley theme tune) sets it gently and pastorally., even Bach himself takes that option in his earlier settings, you can usually smell the fields. Bach goes for a completely different option here- pompous, lordly. Here, the shepherd is just a metaphor; what we hear in the opening chorus is the entry of a Lord equal to any of Bach's patrons.

For me, the first movement exemplifies the baroque courtly aesthetic. It's not easy listening: the orchestral textures are quite complex. The sheer weight of independent musical parts makes it sound dense, like a rich-fruit cake with all sorts of nuts and unexpected sweetmeats beneath the surface. In fact, it took me a couple of goes to get into it. I was overwhelmed by all the colours, especially the horn flourishes over the top.

It didn't help that Masaaki Suzuki's recording with the Bach Collegium Japan really brings out the edgy tuning of the woodwinds here. For once, I thought that Ton Koopman with the Amsterdam Baroque Orchestra was a better guide. His scholarly calmness works for me here, when occasionally it can just sound dull in less colourful music. Nevertheless, we sometimes we need reminding that music from the eighteenth century can still sound plain weird at times! It certainly sounded odd to Bach's contemporaries; this is the sort of music that the generation after Bach rebelled against, and even some of Bach's sons bought into the new Classical simplicity and coolness.

The alto aria that follows has a lovely swing to it. I don't know why writing in time signatures like 6/8 and 12/8 is considered “pastoral”; most sheep and sheepdogs have four legs, not three, and shepherds don't waltz much. But both Handel and Bach slip into lilting compound rhythms when they want to talk about shepherds, whether in Arcadia or Palestine. And here we hear a flowing, bubbling brook of an oboe part as the soloist sings “Zum reinen Wasser er mich weist,  Das mich erquicken tue.” - “he leads me to pure waters that enliven me”.

The bass takes the next verse: he starts with an arioso on the words “Though I walk through the dark valley, I fear no misfortune”; it's not quite a full extended aria, but has some of the declamatory aspects of recitative instead. There's some lovely murky double-bass work on the words “finstern Tal”- dark valley- as the music ventures into all sorts of harmonically unexpected places, but then returns to bright simplicity for “Dein Stab und Stecken trösten mich”- your rod and staff comfort me.

And just as in the psalm, the move from the dark valley to the feat is almost immediate.There's a real bounce to the soprano/tenor duet that follows; each vocal soloist rushes up toward the top of their register in the first few bars; the whole mood fits in with the words “Machst mein Herze unverzagt und frisch- you make my heart undismayed and fresh.”. The whole section has something of the air of a country wedding, with Freuden- joy- ringing out again and again through the dance-rhythms. We end with a chorale made additionally burnished and brassy with the oboes and horns joining together to make a slightly archaic sound-world- but one that's clearly full of joy. The chorus sings“ich werde bleiben allezeit im Haus des Herren eben”- “I shall remain in forever in the house of the Lord”. It's a vigorous, embodied rejoicing in the physical presence of God. Bach's Lord may be a shepherd; but his shepherd is also a Lord, and he throws great parties.

Friday 12 April 2013

Peace in our time? Am Abend der desselbigen Sabbats- Cantata for the First Sunday after Easter


Love drives out fear. We start this week with an image of frightened people who have voluntarily locked themselves away. The libretto for this week's cantata begins “On the evening of the same Sabbath as the disciples were gathered together and the doors were locked for fear of the Jews, Jesus came and stood in the midst of them”. Yes, the disciples can always be trusted to do the right thing once they've exhausted all the other options, and so their response to the life-changing events of Easter week is to hide and slam the doors shut.

But Bach shows that outside this little fearful group something bigger has happened. He doesn't plunge into the text straight away; rather we have an opening instrumental movement that is full of suppressed excitement. Tension builds up with repeated chugging woodwinds, and the orchestration gets richer and richer as hints of burnished brass gradually penetrate the texture. Then, in the second section, the instrumentation thins out again, to oboe, bassoon and strings alone. There's a wonderfully hummable oboe melody, the sort that a dozen film and television costume drama composers dream of writing. Then, after a harmonic jolt and a few moments in the minor, we return da capo- to the beginning- and we're in the exciting, thrumming world of a mini-Brandenburg concerto again. Masaaki Suzuki in his recording with the Bach Collegium Japan makes the repeat particularly interesting, bringing out greater dynamic contrasts and turning up the intensity a little. So outside the world of the text and the disciples' closed doors, we have a sense of excitement and serene beauty; all they have to do is notice.

Only after Bach has established this mood does the tenor start narrating the story. We're back to minor chords, and a repeated semiquaver movement in the bass that sounds more neurotic than excited. But the mood doesn't last; suddenly, Christ appears and it's as if a penny drops; all fear is replaced by serenity when we move into one of the longest and most gorgeous moments in any cantata. Indeed the alto aria that follows is not only longer than the rest of the cantata put together; it's longer than some of the short winter cantatas entirely. It is a wonderful moment of time stopping; admittedly, it requires superhuman breath control. Just occasionally Robin Blaze in the luxuriant Suzuki recording has to break up a line. By contrast, Daniel Taylor, singing for John Eliot Gardiner, carries straight through without a breath. Gardiner's tempo at twelve and a half minutes is nearly a minute faster than Suzuki's, but still relaxed. At the other extreme is Nicolaus Harnoncourt, who only takes 10 minutes and 43 seconds. He keeps a genuine sense of flow in the orchestra where sometimes Suzuki comes to a near-halt; but I found Paul Esswood's singing style a little choppy at times, and there's little sense of meditation. You pays your money (or your Spotify subscription) and you takes your choice. To my mind, Suzuki's extreme dreaminess fits with the slight unreality of the text. How is it it that Christ is supposed to be present “wo zwei und drei versammlet sind”- where two or three are gathered together? We don't know- he just is. In Bach's reverie a seemly veil is drawn over centuries of slightly fruitless theologizing.

I'm intrigued that Bach gives the longest arias in the cantatas to an alto so often. The alto line probably would have been sung by older teenagers with un-broken voices; indeed, this is still the practice in the choir at Bach's church today. Perhaps these were the stars of the choir school. They would have been the most reliable senior choristers with years of continuous training under their belt, and weren't yet focussing on degrees at the university in Leipzig as the tenors and basses would have been. More realistically, the boy altos wouldn't have been distracted by beer and sex either, as tenors and basses usually are.

After this monumental evocation of a Presence, we're brought down to earth with what I felt was a touch of humour; an almost grotesque continuo line hops around underneath a soprano and tenor duet which reassures the congregation that although persecution may try to destroy them, “es wird nicht lange währen”, “it won't last long”- and on those very words the duet does exactly what it says on the tin, and stops abruptly!

We're left with a little recitative sermon from the bass, and the accompaniment breaks into pugnacious excitement on the words “Drum lasst die Feinde wüten!”- so let the Enemy rage! And the aria that follows is filled with lightning flashes from the virtuosic antiphonal violins, and an amazing run on the word Verfolgung- persecution. The cantata closes with one of Luther's own chorales, a plea for “frieden... zu unsern Zeiten” - “peace in our time”.

Looking back, there are some difficult moments in the text of this cantata. The gospel text unashamedly blames “the Jews” for the disciples' fear. And the second part of the closing chorale (albeit not by Luther himself) asks for blessings on unsern Fürsten und all'r Obrigkeit- our princes and all authority- so that we can live in “godliness and respectability”. Authoritarianism and anti-semitism don't sound good, even when dressed in Bach's sublime music; they are creeds of fear, not love.

But while context can never excuse fully, it can help us understand. So for the blunt references to “the Jews” in John's gospel, it might be noted that that text may well have been written after AD 80, a time when the Christian community were themselves the persecuted minority within Judaism, expelled from the synagogues (and possibly cursed in the Jewish liturgies). The more nuanced view of Judaism we see in the other gospels is gone; Pharisees and Sadducees are replaced in the mind of the traumatised, expelled Christians by one monolithic “the Jews”.

Similarly, the first part of the final chorale for peace stems from the aftermath of the Peasants' War of 1524. Luther was horrified by the forces he had unleashed when he sparked off the Reformation. He subsequently denounced the very peasantry he had inspired to rebellion in his wonderfully named 1525 pamphlet Wider die Mordischen und Reuberischen Rotten der Bawren - Against the Robbing and Murdering Hordes of Peasants. In this context, the second part of the chorale, calling for good government and quiet respectability seems perfectly in line with Luther's own terrified thoughts.

Yet it all falls short of the inspired excitement of the introduction and seraphic serenity of the alto aria. Perfect love can indeed drive out fear; but fear can make a good attempt at coming back, and the struggle is at the heart of this cantata

Thursday 4 April 2013

Make do and mend- Easter Oratorio


It's April 1, 1725- Easter Sunday in Leipzig. Butchers, brewers and purveyors of fleshly temptation give a sigh of relief. At last we're through the austere trudge of Lent! And at St Thomas's Church, Bach meets Easter with music on the grandest scale. In the opening bars he marshals trilling trumpets, horns, kettle-drums and a host of other instruments to make the congregation sit up and listen.

But rather than plunging into an energetic chorus, the music lets us know that something rather different is on the menu from an ordinary cantata. Instead, that sumptuous introduction leads into a more intimate, instrumental “B” section, before returning in all its glory. All the instruments are heard in multiple combinations, bringing out unexpected sonorities; it's a little concerto for the whole orchestra, two hundred years before Bartók. Our attention is grabbed from every direction; musical interest springs at us from the top, bottom and middle of the texture- sometimes it's the jazzy cool bassoons, at other times the oboes and the trumpets get an unexpected little duet . It's always unpredictable, but never wayward. Even the dutiful continuo organ part gets a little moment in the sun (at least in Andrew Parrott's fine recording), when the other instruments take a step back to reveal its lovely little upward scale.

The first movement draws to its close- and surely it's time for the usual mixture of sublime song and slightly hard-to-digest didactic theology? Not at all. We've got a whole slow instrumental movement now. It's a lovely adagio; a simple long-breathed melody played on flute (or oboe) above a stately bass. In fact, the singers only open their mouths once we're well into the third movement and the initial themes return, exultant and brassy.

What is going on? Some people have suggested that this is a whole lost secular concerto that Bach has recycled into a liturgical work- a long-lost, neglected cousin of the Brandenburg Concertos. So is this the musical equivalent of the youngest son of a eighteenth-century family unwillingly being sent into the Church after his cleverer or more aggressive elder brothers managed to grab the family estate, the law and the army?

The question is even more pertinent because we know that this whole piece had already been performed with secular words a month or so previously for the forty-third birthday of one of the local princelings- Christian, Duke of Saxe-Weißenfels. It seems that Bach may have written the music for that gig first, then got his favourite librettist, Picander, to write a new set of words for Easter to more or less the same music. This practice- the technical term is a contrafactum- seems to have a bad reputation, smacking of cheating. That's despite the fact that one earlier great masterpiece, Tallis' Spem in Alium, (beloved of Classic FM ever since it was mentioned in Fifty Shades of Grey) only survived because of a later contrafactum arrangement.

So it might seem that the whole piece is actually a bit of splendidly pragmatic bodging-together of second and third-hand music, cramming words into a second hand cantata which itself had swallowed up a large chunk of a pre-owned concerto. It's not as if many of the good middle-class burghers of Leipzig would have heard the music at Duke Christian's birthday bash the month before. Google Maps helpfully states that to walk the 34.6 kilometres from the Thomaskirche in Leipzig to the Schloss Neu Augustusburg, Duke Christian's pad in Weißenfels, would take 7 hours and 8 minutes. Oddly enough, there isn't a “horse and carriage” option on Google Maps; but it's fair to say that on eighteenth-century roads, it still would have taken a fair while.

But I think there's more to it than getting away with it. Bach knew what he was doing in his choice of previous material- the B Minor Mass proves that, which is packed full of carefully selected earlier material, reworked and perfectly suited for the context. So in these first two movements, I'd argue that the Bach is priming and tantalising our emotions wordlessly, sensitising us to the themes of the whole work. It's like the dumb-show in Act 2 of Hamlet: as Ophelia says, “Belike this show imports the argument of the play.” First, we have a rush of exultation; then we have a calmer, cooler atmosphere before a return to excitement.

And this fits perfectly with the message of the words once they start. Firstly, we run: “Kommt, eilet und laufet, ihr flüchtigen Füße” - “come, hurry and run, you speedy feet!”. Almost immediately, we have to deal with a slight infelicity of the hastily re-worked words- we're being summoned to the cave “die Jesum bedeckt” - “which hides Jesus”- but he isn't there any more. It doesn't quite make sense, but the music is so hummable and irresistible that we're swept up in it.

The fourth movement is a genuine dramatic dialogue; each of the soloists, alto, soprano, tenor and bass, enter as as biblical characters: Mary Magdalen, Mary the mother of James, Peter and John respectively. (Interestingly, this is a shift from the voice parts in the Passions, where Peter is a bass and the voice of John the evangelist is a tenor). They squabble a little. The men are rather slow on the uptake and prefer to wallow in their grief, cutting across the women's major-key joy with a discordant “Ach!” rather than listening to the message that Jesus is no longer in the tomb. This sort of thing is relatively rare in cantatas- but we see it in the Passions, and the Christmas Oratorio. Perhaps this- along with the complete lack of chorales- is a reason why Bach renamed the 1725 cantata the Oster-Oratorium- Easter Oratorio- on its revival in 1735.

The slightly fraught journey to the tomb leads into an aria for Mary the mother of James, who sings “O Soul, your spices shall no longer be myrrh, but only crowning with a laurel wreath (Lorbeerkranze) will still your anxious longings”. The first part makes perfect sense; the women were going to anoint Jesus's body with myrrh, a bitter funerary ointment which “breathes a life of gathering gloom” if you remember your Christmas carols. Now they don't need it any more as the body is gone, arisen. But what's this about a laurel wreath? Again, it's a sign of slightly flawed writing. The original text for Duke Christian's birthday mentioned triumphant crownings with laurel wreath, and the reference has been carried over in exactly the same place. The classical Roman metaphor of the laurel-crowned victorious general sits a bit uneasily with the biblical narrative, to say the least. But again, the music works so well, with a quality of calm yet growing joy. With another lovely flute obbligato to resonate back with the second movement, it gives me that quality of bittersweetness that I felt was slightly lacking in last week's Palm Sunday cantata.

We return to the dialogue. Peter and John finally get the message with the help of Mary Magdalen spelling it out: Er ist vom Tode auferweckt!” “He is risen from the dead!”. The larger range of instruments in the orchestra allows Bach to give us a whole range of sonorities, including the flowing lower woodwinds which accompany Peter's meditation on the shroud that remains left behind in the tomb. It's almost a self-lullaby; Peter quiets his fears with the thought of that veil, and with that sign of life, we can refresh ourselves when passing through the veil of death. Again, it's that calm eighteenth-century Lutheran embrace of death that sends a few shivers down twenty-first century spines.

And there is very little real drama left in the narrative. After a brief S/A recitative duet, the alto as Mary Magdalen sings a further “searching” aria asking where she might find Jesus. But the text misses the opportunity to show what I find the most touching and radiant moment of the Gospel story: when Mary Magdalen's begs a man she thinks is the gardener what he has done with the body- and He replies “Mary”. Instead, the structure of the oratorio text, with both women certain of Jesus's resurrection from the outset, drains any possibility of exploring Mary Magdalen's grief here. She's already certain that she'll find Jesus somewhere- and so this aria is joyful and lively, but utterly lacking pathos. It's a missed opportunity, but not Bach's fault. Similarly, the bouncy recitative which follows for the bass is simple and authentically exultant, but strangely matter-of-fact. “Wir sind erfreut daß unser Jesus wieder lebt”- we are overjoyed that Jesus lives again. And a brass fanfare ushers in a final chorus, when the bass leads the other singers in calling for “Preis und Dank”- praise and thanks. Lovely oboe flourishes cut across the singers' declamatory block chords , and a brilliant upward sprint from the bassoon and bass leads us into the very last fugue. “Der Löwe von Juda kommt siegend gezogen!”- the Lion of Judah approaches us in triumph!

And, just as we are expecting to see the figure of Jesus himself, the entire work comes to an abrupt halt. Of course, Bach had as much music as he had already written, and the abruptness is for sound practical reasons. But the absence of the central figure makes the drama strangely hollow. It's not great opera- in fact, it felt to me like the sort of courtly masques written for noble conspicuous consumption. The pleasant purling woodwinds, the brief moment of angst immediately resolved in a joyful chorus, the small cast who don't really do a great deal in terms of action but who sing the the most sublime music- it reminds me of Handel's Acis and Galatea, written for the pleasure of the Duke of Chandos a few years previously. There are no chorales to give a voice to the worshipping community, none of the complex interplay between times and perspectives, or even many moments of didactism (which some people might find a relief). Ultimately the spirit is a long way from the feel of the other cantatas. Perhaps that's why Bach renamed it an oratorio; and the music itself needs no such apologies. Bach recycled it again for another secular party, and performed the church version at least three more times until 1749. So all in all, we've got some decent value from the music which started out at the birthday party for a long forgotten German princeling. Happy birthday, Duke Christian; and happy Easter!