by Herbert Anton Kellner

I read with very great interest and pleasure the recent contribution by Jan Overduin to The Diapason1, "Bach and Die Kunst der Fuge." Therein, the author presented about two dozen typical examples, illustrating how the composer has interwoven the musical texture of the oeuvre with the notes of his name b, a, c, h, within the various counterpoints. (In English nomenclature, the German b is designated b-flat.) By this procedure BACH has inscribed--so to speak--in many places his signature to his compositions. Beyond this most simple form, a variety of permutations of these four basic letters can also be found, or else, transpositions to other pitches, as shown by R. Kreft,2 a comprehensive special study printed in multicolor.

For the present article, three examples from Prof. Overduin's article will be extracted and discussed. Beyond the occurrence of the name BACH in these particular musical passages, possible simultaneous allusions by the composer to his mathematical system of unequal well-tempered tuning3 will be identified. This musical temperament--due to its intrinsic mathematical nature--is necessarily based on a certain set of numbers. The rationale for the present approach to study Die Kunst der Fuge is the fact that Bach has frequently structured the form of his compositions via numbers of a set belonging to the  wohltemperirt system. From this observation originated my "Vienna manifesto" of the Bach-year 1985: to analyze Bach's works with particular attention to the aspect of numbers pertaining to well-tempering.4 Utilizing this artifice, Bach attains an elaborate unity between features of the musical form and structuring in the widest sense and the harmony of tuning--initially and nominally the harpsichord. The most specific composition for this system was, of course, Das Wohltemperirte Clavier. A harpsichord can be well-tempered in not more than 19 elementary tuning-steps.5 This is the number for the closure of the circle, and the 19 intervals are 12 fifths followed by 7 octaves in the opposite direction.

In view of the essential occurrence of the name b, a, c, h for carrying out this study, the number alphabet and its gematrial correspondences needs first of all to be introduced. Thus, the letters are numbered along the Latin alphabet from A=1, B=2, C=3,  . . . I=9, J=9 [sic],  . . . K=10,  . . . U=20, V=20 [sic],  . . . X=22, Y=23, Z=24. Expressed via that numbering, B, A, C, H will appear as 2, 1, 3, 8. The adding-procedure as prescribed by the gematria, 2+1+3+8, yields the correspondence BACH=14. Likewise, J.S. BACH will be 41, the crab or inversion of the number 14.

Now the well-tempered system will be concisely laid out, putting special emphasis on the way it will be ultimately reflected here in Die Kunst der Fuge. This temperament comprises 7 perfect fifths and 5 well-tempered ones. It derives from the central key of tonality, C-major.6 In its triad C-E-G, the enlarged third beats at the same rate as the reduced fifth--an ideal mutual adaptation. To complete the description, four well-tempered fifths ascend from c and reach the second octave of the initial third e closing this chain of fifths c-g-d-a-e. From c downwards extends a chain of six perfect fifths, reaching g-flat (f-sharp). Of course, octave-transpositions must be applied in practical harpsichord tuning wherever necessary. The last tempered fifth of the system results as B-f-sharp, closing the circle. From the third e upwards ascends the seventh and last perfect fifth e-b.

The unique and distinguishing feature of wohltemperirt is its musico-theological foundation; no other tuning has anything similar to offer. Due to the beat-rates in the triad at the perfection of the unitas,7 the system is founded upon a tri-unitarian basis. The nucleus of baroque thoroughbass is the triad, itself a symbol of the Holy Trinity. Just hearing a triad, its three components merge suavely and smoothly into an agreeable, pleasant unity.8 Furthermore, the beat ratio of 1:1 of the constituent intervals can be considered as a profound symbol of the monotheistic principle--it is here where Werckmeister's ideas on the perfection of the baroque unitas are rooted.

Returning now from theological spiritualities and mathematical ratios to the music itself, by what means could Bach reflect in a composition the numbered alphabet and the gematria? A few such examples will follow now. As concerns the numbered alphabet, for the onset of its table A=1, one may refer to the well known A-major fugue of The Well-Tempered Clavier I. Its theme starts with an isolated note a, followed by three 8th-rests. Such an incipit is highly unusual, if not bizarre, and correlating with the table's A=1 appears natural and not far fetched. For the correspondence BACH=14, the C-major fugue's theme--as well as that of B-major--starts with 14 keystrokes.9 Within Die Kunst der Fuge itself, following the first four pieces, already the theme of contrapunctus 5 (and others) count 14 keystrokes. For the gematrial correspondence J. S. BACH=41, not later than the initial two keystrokes d, a, of Die Kunst der Fuge--set in d-minor--show 41 if juxtaposed.

Now it will be indicated how musical structures can convey hints or allusions to the well-tempered system. It is based upon the ratio of the unitas between the beats of the tempered third and fifth, 3 and 5 in thoroughbass. Therefore, immediately the number 135--in juxtaposition--may be used, for instance, within the bar numbered by 135. Other possibilities may be derived from the two sorts of fifths, 5 well-tempered, 7 perfect, such as in juxtaposition 57, 75 (75 could be made up via the tri-unity as 31+13+3110), or even 577. Finally, in terms of musical notation, 5 relates  to e, 7 to g, and 3 to c. As to the number 19 and concomitant abstract structuring, looking now as an example at the B-major prelude of WTC I, it counts 19 bars, starts at bar 1913 and ends at bar 1931.11

The first extract from Prof. Overduin's article is contrapunctus 4 (BWV 1080, 4), measures 135 to 138, page 15 in Davitt Moroney's edition from G. Henle.12 Starting from bar 135 (unitas-third-fifth) the tenor sounds BACH, rhythmically comparable to a sigh. The fugue terminates at 138, which incidentally corresponds to ACH, the final letters of the composer's name; in German a sighing exclamation. Perhaps the terminating pedal on d (D=4) through the last four bars may be related to the four letters of BACH. (See Example 1.)

The second example, page 46 in the Moroney/Henle edition (BWV 1080, 11), concerns contrapunctus 11, bars 90 and 91. (See Example 2.) As Prof. Overduin points out, the alto introduces by theme three the notes B, A, C, H, but he mentions that Tovey rejected this as an allusion to BACH because in fact, it is B-A-C-C-C-H sounding here. However, Tovey could at his time not be aware of Bach's tri-unitarian temperament and thus, necessarily failed to understand the significance of A,C,C,C: 1,3,3,3 in numbers. As much as within B-AC-H, 2-13-8, the number 28, secundus numerus perfectus is centered upon 13, unitas-trinitas, the present extended theme 2-1333-8 includes three times the number 3. The frame still remains B and H. An essential factorization holds, 1333=31*43: the prime numbers 31, trinitas-unitas and 43 = CREDO (3+17+5+4+14)--a tri-unitarian Credo! Starting with the second half of this bar and counting from the bass fundament upwards, presents the notes e, a, c, thus 513, nothing else than a permutation of 135. This is interpreted as fifth 5, unitas and third 3 in thoroughbass. The crucial bar in this example is 91--the crab or inversion of 19--by which number of elementary steps the circle of fifths will close. Working backward in this bar to the second quaver shows a, a, c, thus 113: a numerical triptych of unitas and trinitas. This measure 91 not only sounds BACH in the alto, but its onset reads d, g, b, converted to numbers 4,7,2.

As concerns 472, Bach was certainly intimately familiar with the notion of permutations, thinking for example, of his choral fugues or certain three-part inventions. Thus, just from a cyclical permutation of 472 results the number 247 (=13*19). According to the baroque gematria, 247=MUSICALISCHE TEMPERATUR which is the title of Werckmeister's classical treatise, 1691. Furthermore, 247=112+135 holds additively, but the implications of such observations cannot be detailed here and these results were published elsewhere already some time ago.13

The third example still deals with contrapunctus 11, bars 144 to 145, page 48 in the Moroney/Henle edition. (See Example 3.) There the alto and treble sound BA-CH and the bass and tenor in the second quaver of 144 present G, E, converting to 7 and 5, the numbers of perfect and well-tempered fifths. The bass, in fact, now sounds G,G,G,E, in numbers 7775. It may also be mentioned that contrapunctus 11 starts in a Trinitarian fashion by three bars identically structured, with eighth-note rests on the downbeat and 3 subsequent eighth notes; one has 3+3+3=9, trias trinitatis per additionem.

Finally, a typical manifestation of the unitas, a determining and crucial element in Bach's structuring of his compositions can be pointed out at this occasion. The contrapunctus 11 extends over 184 bars, an even number. The midpoint therefore falls upon the bars 92 and 93, see the preceding example. The bar 93 (=3*31, tri-unitary factorization!) sounds, from the fundament of the bass upwards, a, c, e; in numbers 1,3,5: unitas, third and fifth in thoroughbass--on  the dominant of d-minor. In the central triad of C-major of wohltemperirt, third and fifth beat at the unison! Hence, this piece is obviously pivoted symmetrically upon the very nucleus of the well-tempered musico-mathematical system.

The considerations above represent a corollary to the examples of the underlying article in The Diapason. As to the aspects described and analyzed, there is no pretension whatsoever to be exhaustive. Rather, the purpose is, hopefully, to be thought provoking, to stimulate and encourage further, more systematic and complete investigations into the direction outlined here--as much as the article published by Prof. Overduin has led to the present study.

After having reconstituted the well-tempered system Werckmeister/Bach initially in 1975,14 it was gratifying for me to see how organ builders have taken up and followed the ideas, appreciating the technological and musical qualities of this baroque temperament. These builders include Rudolf von Beckerath, John Brombaugh & Associates Inc., T. S. Buhr, Paul Fritts & Co., Gerhard Grenzing, Otto Hoffmann Organs, Claude Jaccard, Yves Koenig, Michael Korchonnoff, Dominique Lalmand, Gebr. Oberlinger, Martin Pasi, Richards, Fowkes & Co., Charles M. Ruggles, Taylor & Boody, George Westenfelder, Karl Wilhelm, Hellmuth Wolff and Munetaka Yokota.

On these organs, tuned accordingly, many distinguished musicians have performed and recorded, including Martin Balz, Luc Beauséjour, Jonathan Biggers, Gavin Black, Robert Clark, David Dahl, George Edward Damp, François Espinasse, Bernard Foccroulle, Martin Gester, André Isoir, Calvert Johnson, Donald Joyce, George Ritchie, David Rothe, Wolfgang Rübsam, Yasuko Uyama-Bouvard and others.

A discography as at that time I have published in The Tracker.15 Further references to analyses of Bach's compositions are contained--together with a heuristic derivation of the well-tempered system--in the Blankenburg-Michaelstein symposium proceedings.16 For those interested in more musicological details, a bibliography is also contained within my lecture publication on historical temperaments, held at the symposium in the Vienna Hochschule für Musik und Darstellende Kunst.17.

A Performer’s Investigation, Part 1

by Gary Verkade

Knowledge

In order to acquire knowledge about John Bull’s work, it is important to know a little bit about what knowledge actually meant at the time the work was created. Here we are dealing with the late Renaissance–early Baroque, the exact date of the composition itself, as far as I have been able to determine, being unknown. Michel Foucault in his book, The Order of Things: An Archaeology of the Human Sciences, states:

Up to the end of the sixteenth century, resemblance played a constructive role in the knowledge of Western culture. It was resemblance that largely guided exegesis and the interpretation of texts; it was resemblance that organized the play of symbols, made possible knowledge of things visible and invisible, and controlled the art of representing them. The universe was folded in upon itself: the earth echoing the sky, faces seeing themselves reflected in the stars, and plants holding within their stems the secrets that were of use to man (p. 17) . . . To search for a meaning is to bring to light a resemblance (p. 29) . . . There is no difference between the visible marks that God has stamped upon the surface of the earth, so that we may know its inner secrets, and the legible words that the Scriptures, or the sages of Antiquity, have set down in the books preserved for us by tradition. The relation to these texts is of the same nature as the relation to things: in both cases these are signs that must be discovered (p. 33) . . . Knowledge therefore consisted in relating one form of language to another form of language; in restoring the great, unbroken plain of words and things; in making everything speak. That is, in bringing into being, at a level above that of all marks, the secondary discourse of commentary. The function proper to knowledge is not seeing or demonstrating; it is interpreting (p. 40).

If knowledge in the Renaissance and Baroque is interpretation and uncovering order, then knowledge about a work of art created in this transition time at the end of the Renaissance and the beginning of the Baroque can only be about discovering an order and an interpretation. I do not believe that the impossibility of total certainty of the results of such inquiry should deter one from the attempt to understand a work in the sense the maker might have understood that concept of “understanding.” One thing is certainly true. Understanding, in this sense, for a musician cannot simply mean hearing and/or playing a work and responding with “like” or “dislike.” Our response must go deeper. “It is not enough to feel the effects of a science or an art. One must conceptualize these effects in order to render them intelligible” (Rameau, p. xxxv). We must dig in order to uncover what might be hidden from cursory view. We must, as Frescobaldi demands, “endeavour in the first place to discover the character of the passages, the tonal effect intended by the composer  . . . ”(Notes).

John Bull

 

John Bull (1562–1628) had his feet in the Renaissance and his head in the Baroque. In other words, he was a child of the Renaissance and experienced the beginnings of the new era as a grown man. He was the student of John  Blitheman. John is known as William in the Fitzwilliam Virginal Book, which contains an In nomine of his immediately preceding the Ut, re, mi, fa, sol, la of Bull’s which is the subject of the present essay. Blitheman was known for his cantus firmus compositions, which occasionally demanded great virtuosity of the player. Bull’s education, grounded in Renaissance teaching as it must have been, certainly did not end with his formal studies. He was elected first Public Reader in Music at Gresham College, London in March of 1597 where he remained, except for a year’s leave of absence, until 1607, the year which saw his necessary marriage to one Elizabeth Walter, who was pregnant with his child. During his period at Gresham, the College was a hotbed of discussion of new ideas, inventions and discoveries from all over Europe.

For example, during the last quarter of the sixteenth century the ideas of Copernicus became more widely disseminated among the general public, the world view which stood the previous view of the universe on its head. What was formerly immovable, the earth, now was realized to be hurtling through space at unheard-of speeds. Bull must have been well-informed as to the revolutions in scientific thought in which learned men all across Europe were engaged. He was part of the established intellectual community; the universities did not ignore these new, ground-breaking ideas. He must have known about the fierce debates between the followers of Copernicus and those of Aristotle at Cambridge during the 1580s. For “we find Gresham College was, throughout the first half of the seventeenth century, a general clearinghouse for information concerning the latest scientific discoveries. Its professors of astronomy and geometry were among the ablest scientists of their day, and the college’s central location in London made their rooms a convenient rendezvous for all those who were actually contributing to the advancement of science in England” (Johnson, p. 263).

There is no need to go into the relevance of science to music in either the Renaissance or Baroque eras. That relationship has been amply discussed in a plethora of publications. What is important to note here is that the age in which Bull lived and worked was one of adventurous discovery, one in which science was revolutionizing the view of the world, as well as one in which, first in Italy and then in the rest of Europe, music, too, was undergoing revolutionary change. It is important to note that revolution, new ways of thinking, were part and parcel of Elizabethan life. Bull was no stranger to the new.

The hexachord

The hexachord was first described, but not named, in Guido of Arezzo’s treatise Micrologus of 1025–28. There are three hexachords, all of which have the same intervallic structure: the hexachordum naturale (C - D - E - F - G - A); the hexachordum molle, so-called because it included b molle, i.e., b-flat (F - G - A - B-flat - C - D); and the hexachordum durum, so-called because it included b durum, i.e. b-natural (G - A - B - C - D - E). Since medieval theory did not consider pitches of higher or lower octaves to be identical, seven hexachords were differentiated in the scale from G to e2, all of them beginning on C, F, or G. There was no concept of modulation. A melody exceeding the compass of a single hexachord was considered to be in transition from one hexachord to another. This movement was referred to as mutation. Tonal centers were not established by such movement, but rather the compass of a particular melody simply shifted from one area to another by making use of a pivot tone, a tone which belonged to both hexachords. Thus, for example, the tone sol in one hexachord could at the same time function as the tone ut in another. Yet, because the hexachord has the same construction whether based on C, F, or G, it has one interesting similarity to the major-minor tonal system: it has the potential to form the basis of a relative pitch system.

Guido’s treatise was referred to throughout the ensuing centuries, though the term “hexachord” itself apparently does not appear until about the 16th century. Although Masses based on the hexachord were composed, keyboard composers of the late Renaissance and the early Baroque seem to have been particularly fascinated by the musical possibilities offered by this theme. Pieces based on the hexachord were written by such important composers as Girolamo Frescobaldi (2) and Gregorio Strozzi in Italy, Johann Jakob Froberger in Austria, Pieter Cornet (the piece survives only as a fragment) and Jan Pieterszoon Sweelinck in the Low Countries, Samuel Scheidt in North Germany, Pablo Bruna in Spain, and William Byrd (2), Thomas Tomkins (7!), John Lugge, and John Bull (3) in England.

John Bull and the hexachord

Thomas Morley, as Master Gnorimus in A Plaine and Easie Introdvction to Practicall Mvsick (1597) which is organized in dialogue form, spends at the beginning of that treatise a considerable amount of time explaining musical notation to Philomathes, a student in the dialogue. He does this by using the hexachord and the syllables ut, re, mi, fa, sol, la. Morley’s art of teaching music was not unique in England and musicians must have been familiar with this system.

 The adventurous John Bull composed three very different pieces on the hexachord. One, Ut, re, mi, fa, sol, la [II], is an extended composition (292 measures in the Musica Brittanica edition, 237 irregularly-barred measures in the Fitzwilliam Virginal Book) in which, after the second statement, the hexachord theme is treated principally as a cantus firmus in the soprano in long notes accompanied by figurations which become in the course of the piece quite virtuosic. Beginning with a long section in two voices, Bull introduces a third voice for a similarly long section, and then a fourth voice, the piece remaining four-voiced to the end. The subdivision of the beat changes a number of times in the course of this work and in addition to the metric two-against-three which occurs in the juxtaposition of duple and triple times, rhythmic two-against-three is also found in this composition, a favorite Bull device.

Another is the more contrapuntal, 188-measure Ut, re, mi, fa, sol, la [III] (not found in the Fitzwilliam Virginal Book) composition. The more sustained polyphonic nature of the five-part texture and the avoidance of metric and rhythmic variety (the piece moves principally in halves, quarters and eighths with some dotting of values) starkly differentiate this piece from the preceding one. In addition, the hexachord theme itself is found in several rhythmic forms, principally varying combinations of halves and quarters with some tied notes, dotted values and an occasional eighth-note.

The piece which is the subject of this essay is the shortest of the three hexachord compositions by Bull.

Ut, re, mi, fa, sol, la [I]

Editions

I made the decision to use the version of the piece found in the Fitzwilliam Virginal Book since it is clearly closer to the actual score of the piece as Bull himself might have written it. The version found in the Musica Brittanica edition, with its regularly-barred measures and its conformity to 20th-century notational practices, leads one to think that the piece may be in common time. Whereas I would like, as much as is possible for a musician living very much with both feet planted in the 21st century, to get into the musical mind of Bull as it manifests itself in this composition. One must assume that whoever copied the music in the 17th century had an understanding of the music he was copying and, especially, was closer to the manner in which it was notated than editors in the mid-20th century could have been. And it is the notation which provides the only clues we have directly from the composer, clues we need in order to reach some understanding of the work, without which appropriate interpretive decisions cannot be made. The importance of the manuscript and the collection in general speaks for going to the Fitzwilliam Virginal Book as primary source.

The theme

The theme (see Example 1) has two parts, which mirror each other, consisting of the ascending and descending hexachord. The highest note (at the first appearance of the theme an e1) is always repeated.

As do the other two compositions on this theme, the present work begins not only with the hexachordum durum, but also with the very same note: g0, although it is the soprano voice (not bass or tenor as in the other pieces) which here begins the work in this low register.

Meter

Since the irregular measures of 1/1, 2/1, 3/1, 4/1, 5/1, 9/2, and 12/2 do not seem to indicate any regular occurrence of accent, my attention was brought to the consideration of meter in terms of the theme as a whole. The whole note is the value at which the regular occurrence of the tactus takes place. The piece floats in an unaccentuated flow of regular beats of that tactus. The entrance of the hexachord theme every 13 whole-note units is the important, regularly occurring event in the work. The unit of measure is not the bar line, wherever it is drawn, but rather the whole note itself and we will subsequently refer to whole-note units rather than any measure numbers. The six ascending and six descending notes give us the duration of twelve whole-notes. Except for the first three statements and one curious half note during the 13th statement, the entire theme consists of 12 unvaried note values throughout.  The final pitches of the first two statements consist of two whole notes: two g0’s and two a0’s respectively. The final pitch of the third statement is one b0 whole note tied to another. After that, the final pitch of the theme is always a whole note separated from the following thematic statement by a whole-note rest. This makes the entire theme, the ascending and descending hexachord and the unit of rest, one phrase measuring 13 units (whole notes).

We can think of the hexachord theme as beginning with a downbeat and spanning the duration of 13 whole notes. A secondary accent occurs, perhaps, at the repetition of the highest note of the theme, which results in two units of six whole notes each. The 13th whole note of the first statement repeats the final note, that of the second statement repeats the final note with an ornament, that of the third is tied to the previous whole note. After that, the 13th whole note is a rest. The 13th unit of the hexachord theme functions, especially beginning with the fourth statement, as a breath, a metrical breath if you will, a moment of rest, of gathering energy, before continuing with the next statement. This music breathes in 13-unit phrases with a consistency unbroken until the end.

Transposition

The second statement of the hexachord theme begins a whole-step higher than the first statement; and the third statement begins another whole step higher. This transposition of the theme upwards by whole step is pursued rigorously up to f1, at which point the next statement would appear again on a G (g1, an octave above the first note of the piece). This Bull does not do, but rather jumps down almost two octaves to A-flat and begins the process of transposition by whole step upwards all over again, using the remaining pitches of the twelve-note chromatic scale.

Example 2 gives the initial notes of all 17 statements of the hexachord theme, the last 4 statements of which are all on the same pitch, g1. Thus we see that the cycle of whole-step transposition, beginning on g0, interrupted once at f1 and leaping down to A-flat instead and then continuing the cycle in order to return to g0, involves 13 statements of the hexachord theme.

Modulation

With the transposition of the hexachord theme Bull is forced to modulate to new keys at every single entrance of the theme. The composition manifests remarkable instances of modulatory prowess and enharmonic ambivalence. Consider Example 3.

The E-major chord at the beginning of Example 3 includes b0, the last note of the previous statement of the theme.  D-flat1 is the first note of the fourth entrance of the theme and it appears here immediately as D-flat and not as C-sharp, as might be expected from the previous harmony. The enharmonic modulation must take place somewhere and Bull chooses to do it here. Apparently, in spite of what the Musica Brittanica edition has done here (namely first spell c-sharp1, then tie to d-flat1), Bull is not interested in making a smooth, a plausible, enharmonic modulation (see Example 4).

We can see that Bull has not written a piece concerned with modulating to as many keys as possible, thereby enabling the hexachord theme to appear in those keys. The plan of his work is to transpose, to shift the hexachord theme; he shifts the theme and afterwards draws the harmonic consequences. The transposition of the hexachord theme is the given, leading to necessary modulation—not modulation leading to transposition of the theme. The transposition of the hexachord theme is the postulate which implies the stipulation of key, not vice versa.  In other words: the form is a priori and precipitates the harmony; the harmony does not precipitate the form.

Form

We have noted above that after 12 shifts or transpositions of the hexachord theme, i.e. with the 13th transposition, Bull returns, comes full circle transpositionally, to the g0 with which he started the piece, though here it is the bass voice and not the soprano as at the beginning. Here Ut, re, mi, fa, sol, la could conceivably end. Bull has traversed the entire gamut of pitches available to him in the chromatic scale and returned back to where he had started. This disregards, however, the psychological strain through which he has put his listener. Bull must draw the consequences of going so far afield harmonically. He must first establish conclusively for the listener that one has arrived “home.” And that is not achieved by a single statement on G.

There follow four more statements of the hexachord theme, all on G, all on the same g1, all in the soprano voice. However, just as Bull begins to anchor the listener in the hexachordum durum, he changes what has up to that point been a duple to a triple division of the beat. Now this is a common device found at the ends of many compositions of this period and others: triple subdivision as ecstatic conclusion. Statement 14 consists of three half notes per whole note. Occasionally the half notes are subdivided into duple quarters which sound against the (now dotted) whole notes. Statement 15 contains both duple and triple subdivisions of the beat; the quarter notes here are ambiguously either triple subdivisions of the duple half notes or duple subdivisions of the triplet half notes. This rhythmic ambiguity occurs exactly at the point where Bull is interested in being unambiguous harmonically, i.e., he can now afford to be ambiguous on the rhythmic level now that the harmonic level has become more stable. Statements 16 and 17 return to duple subdivisions on all levels, as had been the case from statements 1 to 13.

So at the end of the composition there are five statements of the hexachordum durum. The first of these five statements (on g0) occurs at the end of the transposition process begun at the outset of the piece and belongs to that process. It rounds off that section of the piece. The final four statements (on g1) are no longer part of that process, but provide the necessary anchoring in G in order for the piece to come to a satisfactory close.

Counterpoint I: beginning and end

The hexachord appears as a cantus firmus, it does not take part in any imitative counterpoint. Three of the four voices are, then, not predetermined by the form. The opening of Ut, re, mi, fa, sol, la is instructive (see Example 5) and merits a close look. It is not marked by strict imitation carried through the three free voices.

The soprano begins, opening with the hexachordum durum on g0. The bass enters one half note later on the same g0, before the soprano moves to its second note. The two voices sound together for the duration of one half note with the same pitch, thus obscuring the two-voiced texture. The bass continues stepwise downwards through the fourth unit. At unit three the alto enters with a motive different from both the hexachord in the soprano and the descending motive in the bass. It enters on the only available note between soprano and bass: g0. The tenor enters one unit later with the descending motive first heard at the bass entrance. However, the entrance of the tenor is obscured by the fact that at that same moment the alto and the soprano sound the same note together: c1. In other words, at the entrance of the fourth voice one hears only three voices. This obscures not only the texture again, but the imitation between bass and tenor as well. Significant, and genial, about the beginning of the work is that all four voices start from exactly the same point, exactly the same pitch: the final of the hexachordum durum, g0.

The descending fifth motive, found in the bass and tenor voices, does not reappear as such throughout the rest of the work until the very last measures. The motive is given one prefix note and is found here in all three free voices. This reminiscence of the beginning provides a fitting and appropriate close to the work (see Example 6).

Counterpoint II: alto motive

At the beginning of the work (see example 5) the soprano has the hexachord as cantus firmus and the bass and tenor voices imitate each other, in fact the first five pitches are exactly the same. The alto voice is here unique, free. It proves to have a more productive motive than that shared by tenor and bass, and, indeed, we find that it is not imitation which is most significant here or in the work as a whole. There are scattered passages which employ imitation in one form or another, more or less strictly, between two or three voices. There seems to be no overall formal principle which dictates when and where imitation between the voices takes place. It is one of the compositional means at Bull’s disposal and he uses it without ever losing the prevailing sense of freedom which the three voices have in the face of the strict formal construction of the transposition scheme of the hexachord.

The emphasis is not on imitative counterpoint, but rather on a free development of the concept of imitation. One can see this on the freedom with which Bull treats the alto motive, heard at the outset (see Example 7) and referred to henceforth as the alto motive no matter in which voice it is found.

During the course of the second statement of the hexachord theme, we hear this motive in different guises in three of the four voices (see Example 8).

Rhythm and intervals are altered, and inversion is heard in the alto and bass as well as retrograde in the bass voice. Just a few units later, during the third statement of the hexachord theme, the alto motive is found using a passing tone (see Example 9).

The part of the motive which is found at units 33–34, using the quarter-note passing tone, is one that is found in all the three free voices at that point and plays a role through the fourth entrance of the hexachord theme. The alteration of the alto motive thus generates a further motive that is used contrapuntally in these passages.

In Example 10, taken from the fourth statement of the hexachord theme, we find an interesting canon, interesting in the fact that it is not strict. The bass voice leads, followed by the alto voice one whole note later with a rhythmically enlivened version of the bass voice. Also noteworthy is how the same note takes on different harmonic functions. This is due, of course, to the fact that one of the voices is the bass and the other the alto. It also has to do with the fact that, although the entrance of the d-flat1 in the alto is rhythmically analogous to the entrance of the d-flat0 in the bass, namely mid-unit, the d-flat1 enters with the length of a whole note and obscures the fact that the alto voice is, contrary to the bass, placed on the unit (beat). Thus the g-flat0 in the bass becomes dissonant at unit 44, whereas the g-flat1 in the alto at unit 45 is consonant for its entire duration. So, too, the e-flat0 in the bass is consonant for its duration, but, the e-flat1 in the alto at unit 47 becomes dissonant.

This last example demonstrates the developmental possibilities of the alto motive. Given its construction (see Example 7), the small ambitus of a perfect fourth, the prominent interval of the third, and the half step at the end, it is a motive that is related to any other motive using those intervals. It is possible to recognize in example 10 that the alto line is directly derived from the alto motive in the bass voice. In other cases it is more difficult to assert that other motives with similar constructions were consciously fashioned from the alto motive. Nevertheless, many of the passages contain motives constructed with thirds and fourths, or often end with a half step, which fact is not surprising in music that is articulated with cadences.

From units 86–93 (see Example 11), the end of the seventh and the beginning of the eighth statement of the hexachord theme, we find the alto motive used in free imitative fashion between soprano, alto and tenor. Interesting is the alto voice which mirrors itself beginning at unit 89 and then tacks on a cadential e-flat1 - d1 - e-flat1.

Example 12, from the tenth statement of the hexachord theme, demonstrates a still freer treatment of the alto motive or, if you will, those primary intervals of which the alto motive is constructed. The passage does not illustrate imitative counterpoint, but rather a free development of the alto motive. Notice particularly the alto voice which, as in the previous example, mirrors itself and pivots around f-sharp1.

Immediately following this passage, at the end of the tenth and the beginning of the eleventh statement of the hexachord theme, the soprano states two versions of the alto motive successively, the first descending (i.e, inverted), the second ascending (see Example 13).

There are further passages in which the alto motive or fragments thereof play a role in the contrapuntal texture of the work. Often, just as is the case in a number of the above examples, they are worked into phrases which are much longer. The motive shines forth suddenly from within the context of something larger than itself and contributes to the unity of the work.          

Gary Verkade was born in Chicago and grew up in the south suburbs. He studied music at Calvin College and the University of Iowa in the United States, and in 1978 he received a Fulbright grant to study at the Folkwang-Hochschule in Essen, Germany, and lived in Germany for 17 years. He has performed much new music throughout Europe and the United States and is the composer of music for organ, electronics, chamber and improvisational ensembles.Verkade has been a guest professor/lecturer/performer at universities in Europe and the United States; he served on the music faculty of Carthage College, Kenosha, Wisconsin, from 1995–2000. He is presently on the faculty of the Musikhögskolan i Pitea, Sweden, where he continues to teach, perform, compose, record, and write about music.

Enrique Alberto Arias

Enrique Alberto Arias holds a PhD in music history and literature from Northwestern University. He is currently associate professor in the School for New Learning at DePaul University, Chicago. In addition, he is president of Ars Musica Chicago.

Wilhelm Middelschulte (1863-1943), the distinguished organist and composer, is a name found frequently in the earlier issues of The Diapason.1 The present article will consider his Kontrapunktische Symphonie über Themen von Joh. Seb. Bach. In addition to the discussion of this great and complex work, Middelschulte's connections to Ferruccio Busoni and Bernhard Ziehn will be explored as well as Middelschulte's position within the so-called Chicago "Gothic" school.

Biography

Middelschulte was born in Heeren Werve, near Dortmund, Germany on 3 April 1863. He received a good part of his musical education at the Royal Academy of Church Music in Berlin, where he studied with Haupt, Loeschern, Alsleben, Commer (editor of the series of early music entitled Musica Sacra), and Schröder. He also studied with August Knabe in Soest, who considered Middelschulte his most famous student. Knabe also seems to have instilled Middelschulte's profound veneration of Bach. Middelschulte is often said to have been Haupt's last student and to have functioned as his assistant. Carl August Haupt (1810-91) was a distinguished organist who participated in the Bach revival of the 19th century; thus these years of study with Haupt also formed many of the features of Middelschulte's career. Middelschulte became Haupt's assistant and later was the organist and choirmaster of the St. Lucas Church in Berlin.

In 1891, Middelschulte came to Chicago, where he served as the organist at Holy Name Cathedral, a position he held until 1895. During this time he studied with the theorist and composer Bernhard Ziehn (1845-1912), who, as we shall later see, deeply influenced Middelschulte's musical style. In 1893, Middelschulte gave a series of recitals for the Columbian Exposition. He also held organist positions at St. James Catholic Church in Chicago and the K.A.M. Temple. In 1894, Middelschulte became organist for the Theodore Thomas Orchestra (later, Chicago Symphony Orchestra), a position held until 1918, when the anti-German sentiments of the First World War caused him to leave this post. An indication of the honor in which he was held was that he played for both the memorial services of Emperor Frederick III in Germany and for Theodore Thomas.2

During these years he taught at the American Conservatory of Music in Chicago, the Wisconsin Conservatory, and the Detroit Conservatory of Music (originally known as the Foundation Music School). According to Hans Joachim Moser, Middelschulte was at the American Conservatory from 1891 to 1918, but in fact he was at the Conservatory until 1936.3 He is listed on the faculty of the conservatory until the fall of 1936, and in 1932 he took the place of Adolf Weidig, who had died in 1931, as a leading member of the theory department in addition to his position in the organ department. In 1922, he received an honorary LL.D. degree from Notre Dame University, where he regularly gave summer classes in organ. By this time Middelschulte was Chicago's major organist and an important composer of works for organ. In 1939, Middelschulte returned to Germany, just before the outbreak of World War II. During the last few years of his life, Middelschulte lived in Switzerland and Italy because of declining health. He died in Dortmund, Germany on 4 May 1943 of a heart attack. Among his many students, several went on to have major organ careers, principally Virgil Fox and Arthur C. Becker, about whom I have written previously for The Diapason.4

Thus, although born and educated in Germany, Middelschulte made the United States and, more specifically, Chicago his home. Middelschulte was a scholar and composer, whose works re-flect his intimate knowledge of Bach.5 Middelschulte was, by all accounts, a virtuoso organist of the first order, famous for his performances from memory (he was one of the first organists to do this). His performances of Bach were widely recognized as models of style, thus relating to Ferruccio Busoni's fabled Bach performances on the piano. Middelschulte's repertory was apparently vast. For example, the 1 June 1926 issue of The Diapason announced that Middelschulte would give a series of four recitals at Notre Dame in July of that year. One recital was to be "historical," and included compositions by Palestrina, Frescobaldi, Merulo, Gabrieli, and masters of the Baroque period. The second recital, not unexpectedly, was to be devoted to the organ works of Bach. The third (and this is striking) was to be of American organ music (including a composition by John J. Becker, one of the members of the American experimentalist group and a student of Middelschulte's), while the final recital was to be a potpourri, but including works by Reger and Bach.6 Few organists could equal such a feat. But this series is interesting for its inclusion of works before Bach. His studies with Franz Commer, one of the most important musicologists of the 19th century, would have made him aware of this repertory. His recital of American organ music, despite his conservative German background, shows his interest in promoting the music of his students.

It is impossible to understand Middelschulte's accomplishments without a consideration of his German connections and the German tradition of such Chicago musical institutions as the American Conservatory of Music and the Chicago Symphony Orchestra. The American Conservatory of Music was founded in 1886 and incorporated in 1887. The founder was John J. Hattstaedt, and by the early 20th century the American Conservatory was considered one of the leading music schools in Chicago. It had strong ties to Germany in that most of its faculty were trained there. Thus, for example, Adolf Weidig (1867-1931), who had studied with such notables as Riemann and Rheinberger, continued this German tradition at the conservatory, where he taught composition and theory. Weidig was also a violinist who played in the Chicago Symphony Orchestra and an accomplished composer whose works deserve renewed attention.7 His teachings are summarized in the text that was widely used at this time: Harmonic Material and Its Uses (Chicago: Clayton Summy, 1923).

There were many other important German musicians in Chicago at this time. For example, Emil Liebling (1851-1914), a student of Liszt's and known for his editions of the etudes of Carl Czerny, was an impressive pedagogue who also was an editor for The American History and Encyclopedia of Music. He came to Chicago in 1872 and remained until his death.8 Bernhard Listermann (1841-1917) was the concertmaster of the Thomas Orchestra and continued a distinguished career in Chicago, publishing a violin method and some compositions. This list must include the great Theodore Thomas (1835-1905), born in Essen, Germany, and the founder of what would become the Chicago Symphony Orchestra. Thomas was one of the major conductors of his time who permanently left his mark on Chicago.9

Theodore Thomas founded the Chicago Orchestra in 1890, but the name of the orchestra was changed to the Theodore Thomas Orchestra in 1905 and then the Chicago Symphony Orchestra in 1912. Thomas conducted the orchestra until his death in 1905, when he was succeeded by Frederick Stock, who conducted the orchestra until 1942 (the year of his death). The Chicago Symphony Orchestra was created in the German tradition, and the rehearsals were conducted in German up to World War I. There was great emphasis placed on German repertory (including the then-modern Richard Strauss), and the orchestra was known for its German sound because of the rich brass, a tradition that continues to the present day. Middelschulte accordingly worked in musical institutions where his German musical heritage was highly valued and where he made significant contributions.

Middelschulte's influences

Middelschulte's compositional style grew out of his studies of Bach, but it was also clearly influenced by the theories of Bernhard Ziehn, with whom he studied in Chicago. Bernhard Ziehn (1845-1912) was born in Erfurt, Germany, but came to Chicago in 1868 to teach mathematics and music theory in the German Lutheran School of Chicago. In addition to his studies of music theory and history, Ziehn was an accomplished mathematician and botanist, whose studies of poison ivy were commended by the U.S. Department of Agriculture. Ziehn had a number of notable students, including the composer John Alden Carpenter and the pianist Fannie Bloomfield-Zeisler. It was said that Middelschulte was Ziehn's favorite student, and certainly he was the student who most clearly exemplified Ziehn's theories in his own work.

Ziehn had promulgated a principle of symmetric inversion: that in chromatic music a figure or motive could be inverted exactly without regard to tonal considerations. Ziehn writes in Canonical Studies: A New Technique in Composition: "Experience gained by careful practice is the only means of finding out whether or not a setting is suitable for symmetric inversion. No rules can be given, but with certainty we can say: the more chromatic a setting is the more appropriate it becomes for symmetric inversion, because chromatic progression is the smoothest."10 From this quote it is clear that by using symmetric intervals tonality is obscured; thus Ziehn adumbrates an idea that is also found in Schoenberg's 12-tone serialism. This technique is illustrated in Example 1.

Another influence on the music of Middelschulte was that of Ludwig Thiele (1816-48). Thiele had been a classmate of Mendelssohn's, and, like Haupt (Middelschulte's teacher), had studied with A.W. Bach. Thiele wrote a number of large-scale organ works that evidence the same kinds of canonic techniques, double pedal usage, and chromaticism that are characteristic of Middelschulte's works. It is evident that the Haupt, Thiele, and Rheinberger (just to name a few) were deeply influenced by J. S. Bach and thus prepared the way for Reger and Middelschulte.11 In turn, they were indebted to Mendelsohn's and Schumann's revitalization of Bach performance and scholarship.

Busoni and Middelschulte

Ferruccio Busoni and Middelschulte enjoyed a personal relationship. In 1910, while on tour, Busoni gave some concerts in Chicago. At that time it seems Ziehn suggested to Busoni that he complete Bach's Art of Fugue . Instead of doing so, Busoni took the themes of the incomplete Contrapunctus found at the end of the Art of Fugue  as the basis for what would ultimately become the Fantasia contrappuntistica. As Busoni himself writes referring to the decision to add a new theme to the Contrapunctus:

The fourth subject, on the other hand, had to be a completely new creation; there was no clew as to its character. There was the inevitable stipulation that this fourth subject had to sound simultaneously with the three earlier ones and must also suit them. As the principal theme of the Art of Fugue  (of which the "Fragment" forms the close) was not one of the three subjects already worked out it was easy to guess that this principal theme should step in (as fourth) and thus close the circle of the whole work. Bernhard Ziehn, in Chicago, gave an affirmative and conclusive answer to my question on this point, and I was able to begin this part of my work on sure ground.12

But John J. Becker, who, as previously noted, had studied with Middelschulte, writes:

It was Middelschulte who helped Busoni on the way, by suggesting that he study the theoretical combinations as worked out along the same line by Bernhard Ziehn of Chicago. (Middelschulte is proud to call himself a disciple of Ziehn). Busoni did so, and was convinced by those studies that Bach intended using the theme of the very first Fugue of "Die Kunst der Fuge." He worked along this line and successfully found the solution, thereby solving one of the most difficult aesthetic problems confronting the musical world.13

This implies that it was Middelschulte more than Ziehn who influenced the conception of the Fantasia contrappuntistica. Indeed, Busoni knew about Ziehn through Middelschulte and this opens up the question whether Busoni and Ziehn ever met personally.

As Marc-André Roberge points out, the first version entitled Grosse Fuge was sketched and written between January and March 1910 and was a continuation of the Contrapunctus XV from the Art of Fugue .14 In June 1910 Busoni reworked the Grosse Fuge into the Fantasia contrappuntistica by adding the "Preludio corale" based on the third of the Sechs Elegien for piano (1907). This Elegie is entitled "Meine Seele bangt und hofft zu dir" (My soul is afraid and hopes in you). It is, however, actually based on the chorale Allein Gott in der Höh sei Ehr'.15 In July 1921, Busoni rewrote the Fantasia for two pianos and somewhat modified its complex structure. It is this two-piano version of the Fantasia contrappuntistica that is the best known. Busoni, however, wrote: "The Fantasia contrappuntistica is thought of neither for pianoforte nor organ, nor orchestra. It is music. The sound-medium which imparts this music to the listener is of secondary importance."16

The relationship between Middelschulte and the Fantasia is striking. In 1911 Middelschulte made an arrangement of the Fantasia for solo organ and, it now seems clear, according to Roberge, that he helped or even composed the organ part for Frederick Stock's arrangement of the Fantasia contrappuntistica for organ and orchestra that was made in the same year. Roberge writes:

Busoni dedicated the edizione definitiva of the Fantasia contrappuntistica "An Wilhelm Middelschulte, Meister des Kontrapunkts." He must have had for Middelschulte a profound admiration, since he chose him to be the dedicatee of one of his most ambitious works. It is obvious that both men discussed some compositional aspects of the work, because sketches for the Grosse Fuge contain contrapuntal studies based on the Art of Fugue  by both Middelschulte and Ziehn. There are also two four-part canons bearing the dedication "Herrn Ferruccio Busoni zur frdl. [freundlichen] Errinerung von W. Middelschulte, Chicago. 16. Januar 1910."17

Chicago Gothic Tradition

It is thus obvious that Middelschulte participated in the conception of the Fantasia and was considered by Busoni to be "a master of counterpoint." Both Ziehn and Middelschulte were, furthermore, the principal members of what Busoni termed the "Chicago Gothic" school. As we shall directly see, Middelschulte ultimately responded to Busoni's Fantasia with a work related in a general way to Busoni's Fantasia contrappuntistica: the Kontrapunktische Symphonie (1932).

Middelschulte wrote exclusively for the organ, and his style is fairly consistent from his earliest works through those of his later years. The general aura of these works is indeed "Gothic," which is to say that a dark chromatic, contrapuntal style prevails. Textures are thick, and the ear is constantly surprised by the harmonic progressions caused by the chromatic and frequently dissonant counterpoint. Many sections are saturated chromatically, which is to say that all twelve chromatic pitches follow in rapid succession in all the voices of the texture. Because of this, many sections employ a kind of atonality; thus conservative and radical elements are blended in his works. Middelschulte's compositions are difficult to listen to because of their subtle references, complex textures, and extensive designs. The structures and rhythmic language are clearly derived from Bach; thus Middelschulte, like Reger, Busoni, and, later, Hindemith, employs a neoclassicism based on German models.

The Kontrapunktische Symphonie

The Kontrapunktische Symphonie über Themen von Joh. Seb. Bach is a culminating work. It is, however, a reworking of his earlier Kanonische Fantasia über B.A.C.H. und Fuge über Themen von J.S. Bach (1906). The Fantasy is based on 43 variations in canon over the BACH theme in the bass. The fugues that follow are based on some of the same themes that Middelschulte would subsequently use in the Kontrapunktische Symphonie: the theme from the Musical Offering , the theme from the "Confiteor" of the Mass in B Minor, the BACH theme from the Art of Fugue , and the theme from the Toccata and Fugue in D minor . Both these compositions are dedicated to August Knabe, Middelschulte's teacher from the Teachers College in Soest, Germany.18 In addition to the use of the same themes, specific sections, such as the fugue based on the theme from the Musical Offering , of the Kontrapunktische Symphonie and the conclusion are derived from the earlier work. Accordingly, the Kontrapunktische Symphonie develops the line of thought present in the Kanonische Fantasie; but, as we shall see, it uses more themes and develops more combinations as a result. The following points reflect an overview of the connections between these two compositions: 1) The concept is the same for both works. 2) The same themes by Bach are chosen though, as we shall see, the Kontrapunktische Symphonie employs 14 themes derived from Bach, while the Kanonische Fantasie employs only four. 3) Specific sections of the later work are derived from the earlier (but often with changes of counterpoint). 4) Both clearly result from Middelschulte's study of Bach.

One can ask why Middelschulte wrote two compositions closely related to each other several decades apart. Perhaps Middelschulte wanted to work out further possibilities in the Kontrapunktische Symphonie not present in the Kanonische Fantasie; thus the Kontrapunktische Symphonie uses more themes and the combinations are more complex. Although the general conception of the two works is the same, the Kontrapunktische Symphonie has an even denser harmonic language and more intricate structure.

Although written later in Middelschulte's career, the Kontrapunkstiche Symphonie also reflects Middelschulte's early association with Ziehn and Busoni. It combines Ziehn's approach to organizing chromaticism through symmetric inversion with Busoni's concept of a series of fugues based on Bach but expanding on the given themes. But it must also be noted that the Kanonische Fantasie, the composition that is reworked and developed for the Kontrapunktische Symphonie, was composed before Busoni's Fantasia contrappuntistica and may well have impacted Busoni's conception of this stunning work. Thus it seems that a work by Middelschulte perhaps influenced Busoni, whose Fantasia contrappuntistica in turn is mirrored in the Kontrapunktische Symphonie.

The Kontrapunktische Symphonie was premiered in 1932, as the following notice from The Diapason dated 1 June 1932 makes clear:

A new work for the organ which is expected to attract much more than ordinary attention is a Symphony in D minor on themes and motives by Johann Sebastian Bach, which has been composed by Wilhelm Middelschulte, Ll. D., and is to receive its initial performance at the summer series of recitals to be played by Dr. Middelschulte at Notre Dame University, South Bend, Ind., and in a recital at Rockefeller Chapel, University of Chicago, June 5.

This implies that the composition was completed by 1932, although it was not published until 1935. This is also evident from a letter Middelschulte wrote to  John J. Becker, his student, on 28 July 1932 in which he says: ". . . I enclose a program of music which shows you that I have not been idle--wrote a Symphonie on 12 [sic] Bach themes for the organ . . . played it here in Chicago and Detroit--everywhere with great success . . ." Again he writes in another letter of 9 January 1933: "Enclosed is a program of music of my Contrapuntal Symphony--built on 14 Bach themes--wish I had fifteen fingers . . . had great success with it in Detroit and still polishing it--also at work on my 2nd Symphony . . . "19 I believe that Middelschulte forgot for the moment how many Bach themes he actually used, but it is evident from the second quotation that he was still working on the final details in 1933.

The Kontrapunktische Symphonie consists of a prelude and five fugues on 14 themes from various compositions by Bach. In the preface, Middelschulte lists these themes as well as their sources:

1. The Musical Offering , BGA, VI, p. 222.

2. Confiteor and Remissionem from the Mass in B Minor, BGA, VI, p. 264.

3. Fugue in D Minor, BGA, XV, p. 269.

4. Fugue in B Minor, BGA, XV, p. 206.

5. Prelude and Fugue in C Minor, BGA, XV, p. 218.

6. Art of Fugue , BGA, XXV, 1 and XLVII.

7. Fugue in C Minor, BGA, XV, p. 132.

8. Prelude in A Minor, BGA, XV, p. 198.

9. Fugue in E Minor, BGA, XV, p. 242.

10. BACH theme from the Art of Fugue , BGA, XXV, 1 and XLVII.

11. Chorale prelude Sleepers Awake, BGA, XXV, 2, p. 63.

12. Canon at the Fifth from the Goldberg Variations , BGA, III, p. 282.

13. Fugue in C Major, WTC I, BGA, XIV, p. 4.

14. Fugue in E-flat Minor, WTC I, BGA, XIV, p. 34.

Of these themes, the most important and the one that prevails throughout is that from the Musical Offering . It will be remembered that this theme is actually by Frederick the Great and was used by Bach as the basis for the various musical transformations of the Musical Offering . The theme from the Art of Fugue is given less importance. Some themes are highlighted and become the themes for the fugues, a practice similar to that found in Ziehn's Canonical Studies, while other themes from this group of fourteen play a subsidiary role. Only two vocal works are cited, the Mass in B Minor and the chorale Wachet auf from the Cantata No. 140. Themes are combined and their keys are changed to fit Middelschulte's tonal plan. In addition, the BACH theme and the references to Bach's three great cyclic works (the Goldberg Variations , The Musical Offering , and the Art of Fugue ) are symbolic and link the Kontrapunktische Symphonie to Middelschulte's veneration of Bachian contrapuntal mastery.

Bach's cyclic works, the Art of Fugue  and The Musical Offering , served as paradigms for the Kontrapunktische Symphonie, although Middelschulte's composition is on a smaller scale than the Bach works and, for that matter, the Busoni Fantasia as well. In addition, the contrapuntal quodlibet concept or the combination of themes from disparate sources found in such Renaissance works as Heinrich Isaac's Missa Carminum or Jacob Obrecht's Missa diversorum tenorum is used. Middelschulte also at times presents the same theme at different rates of speed, as does Johannes Ockeghem's Missa prolationum. I am not suggesting that Middelschulte knew these Masses, but the similarities in techniques are striking, and Middelschulte was perhaps aware of the Renaissance tradition of quodlibet and mensuration canon through his studies with Commer and Ziehn.

Middelschulte has furthermore employed his most extreme chromatic style as well as the idea of symmetric inversion derived from Bernhard Ziehn. (Example 2) As a result, Middelschulte's organ works are strikingly similar to those by Reger, who likewise combined chromaticism with the procedures of Bach. In a word, the Kontrapunktische Symphonie summarizes Middelschulte's outlook as a composer and relates to Busoni's Fantasia contrappuntistica. Both build on the "Gothic" idea of complex fugal procedures.20

For Busoni, Ziehn and Middelschulte were the two members of the Chicago Gothic tradition, a tradition that stretched back to the Flemish and German masters of the Renaissance and epitomized in the music of J.S. Bach. It is found again in the music of César Franck and is notable for its use of counterpoint that creates unusual harmonic progressions. Essentially, Busoni held that Ziehn and Middelschulte created dissonant counterpoint that went beyond the restrictions of tonality, thus employing a concept central to the music of Hindemith as well. Although Ziehn was a composer, his music is not on the level of Middelschulte's organ compositions; thus Middelschulte's works and especially the Kontrapunktische Symphonie manifest Busoni's tenets as does his own Fantasia contrappuntistica.

The Kontrapunktische Symphonie does not present the fourteen themes in the order in which they are listed in the preface to the score, but rather treats them in cumulative fashion; thus the introduction presents the B-A-C-H motive to furnish the symbolic context for the entire composition: a celebration of the contrapuntal genius of J.S. Bach.  Emphasis is placed on the B-A-C-H theme as well as the themes from The Musical Offering  and the Art of Fugue . Middelschulte relates these themes in such a way as to show their symbolic implications.

The work begins with an introduction marked recitativo based on the B-A-C-H theme. (Example 3) The dotted rhythms give the impression of a French overture. Toward the end of this section Ziehn's technique of symmetric inversion is evident. This section recurs at the end of the work, creating an arch form. The first fugue uses the theme from The Musical Offering  presented at different rates of speed simultaneously. (Example 4a) This section is derived from the Kanonische Fantasie, where the note values are presented at half the speed and the bass voice is an octave lower. (Example 4b) Fugue No. 2 presents No. 13 from the group of fourteen themes (refer to the list of Bach themes above) as a countermotive. Later, the theme from the Art of Fugue  is combined with the theme from the Toccata and Fugue in D minor . (Example 5)

Fugue No. 3 again emphasizes theme No. 3, derived from the celebrated Toccata and Fugue in D minor . The B-A-C-H and No. 9 themes are present as well, combined with the theme from the Toccata. This fugue ends with a cadenza-like passage based on No. 8 that leads into the next fugue. (Example 6) Various combinations of themes ap-pear in this fugue. Nos. 9 and 10 appear as do Nos. 4 and 3. In all, this fugue employs Nos. 3, 9, 10, 4, 6, 7, 2, and 8. Fugue No. 4 begins with references to the B-A-C-H theme (Example 7) as well as the motives from the Goldberg Variations  and Wachet auf. It should be noted that the motive from the Goldberg Variations  is always treated in combination with other ideas. Also striking in this section is the combination of the themes from the D-minor and E-flat-minor fugues. This fugue presents various combinations of themes not found previously: 11 and 13 and, at the end, 3 and 14. Nos. 10, 12, 11, 13, 1, 3, and 14 appear in this fugue. Because of the slow tempo, this fugue functions as an interlude.

The fifth and final fugue combines previous elements, but it leads to a Maestoso section that harmonizes the theme from The Musical Offering  and is derived from a similar episode in the Kanonische Fantasie (where the harmonization is slightly different). This fugue presents themes 10, 3, 1, and 6; and it ends with a grandiose conclusion with trills in the outer voices. The BACH theme and the theme from the Art of Fugue  are here combined and emphasized both musically and symbolically. (Example 8)

In general, the dominating themes are 1, 3, 6, and 10, while the others are subsidiary. Themes are transposed and combined, sometimes at different rates of speed. As is clear from this discussion, the themes are not presented in the order that they appear in the preface; but, later themes in the numeric order are usually found later in the work. The themes are well known and reflect Middelschulte's knowledge of Bach's keyboard literature. At times, themes are only suggested. This is true, for example, of the Fugue subject in C major from WTC I, which is briefly treated as a countermotive in Fugue No. 2. Likewise, the motive from one of the canons from the Goldberg Variations  always is secondary to some other theme.

The following outline lists the order of the themes in the Kontrapunktische Symphonie:

Introduction: No. 10

Fugue 1: No. 1

Fugue 2: Nos. 2, 1, 5

Fugue 3: Nos. 3, 9, 4, 6, 7, 2, 8

Fugue 4: Nos. 10, 11, 13, 12, 3, 14

Fugue 5: 10, 1, 3

The Kontrapunktische Symphonie, however, is more than a series of Bach quotations, for it has a powerful overall unity. This is achieved through the relationships between the fugues and the general tonal plan. Thus the introduction sets the tone for the work and leads into the first fugue. The first three fugues form a longer section and are marked by increasing rhythmic activity. Fugue No. 3 ends with a sustained toccata-like section that leads into Fugue No. 4. This fugue is in a tranquillo tempo and again strongly refers to the B-A-C-H motive; thus it serves as a slow interlude and a preparation for the fifth and final fugue. It is also notable for the largest number of thematic combinations. The fifth and final fugue, because of its return to a quick tempo and the central tonality of D, represents the climax of the work. As the work nears its conclusion, the tempo moves to Maestoso, as mentioned previously, with a harmonization of the theme from The Musical Offering  and references to the B-A-C-H theme, thus relating to the opening. This final section serves as the coda to the final fugue but also to the work as a whole.

The following shows the connections between the fugues:

Introduction--Fugues 1, 2, 3--Tranquillo Fugue with its BACH reference--Fugue 5 that returns to the tempo and figuration of the first three fugues--Maestoso conclusion.

This suggests that the fugues create longer sections and that there are cyclic references to the B-A-C-H motive which regularly punctuate the work. In one sense, it is possible to look at the work as having four sections: the introduction, the first three fugues, the slow interlude, and the concluding fugue with its peroration. Although the harmonic language is densely chromatic and the tonal references at the local level obscure, the use of D as an anchoring tonality at key spots of the work is structurally important. On the other hand, the most tonally ambiguous sections (built on the BACH motive) occur at the beginning and during the slow fugue. The final cadence of the work can be seen as a slow descent from E- flat to D.21

The term Symphonie, it seems to me, is used in two senses: as an indication of the scope of the work but also to imply that the organ is used in its full symphonic grandeur. As has been suggested throughout this article, there are clear connections between Busoni's Fantasia contrappuntistica and the Kontrapunktische Symphonie. As will be remembered, Middelschulte made an arrangement of the Fantasia and Busoni dedicated the final version of the work to him. In addition, the genesis of the Fantasia occurred during a period when Busoni was in close contact with Middelschulte. Both Busoni and Middelschulte were consummate virtuosi deeply involved with the music of Bach; thus the Fantasia contrappuntistica relates to the Kontrapunktische Symphonie. The parallels between the works can be summarized as follows:

Both reflect Bach's cyclic contrapuntal works: The Musical Offering  and the Art of Fugue .

Both were influenced by the theories of Bernhard Ziehn.

Both use a chromatic language influenced by Bach, Liszt, and Ziehn himself.

Both are based on the cyclic concept of fugues exemplified by the Art of Fugue .

Both use the D dorian mode as a focal tonality.

Both exemplify the aesthetics of the Chicago "Gothic" School.

Conclusion

The Kontrapunktische Symphonie was not Middelschulte's last composition. Middelschulte wrote a set of variations on "The Old 100th" that was completed in Italy before he left for Germany, but is now lost. In addition, he planned or composed a second symphony (probably in the style of the Kontrapunktische Symphonie). There is no indication as to when this work was started or how far it had progressed, though the letter of 1935 mentioned previously refers to it.22

The Kontrapunktische Symphonie is a manifestation of the relationships between and among Ziehn, Busoni, and Middelschulte, but it also reflects the Bach tradition beginning with Mendelssohn and continuing through Thiele and Haupt. It summarizes Middelschulte's lifelong interest in the music of Bach as well as approaches found in his earlier organ compositions. It also mirrors the Chicago-German connection as well as what Busoni termed "Young Classicism," or "the sifting and the turning to account all the gains of previous experiments and their inclusion in strong and beautiful form."23 Furthermore it epitomizes the Chicago "Gothic" tradition, a tradition of exploring recondite chromatic techniques and contrapuntal sophistication. This masterpiece demonstrates Middelschulte's control of the medium of organ composition, but it also suggests his own extraordinary abilities as a performer. It manifests those fascinating techniques evolved by Reger, Busoni, and Middelschulte around the turn of the 19th and 20th centuries that combine chromaticism with the contrapuntal rigor of the incomparable J.S. Bach.

Postscript

Middelschulte, although an important figure in his time, and, I believe, a seminal figure in the development of chromaticism at the beginning of the 20th century, has suffered a curious fate: he is little known in Germany and is largely forgotten in Chicago, where he made his home and taught for many years. A small number of Middelschulte devotees, however, are again bringing the music of this fascinating composer to public attention. A CD appeared in 1999 entitled Brink Bush performs Organ Works of Wilhelm Middelschulte (Volume 1). (This is available at  <www.ohscatalog.org&gt;.)

This CD contains the following works:

Perpetuum Mobile from the Konzert für Orgel über ein Thema von Joh. Seb. Bach (1903). This is based on Bach's "Wedge Fugue" (BWV 548) and is an early work that already shows the line of thought present in the Kontrapunktische Symphonie.

Passacaglia für die Orgel (1896). The BACH theme and the chorale Ein Feste Burg are used in this composition. This early work once more shows Middelschulte's consistency of approach.

Chromatische Fantasie und Fuge für Orgel (published 1922). It is based on original themes but is clearly related to Bach's celebrated Chromatic Fantasy and Fugue.

Drei Studien über den Choral Vater unser im Himmelreich (published 1913)

Kanonische Fantasie über B-A-C-H und Fuge über Themen von Joh. Seb. Bach (published 1906). This, as mentioned in the article, was the model for the Kontrapunktische Symphonie.

Middelschulte consistently used German titles for his compositions and wrote exclusively for organ (with the exception of orchestral accompaniments for the Konzert für Orgel, performed by Middelschulte under Stock with the Chicago Symphony Orchestra. These orchestral parts have been lost). He began composing rather late in life, but once he did he employed a complex style that continued to the last of the published works. His entire output can be considered a tribute to J.S. Bach.

At this time Brink Bush is preparing a second CD that will include the Kontrapunktische Symphonie, the full Konzert für Orgel, and the Kanon in F.    

A Performer's Investigation, Part 2

Gary Verkade

An anomaly here means something unusual, a musical passage
that does not conform to contemporary rules of counterpoint or otherwise
deviates from the norm. It also entails any incongruities or inconsistencies in
melody, harmony, counterpoint, or texture. The concept thus entails
interpretation and assumes some knowledge of historical musical practice. In a
piece with the rigorous formal construction of the one under consideration, we
might expect the voice leading, the treatment of harmony, the handling of
texture, etc. to be just as rigorous. Yet there are a number of ambiguities
that are noteworthy and curious.

The hexachord theme wanders from voice to voice. This is
unusual for the simple reason that the theme is treated as a cantus firmus;
cantus firmi, as a rule, do not wander. It is especially peculiar that the
wandering takes place in the middle of thematic statements. Only once does it
happen at the beginning of the theme (at unit 79) and that is remarkable for
another reason. The hexachord theme first begins as the soprano voice. It
wanders to the alto voice at unit 10 (see Example 14).

The theme only remains in the alto voice for the duration of
nine units before returning to the soprano (see Example 15). Only four units
later it wanders again to the alto (see Example 15). The switch in voices takes
place on paper at unit 22 where the upper two voices use the same pitch,
however it is not audible until unit 23.

The cantus firmus theme returns to the soprano beginning at
unit 31, where the ambiguity of which notes represent which of the two upper
voices is extended until unit 33 (see Example 16).

Another switch to the alto voice occurs during the space of
units 37-38 (see Example 17).

During the first four statements the hexachord theme wanders
between the soprano and the alto six times; one hears the theme moving through
the fabric of the composition. The return to the soprano, the last until the
final section of the piece, is effected at unit 43 (see Example 18).

The shift, at unit 79, of the hexachord theme from the
soprano voice to the bass voice, the leap from f1 to A-flat, is one of the more
dramatic shifts of the piece, moving very audibly from one outer voice to the
other. As we have noted above, the leap occurs as a result of the transposition
scheme. After that, the theme continues to wander somewhat. It moves to the
tenor at unit 133 (see Example 19). It also moves to the alto voice at unit
163, but that voice crossing is as good as inaudible and is accentuated by Bull
in another manner discussed below.

Anomalies II: texture/harmony

Example 20 shows how the hexachord theme, for the space of
two and one half whole notes, audibly becomes the highest voice without
actually leaving the alto voice on the page. Bull draws attention to this fact
by leaving the leading tone, b-natural0 of the cadence on C, hanging without
resolution; the soprano voice does not end, but is suddenly abandoned in
mid-cadence. This is an abruptio, the sudden cessation of a musical thought.
Right at that point, unit 13 of the piece, the effect of being left hanging at
the cadence is further emphasized by the open sonority of the fifth, C-G, an
anachronism, sounding for an instant in two-voiced texture due to the voice
leading of the bass and tenor voices. The effect is one of a hole in the music,
and it is one that allows, for a few moments, the theme to sound as if it were
the soprano voice.

Example 21 shows another curious passage. One can see that
the half-note e-flat1 in the alto at unit 100 is followed by a rest and that
the alto proper doesn't reenter until the second half of unit 102. There is,
however, right at unit 101, the entrance of an extra voice in the left hand,
f0, which sounds for the duration of a whole note only and then disappears. It
can only be the alto voice which suddenly plunges down into the tenor area,
crossing below the actual tenor at unit 101. The open space between the tenor
c1 (which, at unit 101, sounds like the alto voice) and soprano f2 disobeys the
rules of counterpoint which stipulate that there be no more than an octave
between upper neighboring voices. Not only does the space call attention to
itself, but the apparent extra voice, f0, does so as well. The
musical-rhetorical figure signified by the space, called longinqua distancia,
continues into unit 102 and is found between tenor and soprano (b-flat0 to
e-flat2) and then between alto and soprano (c1 to e-flat2).

Example 22 shows, at unit 144, the 12th entrance of the
hexachord theme, beginning on f-sharp0. The sonority is unusual, to say the
least, and eminently avoidable. First, the natural movement of the soprano
voice would be to a1 at unit 144, completing the cadential figure begun around
unit 141. The bass voice is expected to drop to A at unit 144 for the same
reason, but it does the unexpected also. The alto voice withdraws itself from
the affair with a rest, leaving the other voices to form the unusual harmony:
octave f-sharps over an e0 in the bass. I have no doubt that Bull knew that the
12th entrance of the theme, using the 12th pitch of the scale, was taking place
at the 144th (12 x 12) unit of the piece.

Example 23 illustrates a passage set audibly apart at unit
151 by the manipulation of texture. The four-voiced texture found at the first unit
of the example, the alto having first a half-note rest, is thinned out as the
soprano drops out at unit 150, while the bass drops out right at unit 151
leaving just a two-voiced texture. This is a unique moment for two reasons. The
two-voiced texture is the thinnest used by Bull in this work, and rarely used
at that. But that fact alone is not enough. What makes this striking is the
open sound of the fifth occurring right at the point where the texture is
thinnest. The listener cannot miss the anachronistic sonority; Bull literally
diverts our attention away from everything else directly to it as he also did
at unit 13 (see Example 20).

Example 24 shows another voice crossing, but one that does
not belong to the more audible events of the work.  However, beginning at unit 163, we have an occurrence which
acts as an accent and thus draws the ear to it. The alto voice here carries the
hexachord theme. One can observe how Bull accentuates this particular event.
First, the thematic note, e1, is only a half-note long; this is the only
passage in the work which has a thematic note which is not a whole note.
Second, the chord played at this point has an added voice in the right hand
making it five-voiced; at no other point, excepting the final chord of the work,
do more than four voices sound simultaneously. Third, the three inner voices
have the same length, a half note, and all are followed by a half-note rest;
i.e. the thickest texture is immediately followed by the thinnest texture used
by Bull in this piece. Fourth, the five-voiced texture is further emphasized
rhythmically by the quarter-note A found in both of the outer voices; the outer
voices are the most audible and the A found here presages the cadence on A
found across the next bar line. Fifth, the five-voiced texture is restored for
the brief period of a half note one unit later. It is an e1 in the right hand,
the only tone found both in the A (tonic) and E (dominant) triads which are
here forming a cadence--the d1 of the hexachord theme is the seventh of the
dominant-seventh chord--though E is conspicuously missing from the a-minor
sonority of unit 165.

Order

Hexachord

John Bull uses the hexachord as a cantus firmus. It is not a
theme that is developed as the theme of a fugue might be and does not itself
undergo transformation. It is a building block with which Bull constructs the
framework of his piece. It goes through a number of statements, but each
statement is clearly identifiable as a hexachord. The hexachord system reckons
with hexachords on G, C, and F although it is clearly a system based on
flexible pitch, i.e. it is the relation between each of the hexachord members
which remains inviolate; a particular ut may have any G, C, or F pitch. Bull,
however, seemingly drawing the consequences of a movable ut, places the
hexachord on all 12 chromatic tones, establishing a comprehensive system of
relative pitch. Mutation from one hexachord to the next, by way of a pivot
tone, a tone which has a function in two successive hexachords and facilitates
the transition of one hexachord to the next, does not occur here. Rather, each
hexachord stands on its own and demands its unique right to existence
independent of the previous hexachord. By setting up his piece in this manner,
Bull does away with the entire hexachord theory. The hexachord is used as a
tool to dismantle the theory based upon it.

Modulation

Having done away with mutation, Bull employs transposition.
Each of the first 12 entrances of the hexachord theme thus demands a harmonic
response, a modulation. Bull forces himself to write a music which touches on
12 keys. If we regard major and minor as modes, the entire gamut of keys in the
tonal system of the common practice period is utilized--all in one piece of
music. And his use of the whole-tone scale in transposing the hexachord theme
is truly astounding and sets this piece apart from anything else in the
keyboard literature of the time. So, too, did Debussy use the whole-tone scale
when, at the turn of the 20th century, traditional tonality was increasingly
becoming problematic as a system and composers were experimenting with new
systems of harmonic organization.

 

13

The hexachord theme, used as a cantus firmus in this
composition, i.e. unchanged, though transposed, is organized into a 13-unit phrase.
The transposition scheme of the piece requires 13 statements of the theme in
order to include all of the 12 tones and return to the starting point. The
correspondence of the length of the theme and the number of repetitions it
undergoes in the transposition scheme represents order on the highest level.
This produces a first section of 169 whole-note units (13 x 13).

 

17

After the transposition scheme has run its course, there are
four more statements of the hexachord theme in the soprano voice, bringing the
total number of thematic statements to 17. However, the total number of
whole-note units which comprise this second section of the work is not 52 (4 x
13). The 13th unit of the last thematic statement is omitted. That leaves us
with one unit fewer than anticipated. But 51 = 3 x 17.

 

11

The two main sections of the work, comprising all of the
statements of the hexachord theme, make up the body of the piece. It contains
220 whole-note units of music, instead of the 221 (17 x 13) units it would have
had, had the last statement of the hexachord theme contained its 13th unit. 220
(20 x 11 or 2 x 2 x 5 x 11 or 5 x 44) contains no factor of 13 or 17. However,
we know that at this period, as part of a very long history, gematria, the
theory of numbers and their meanings, was a branch of knowledge in which
artists not only dabbled, but used with impunity. One of the common uses of
numbers was the representation of names: A = 1, B = 2, C = 3, etc.
("I" and "J" were considered one letter, as were
"U" and "V"). Both "John" and "Bull"
are represented by the number 44 (4 x 11). By leaving out the final rest of the
final statement of the hexachord theme, Bull changes 52 to 51, thus relating
the second section of the work to the number 17, but also changing 221 to 220,
bringing the body of the piece into relationship with his own name through the
common factor of 11.

Almost as an aside I would also like to mention that the
number of anomalies, both of voice-leading and of texture-harmony, is 11. In
other words, the entire work is regularly constructed employing the accepted
rules of counterpoint/composition except those passages which Bull has given
his personal stamp by deviating from the norm. His personal stamp also extends
to the number of those stamps.

 

7

The peroration (or coda) comes last. It is extra, the icing
on the cake, the statement that ends the oration. It is fitting that it has its
own identity. The number seven has great significance in many cultures of the
world. It is traditionally related to the length of the week and thus also to
creation and the concept of completeness. It has even been maintained that the
number seven is responsible for bringing everything into existence, a thought
not necessarily misplaced in this context since Bull is calling a new system of
musical order into existence. The seven units of peroration bring the total
length of the composition to 227 whole-note units.

Primes

The structural numbers of the composition, 7, 11, 13, 17,
227, are all prime numbers. In addition, most of the anomalies take place at or
are centered on whole-note units which are prime (10, 13, 23, 31, 37, 43, 101,
133, 144, 151, 163). The only exceptions are units 10 (example 14) and 144
(example 22). Unit 144 has been related to the fact that the 12th statement of
the hexachord theme is taking place using the 12th member of the chromatic
scale. The passage at unit 10 is the first one in the series of those that
appear unusual. It is in fact the case that the numbers 10, 100 and 1000 have
an intimate relationship to the number 1. As beginnings of new orders of
numbers (the tens, the hundreds, the thousands) they have the same function as
the number 1 itself, the beginning of all numbers. Music theorists/philosophers
from all over Europe, from Italy to north-Germany, from Zarlino to Kircher to
Descartes, recognize in 1 not a number, but rather the concept of unity from
which all numbers, indeed all existence has its origin. Even as late as 1722,
Rameau makes the statement that the number 2 is the first number, not the
second. Observed from this point of view it is not inappropriate that the first
of the anomalies should occur at unit 10. Given the nature of music, both the
fact that it occurs in time and that it is context-bound--i.e. a context needs
to be established before events can be perceived--unit 10 is the first point at
which a unique event could occur "at the beginning" without simply
being perceived as the beginning of the music. Though the numbers 10 and 144
are not prime, I don't think that one can deny Bull's interest in prime numbers
(see Table 1.)

The whole-tone scale

One additional aspect of the piece remains to be mentioned,
one that is for me a particularly savory morsel. The whole-tone scale is made up
of just that: whole tones. How does the use of this scale tie in with the order
found in the rest of the composition? The whole tone is mathematically
represented by the proportion 9:8. We can now answer the question why there are
four concluding statements of the hexachordum durum, instead of three or five,
bringing the total number of statements of the hexachord theme to 17 (13 + 4).
The connection between the overall form of the work, which consists of 17
statements of the hexachord theme, and the transposition scheme is given by the
whole-tone scale itself: 9 + 8  =
17.

This composition is not to be disposed of as a mere
curiosity. It is a clear statement by a serious composer. Ut, re, mi, fa, sol,
la: a treatise on a system of music which it methodically, through the
organization of its discourse, declares obsolete and actively replaces,
utilizing admirable intellectual rigor, with a new order.
style='mso-tab-count:1'>          n

A Performer's Investigation, Part 2

Gary Verkade

Anomalies I: voice leading

An anomaly here means something unusual, a musical passage that does not conform to contemporary rules of counterpoint or otherwise deviates from the norm. It also entails any incongruities or inconsistencies in melody, harmony, counterpoint, or texture. The concept thus entails interpretation and assumes some knowledge of historical musical practice. In a piece with the rigorous formal construction of the one under consideration, we might expect the voice leading, the treatment of harmony, the handling of texture, etc. to be just as rigorous. Yet there are a number of ambiguities that are noteworthy and curious.

The hexachord theme wanders from voice to voice. This is unusual for the simple reason that the theme is treated as a cantus firmus; cantus firmi, as a rule, do not wander. It is especially peculiar that the wandering takes place in the middle of thematic statements. Only once does it happen at the beginning of the theme (at unit 79) and that is remarkable for another reason. The hexachord theme first begins as the soprano voice. It wanders to the alto voice at unit 10 (see Example 14).

The theme only remains in the alto voice for the duration of nine units before returning to the soprano (see Example 15). Only four units later it wanders again to the alto (see Example 15). The switch in voices takes place on paper at unit 22 where the upper two voices use the same pitch, however it is not audible until unit 23.

The cantus firmus theme returns to the soprano beginning at unit 31, where the ambiguity of which notes represent which of the two upper voices is extended until unit 33 (see Example 16).

Another switch to the alto voice occurs during the space of units 37-38 (see Example 17).

During the first four statements the hexachord theme wanders between the soprano and the alto six times; one hears the theme moving through the fabric of the composition. The return to the soprano, the last until the final section of the piece, is effected at unit 43 (see Example 18).

The shift, at unit 79, of the hexachord theme from the soprano voice to the bass voice, the leap from f1 to A-flat, is one of the more dramatic shifts of the piece, moving very audibly from one outer voice to the other. As we have noted above, the leap occurs as a result of the transposition scheme. After that, the theme continues to wander somewhat. It moves to the tenor at unit 133 (see Example 19). It also moves to the alto voice at unit 163, but that voice crossing is as good as inaudible and is accentuated by Bull in another manner discussed below.

Anomalies II: texture/harmony

Example 20 shows how the hexachord theme, for the space of two and one half whole notes, audibly becomes the highest voice without actually leaving the alto voice on the page. Bull draws attention to this fact by leaving the leading tone, b-natural0 of the cadence on C, hanging without resolution; the soprano voice does not end, but is suddenly abandoned in mid-cadence. This is an abruptio, the sudden cessation of a musical thought. Right at that point, unit 13 of the piece, the effect of being left hanging at the cadence is further emphasized by the open sonority of the fifth, C-G, an anachronism, sounding for an instant in two-voiced texture due to the voice leading of the bass and tenor voices. The effect is one of a hole in the music, and it is one that allows, for a few moments, the theme to sound as if it were the soprano voice.

Example 21 shows another curious passage. One can see that the half-note e-flat1 in the alto at unit 100 is followed by a rest and that the alto proper doesn't reenter until the second half of unit 102. There is, however, right at unit 101, the entrance of an extra voice in the left hand, f0, which sounds for the duration of a whole note only and then disappears. It can only be the alto voice which suddenly plunges down into the tenor area, crossing below the actual tenor at unit 101. The open space between the tenor c1 (which, at unit 101, sounds like the alto voice) and soprano f2 disobeys the rules of counterpoint which stipulate that there be no more than an octave between upper neighboring voices. Not only does the space call attention to itself, but the apparent extra voice, f0, does so as well. The musical-rhetorical figure signified by the space, called longinqua distancia, continues into unit 102 and is found between tenor and soprano (b-flat0 to e-flat2) and then between alto and soprano (c1 to e-flat2).

Example 22 shows, at unit 144, the 12th entrance of the hexachord theme, beginning on f-sharp0. The sonority is unusual, to say the least, and eminently avoidable. First, the natural movement of the soprano voice would be to a1 at unit 144, completing the cadential figure begun around unit 141. The bass voice is expected to drop to A at unit 144 for the same reason, but it does the unexpected also. The alto voice withdraws itself from the affair with a rest, leaving the other voices to form the unusual harmony: octave f-sharps over an e0 in the bass. I have no doubt that Bull knew that the 12th entrance of the theme, using the 12th pitch of the scale, was taking place at the 144th (12 x 12) unit of the piece.

Example 23 illustrates a passage set audibly apart at unit 151 by the manipulation of texture. The four-voiced texture found at the first unit of the example, the alto having first a half-note rest, is thinned out as the soprano drops out at unit 150, while the bass drops out right at unit 151 leaving just a two-voiced texture. This is a unique moment for two reasons. The two-voiced texture is the thinnest used by Bull in this work, and rarely used at that. But that fact alone is not enough. What makes this striking is the open sound of the fifth occurring right at the point where the texture is thinnest. The listener cannot miss the anachronistic sonority; Bull literally diverts our attention away from everything else directly to it as he also did at unit 13 (see Example 20).

Example 24 shows another voice crossing, but one that does not belong to the more audible events of the work.  However, beginning at unit 163, we have an occurrence which acts as an accent and thus draws the ear to it. The alto voice here carries the hexachord theme. One can observe how Bull accentuates this particular event. First, the thematic note, e1, is only a half-note long; this is the only passage in the work which has a thematic note which is not a whole note. Second, the chord played at this point has an added voice in the right hand making it five-voiced; at no other point, excepting the final chord of the work, do more than four voices sound simultaneously. Third, the three inner voices have the same length, a half note, and all are followed by a half-note rest; i.e. the thickest texture is immediately followed by the thinnest texture used by Bull in this piece. Fourth, the five-voiced texture is further emphasized rhythmically by the quarter-note A found in both of the outer voices; the outer voices are the most audible and the A found here presages the cadence on A found across the next bar line. Fifth, the five-voiced texture is restored for the brief period of a half note one unit later. It is an e1 in the right hand, the only tone found both in the A (tonic) and E (dominant) triads which are here forming a cadence--the d1 of the hexachord theme is the seventh of the dominant-seventh chord--though E is conspicuously missing from the a-minor sonority of unit 165.

Order

Hexachord

John Bull uses the hexachord as a cantus firmus. It is not a theme that is developed as the theme of a fugue might be and does not itself undergo transformation. It is a building block with which Bull constructs the framework of his piece. It goes through a number of statements, but each statement is clearly identifiable as a hexachord. The hexachord system reckons with hexachords on G, C, and F although it is clearly a system based on flexible pitch, i.e. it is the relation between each of the hexachord members which remains inviolate; a particular ut may have any G, C, or F pitch. Bull, however, seemingly drawing the consequences of a movable ut, places the hexachord on all 12 chromatic tones, establishing a comprehensive system of relative pitch. Mutation from one hexachord to the next, by way of a pivot tone, a tone which has a function in two successive hexachords and facilitates the transition of one hexachord to the next, does not occur here. Rather, each hexachord stands on its own and demands its unique right to existence independent of the previous hexachord. By setting up his piece in this manner, Bull does away with the entire hexachord theory. The hexachord is used as a tool to dismantle the theory based upon it.

Modulation

Having done away with mutation, Bull employs transposition. Each of the first 12 entrances of the hexachord theme thus demands a harmonic response, a modulation. Bull forces himself to write a music which touches on 12 keys. If we regard major and minor as modes, the entire gamut of keys in the tonal system of the common practice period is utilized--all in one piece of music. And his use of the whole-tone scale in transposing the hexachord theme is truly astounding and sets this piece apart from anything else in the keyboard literature of the time. So, too, did Debussy use the whole-tone scale when, at the turn of the 20th century, traditional tonality was increasingly becoming problematic as a system and composers were experimenting with new systems of harmonic organization.

13

The hexachord theme, used as a cantus firmus in this composition, i.e. unchanged, though transposed, is organized into a 13-unit phrase. The transposition scheme of the piece requires 13 statements of the theme in order to include all of the 12 tones and return to the starting point. The correspondence of the length of the theme and the number of repetitions it undergoes in the transposition scheme represents order on the highest level. This produces a first section of 169 whole-note units (13 x 13).

17

After the transposition scheme has run its course, there are four more statements of the hexachord theme in the soprano voice, bringing the total number of thematic statements to 17. However, the total number of whole-note units which comprise this second section of the work is not 52 (4 x 13). The 13th unit of the last thematic statement is omitted. That leaves us with one unit fewer than anticipated. But 51 = 3 x 17.

11

The two main sections of the work, comprising all of the statements of the hexachord theme, make up the body of the piece. It contains 220 whole-note units of music, instead of the 221 (17 x 13) units it would have had, had the last statement of the hexachord theme contained its 13th unit. 220 (20 x 11 or 2 x 2 x 5 x 11 or 5 x 44) contains no factor of 13 or 17. However, we know that at this period, as part of a very long history, gematria, the theory of numbers and their meanings, was a branch of knowledge in which artists not only dabbled, but used with impunity. One of the common uses of numbers was the representation of names: A = 1, B = 2, C = 3, etc. ("I" and "J" were considered one letter, as were "U" and "V"). Both "John" and "Bull" are represented by the number 44 (4 x 11). By leaving out the final rest of the final statement of the hexachord theme, Bull changes 52 to 51, thus relating the second section of the work to the number 17, but also changing 221 to 220, bringing the body of the piece into relationship with his own name through the common factor of 11.

Almost as an aside I would also like to mention that the number of anomalies, both of voice-leading and of texture-harmony, is 11. In other words, the entire work is regularly constructed employing the accepted rules of counterpoint/composition except those passages which Bull has given his personal stamp by deviating from the norm. His personal stamp also extends to the number of those stamps.

7

The peroration (or coda) comes last. It is extra, the icing on the cake, the statement that ends the oration. It is fitting that it has its own identity. The number seven has great significance in many cultures of the world. It is traditionally related to the length of the week and thus also to creation and the concept of completeness. It has even been maintained that the number seven is responsible for bringing everything into existence, a thought not necessarily misplaced in this context since Bull is calling a new system of musical order into existence. The seven units of peroration bring the total length of the composition to 227 whole-note units.

Primes

The structural numbers of the composition, 7, 11, 13, 17, 227, are all prime numbers. In addition, most of the anomalies take place at or are centered on whole-note units which are prime (10, 13, 23, 31, 37, 43, 101, 133, 144, 151, 163). The only exceptions are units 10 (example 14) and 144 (example 22). Unit 144 has been related to the fact that the 12th statement of the hexachord theme is taking place using the 12th member of the chromatic scale. The passage at unit 10 is the first one in the series of those that appear unusual. It is in fact the case that the numbers 10, 100 and 1000 have an intimate relationship to the number 1. As beginnings of new orders of numbers (the tens, the hundreds, the thousands) they have the same function as the number 1 itself, the beginning of all numbers. Music theorists/philosophers from all over Europe, from Italy to north-Germany, from Zarlino to Kircher to Descartes, recognize in 1 not a number, but rather the concept of unity from which all numbers, indeed all existence has its origin. Even as late as 1722, Rameau makes the statement that the number 2 is the first number, not the second. Observed from this point of view it is not inappropriate that the first of the anomalies should occur at unit 10. Given the nature of music, both the fact that it occurs in time and that it is context-bound--i.e. a context needs to be established before events can be perceived--unit 10 is the first point at which a unique event could occur "at the beginning" without simply being perceived as the beginning of the music. Though the numbers 10 and 144 are not prime, I don't think that one can deny Bull's interest in prime numbers (see Table 1.)

The whole-tone scale

One additional aspect of the piece remains to be mentioned, one that is for me a particularly savory morsel. The whole-tone scale is made up of just that: whole tones. How does the use of this scale tie in with the order found in the rest of the composition? The whole tone is mathematically represented by the proportion 9:8. We can now answer the question why there are four concluding statements of the hexachordum durum, instead of three or five, bringing the total number of statements of the hexachord theme to 17 (13 + 4). The connection between the overall form of the work, which consists of 17 statements of the hexachord theme, and the transposition scheme is given by the whole-tone scale itself: 9 + 8  = 17.

This composition is not to be disposed of as a mere curiosity. It is a clear statement by a serious composer. Ut, re, mi, fa, sol, la: a treatise on a system of music which it methodically, through the organization of its discourse, declares obsolete and actively replaces, utilizing admirable intellectual rigor, with a new order.          n

by Joseph Horning

Johannes Brahms, who died 100 years ago on April 3, 1897, composed the final installment of his musical legacy--the Eleven Chorale Preludes, Opus 122 --during the last year of his life. They were written during his summer holiday at Ischl, where Brahms had vacationed annually from 1889. But his final visit was clouded by Clara Schumann's recent death and his own illness, cancer of the liver, which had taken his father twenty-five years earlier and the symptoms of which he likely would have recognized.1

 

When considering Op. 122, it is valid to ask: "Are these works all that special?"--because no composer created an endless string of pearls. Indeed, Peter Williams revealed his reservations in a review in The Organ Quarterly:

[While] the stature of the man makes all his works interesting in some way or another, there is something depressing about this music.  I do not mean merely the death-centered theme of Op. 122 but the general tenor of the musical idioms found here, the kind of organ sound most suitable for them and the weird absence--considering who their composer was--of melodic flare or that dramatic sense of sonority and rhythmic impetus we know from the composer's symphonies.2

As these works are chorale preludes, Mr. Williams' mention of "melodic flare" is peculiar. And his comparison to the "sonority and rhythmic impetus" of Brahms' symphonies is irrelevant, as these are clearly miniatures, each wonderful and satisfying when played in an empathetic manner. But it is perhaps unfortunate that the complete organ works of Johannes Brahms--his four early works dating from 1856-7 and the "Eleven"--fit so conveniently on one CD, for they are becoming the most frequently recorded set of organ works, second only to Boëllmann's ubiquitous Suite Gothique. Unlike the latter, however, Brahms' "Eleven" are a collection rather then a suite, and their effectiveness is diminished when heard all at one sitting. I feel they have far more impact and are more enjoyable inserted one or two at a time into an eclectic program.

Clearly, what can be a small masterpiece in the hands of one can be tedious in the hands of another--and even more so for Op. 122.  For with these works, Brahms has hidden eleven treasures inside a maze. In this essay, we will examine the "Eleven" and discuss ways to make these treasures come alive.

Form of the Chorales

To begin, see Table 1 for a survey of the forms Johannes Brahms used in Op. 122.  In addition to simple harmonized treatments, Brahms embellished some chorales into aria form, extended some with interludes, or used each phrase as a motif for the accompanying parts (Pachelbel style), or surrendered to a free fantasy form in which the original melody is almost totally lost.3

One can see from Table 1 that half are on Passiontide or requiem themes.  But only number 10, based on the "passion" chorale, expresses the depths of the emotions implied by the text: "My heart is ever yearning for blessed death's release." Of those based on other themes, numbers 5 through 8 are warm, lovely and contemplative and number 4 is an outburst of joy. Even O Welt, ich muss dich lassen, the last of the "Eleven" and Brahms' final composition, is a gentle farewell to life. E. Power Biggs summed up these works very well in the Preface to his edition of Op. 122:

Composed in memory of his dearest and most faithful friend, Clara Schumann, at the same time the Preludes are a revealing document of Brahms' thoughts on his own life. One biographer, Niemann, points out that most of the Preludes are: "A retrospect and an epilogue, a salutation to youth and its ideals, and a farewell to this world which is, after all, so fair." Somber as many of the Preludes are, they yet have a warm, autumnal quality that is all Brahms' own.4

Baroque or Romantic?

Since the "Eleven" are cast in the traditional German form of chorale preludes, and since Brahms had applied himself diligently to the rediscovery of early music, in particular Bach with whose music he was quite conversant,5 there is the question of whether the interpretation should reflect performance practice of the late 19th century or early 18th century. The great body of Brahms' compositions show that he was a thoroughly Romantic composer of great power. His Classical inclinations, however, restrained him from some of the delicious excesses of, say, a Tchaikovsky. Brahms' "Eleven" require the performance practice of Brahms' age, not the Baroque. When Villa-Lobos' Bachianas Brasileiras, or Dupré's "Chorale in the Style of J. S. Bach" (Fifteen Antiphons), or Franck's Three Chorales are performed--all of which took their inspiration from Bach --the interpretive style should be that of the composer's age, not the 18th century.  So also with the "Eleven." Robert Schuneman makes a key point when he says:

One should not be deceived by the brevity of the chorale preludes, nor with an initial reaction to the printed page which makes them look like chamber music. Their religious nature, the sacredness, otherworldliness, the transcendental quality--all of this is expressed by Brahms (as in other Romantic music) with grandeur, monumentality, and weightiness in terms of organ sound in acoustic space.6

An initial look at the printed page has misled many an organist to think that the "Eleven" are as easy to play as they are short, but Brahms sophisticated writing often seems to jig where the hand wants to jog. Simply learning the notes is the organist's first task.  But it is remarkable how many organists confide that these works are often poorly played even if the notes are correct.  Indeed, Schuneman decried " . . . the stiff, unyielding, ungraceful and ragged performances which are so often heard . . . "7

A Romantic Framework

For idiomatic interpretations of Brahms' "Eleven," it helps to consider them within the context of the 19th century. Born in 1886 in Belgium, the renowned organ virtuoso Charles M. Courboin provides a link with that sensibility. His pupil, Richard Purvis, discusses Courboin's approach:

Courboin always returned to three elemental principles in the consideration of any piece. First, one had to consider the architecture of the work; second was texture; third was emotional content. The architecture was most important. "Where are the high points," he would ask, "and how are you going to do them justice? Where are the transitional points, at which you leave one mood and go to another?"

If the architecture defined the parameters of the piece, the texture was the actual landscape for which Courboin often used visual imagery as might describe an oil painting, an etching or a watercolor.  At other times he would discuss texture in more strictly musical terms: was it contrapuntal, harmonic, a combination of the two?  And what tools were you going to use to emphasize the texture rather than obscure it.  Once you had the architecture and had done justice to the texture, you could then afford to explore the fine points of the emotions you were trying to communicate.  Courboin constantly asked, "What emotions does the piece involve, conjure up, portray?"8

The Brahms Organ

Brahms did play the organ to some degree in the 1850s when he wrote the four early compositions. But as he was never a professional organist associated with a specific organ, there has been an active debate over the years concerning the ideal Brahms organ sound. For example, registrations recommended by Walter E. Buszin and Paul G. Bunjes reveal their ideal Brahms organ to be a Baroque affair on which one should draw no more than one 8' stop per division.9 The result is far from weight, grandeur and monumentality.

A key year in this discussion is 1833, the year of Brahms' birth and the year in which E. F. Walcker completed his first major achievement, a 3-manual, 74-voice trendsetter for the Paulskirche in Frankfurt.10 The Oberwerk had five 8' flues and the Schwellwerk had six. The structure of the 23-voice Hauptwerk was as follows: 32,16,16,16,8,8,8,8,51/3, 4,4,4,31/5,22/3,2,2,13/5,1,V,IV,V,16,8. Walcker built hundreds of organs based on similar principles throughout the 19th century, including a 3-manual, 61-voice instrument built in 1878 for the Votivkirch in Vienna,11 an organ which was certainly known to Brahms as he had settled permanently in Vienna in 1868.  The Oberwerk of the Votivkirch organ had four 8' flues and the Schwellwerk five. The structure of the 23-voice Hauptwerk is: 16,16,8,8,8,8,8,8,8,51/3, 31/5,4,4,4,22/3,2,2,VI,III,V,16,8,4.12 Franz Ebner, who recorded the "Eleven" on this organ, stated:

The instrument on which Brahms' art can most suitably be realized is not the Baroque organ but that type in which the endeavors of the 19th century to attain a full, warm, immediately arresting tone found fulfillment.13

However, a "Brahms organ" does not have to be huge or even large.  As Max Miller pointed out in his article, "The Brahms Chorale Preludes--Master Lesson," the small instruments in every organ culture aspire to the effects of large instruments and thus clearly indicate the idealized sound of the time.14 He offers this 1869 German stoplist in which 60% of the manual voices are of 8' pitch:

Hauptwerk: 16,8,8,8,4,III

Oberwerk: 8,8,8,4

Pedal: 16,16,8.

For a fuller discussion of organ design in 19th century Germany, see Robert Parkins' series of articles in The Diapason: "Rediscovering the German Romantic Organ" (January, February and March, 1989).

Registrations

Robert Schuneman devoted a full page of his Brahms article to excerpts from Hugo Riemann's Catechism of the Organ, which gives an insight into German organ playing from the period 1845 to 1895. This is most valuable reading for those who play Brahms. One of the key concepts is horizontal registrations.  That is, one first combines a succession of 8' stops--from the softest to the Diapason--to create a bed of unison sound to which one adds the Octave, the 16', the 22/3' Quinte, the reed, the 2' and the Mixture in that order. The manuals are coupled to achieve fuller effects, and "gap" registrations like 8'+2' are to be avoided unless the composer has specified it.15

In "Some Thoughts on the Sound of the Organ," John David Peterson offers valuable insights into the ideal Brahms "sound":

Brahms' orchestrations call for a rich blend of dark colors. His favored instruments were the horn, viola, violoncello and clarinet, and his piano works challenge the player to call forth half- and counter-melodies from the tenor register of thick textures. It is not surprising that his organ works share the same sense of musical color.16

The key word which sums up registrations for Op. 122 is "warmth." Thus it is surprising that Robert Schuneman would have said: "Strings, as we know them today [1972], and especially celestes, are not appropriate."17 German 19th century stoplists had many a Gemshorn, Salizional, Fugara and Viola da Gamba and the celesting stops Unda Maris and Voix Celeste were to be found.  If these sounds were part of the organ culture of Brahms' time, and if one of his favorite orchestral effects was massed cellos and violas, what better way can there be to realize Op. 122 than by including strings in the registrations? The quieter chorales--Nos. 5, 6, 8 and 11--are excellent candidates for a celeste. If one has a broad Violoncello Celeste, it might be just the thing for the pedal cantus in No. 10. And how better to let the final notes of No. 11 O Welt, ich muss dich lassen float up into heaven than with a quiet celeste?

Brahms' Markings

While Brahms didn't indicate registrations, he left dynamic indications which, coupled with the precepts in Riemann's Catechism, may well amount to the same thing (see Table 2).

The dynamic markings and performance indications would seem to be clear enough, with the possible exception of "dolce." In Dynamics in the Music of Johannes Brahms, Imogen Fellinger says that dolce implies a weakening of the given preceding dynamic strength, just as expressivo is an intensification of the predominant dynamic strength.18 This may well be so where the dynamic marking is forte. Thus "forte ma dolce" in numbers 1, 3, and 11 would translate "loud but sweetly" or "loud but not strident." However, it seems a bit of a stretch to say that "dolce" in numbers 5 and 8 actually implies a dynamic slightly softer than the indicated "piano." It probably calls for a "sweet" or "gentle" interpretation and has nothing to do with dynamics. In support of this, note that only numbers 2, 7, 9 and 10 are without the "dolce." What is different about them from the rest? Both 2 and 9 are sturdy and forthright (the latter remarkably so), number 7 is a combination of urgency and melancholy, and number 10 is characterized by great pathos.

Tempo

In preparing this article, I studied fourteen organ recordings of Op. 122 and two of the Busoni piano transcriptions of Nos. 4-5 and 8-11. The range of tempi is remarkable. The slowest interpretations of the complete "Eleven" take 42 minutes whereas the fastest last but 21 minutes--half as long, or twice as fast.  The median19 duration was 321/2 minutes. See Table 3.

It is easier and clearer to discuss the tempos of these works, which as Romantic works are subject to considerable rubato, using the duration of the piece rather than metronome indications. The player who wishes to play Brahms musically would be well advised to avoid the extremes of tempo. Speeding through these works with the fastest tempos renders them meaningless and trite, but performances with the slowest tempos lacked energy and were often boring and stultifying. I found it of passing personal interest that the tempos at which I play these pieces are, in most cases, pretty close to the median. These median durations would seem to be a good starting place for those attempting to discover the ideal tempos.

Rubato

In his essay, "Playing Around With Tempo," Robert Schuneman describes tempo rubato:

Most music is mechanical without it in some form. On the other hand, the same music may turn into a caricature of its own intent and content with too much of it poorly applied. It is the most difficult of all musical terms to describe in words, and it takes an extremely sensitive player to use it well.20

As rubato is so difficult to describe in words, I would recommend Arthur Rubenstein's renditions of the Chopin Nocturnes as a most exquisite example of rubato in 19th century music.21

One might divide music into two types: objective and subjective. With objective music, of which Brahms' early a-minor and g-minor Prelude and Fugue are two good examples, if you play all the notes in a reasonably steady tempo, you achieve 80% of the composer's intent.  With subjective music, of which the "Eleven" are an excellent example, if you simply play all the notes in a reasonably steady tempo you realize absolutely none of the musical content the composer put into the work. The worst performances (with the notes played correctly) one will ever hear of Op. 122 are those in which, to paraphrase the popular song, "the beat goes on."

Schuneman makes an excellent point which is quite relevant to Op.122:

With the emergence after 1830 of free forms, program music, salon music, and the seeking out of emotional content over form, declamatory expression (free tempo rubato) became much more indispensable to good performance.  Furthermore, as the 19th  century progressed, tempo rubato became increasingly tied to dynamics. Accelerando means crescendo and vice-versa; ritardando means diminuendo and vice-versa.22

The most important performance points here are that in Op. 122, the beat itself is modified, which is a considerably further modification of tempo than the 18th century notion of rubato, where the melody in the right hand was subject to rubato but the beat in the left hand was not.23

Chorale No. 5, Schmücke dich, provides a clear illustration of the above points. Consider Figure 1, which is a harmonization of the chorale, as it would be sung. The added crescendo and decrescendo markings--not to be overdone, of course--simply indicate what any good choir would do intuitively. This music, all music, for that matter, is meant to be performed expressively. So apply this dynamic pattern to Brahms' realization of the chorale in Figure 2 (expression marks added to the Henle edition). If played on the Swell 8' flues, subtle opening and closing of the swell box is no problem. Per the above discussion of rubato, a subtle accelerando would accompany the crescendo and a ritardando comes with the diminuendo. One might alternatively describe this as a slight increase and decrease in intensity. Then there is the syncopated rhythmic pattern in the left hand which Brahms notated as shown in Figure 3, the way George Bozarth would have preferred to notate it in the Henle edition.24 Then there are the delicious dissonances, Brahms beloved major seconds, which Samuel Swartz always said "Brahms put there to linger over." And finally, there are the notes here and there to which, in expressive playing, one gives agogic accents. Integrate all of this into a performance and one has a small masterpiece. Play it straight on through ignoring these factors, on the other hand, and one has a very trite rendition.

Another excellent example of the necessity for rubato is in Chorale No, 11, O Welt, ich muss dich lassen. The structure of the work has a forte section followed by a piano section followed by a pianissimo section--which is repeated six times. Whether Brahms is simply using a series of echos or is referring to the vigor of youth, the mellowness of middle age and the weakness of old age we cannot know. But all of the pianissimo sections need to end with a ritard and a pronounced pause before beginning the next forte section. It is truly amazing that many play this work as if a metronome were clicking inside their heads, rushing past the pianissimo to get at that forte just in the nick of time. See Figure 4 for the interpretation marks I would suggest, and heed Max Miller's advice:

The variables of building and organ will dictate how much time is to be allowed and how freely the echoes should be taken. The non-harmonic tones require spaciousness and breadth in performance.  Time, for Brahms, has with this last composition ceased its hurry and its very meaning.25

Yet another reason for rubato is to give meaning to one of Brahms' favorite rhetorical gestures, the sigh motiv.  Consider the first four bars of O Gott, du frommer Gott (Figure 5), where the sigh motives are indicated by a bracket.  They are descending in mm. 2-3 and inverted in mm. 4-5.  Played in a metronomical tempo, these gestures are as musical as the regular clicks and whirs of factory machinery.  Played with a slight relaxation of tempo, they define the essence of Op. 122.

Indicated Phrasing

In addition to the dynamic and tempo markings, Brahms indicates a wealth of phrasing. Consider the first four bars of No. 1 in Figure 6. Brahms clearly and deliberately sets out a phrasing pattern which leaves little doubt of his intentions. In No. 3, however, there may be some question about the two-note slurs (see Figure 7). Some organists misinterpret these slurs as phrasing marks, and play the two eighth note figures as an eighth and a sixteenth, with a sixteenth rest before the next group begins. This misguided approach gives a jerky, frenetic sound which is the antithesis of the feeling of the chorale, O Welt, ich muss dich lassen. What Brahms meant by these markings was to give a slight stress to the first note of the groupings of two eighth notes. If strings played this piece, there would be the slightest, almost infinitesimal, pause in the sound as the bows changed direction between the eighth-note groupings. And this is precisely how it should be played on the organ.

It is in the very pianistic No. 4 that the precision markings in the Urtext Henle edition clearly communicate Brahms' intentions--markings which are changed or omitted in some other editions. See Figure 8 for the first four bars of No. 4. The quarter notes in the alto voice form a melody in which some notes are held longer than the precise note values, as indicated by the secondary slurs. In bars 1 and 3 the notes marked A are held for two beats,26 in bar 2 the note marked B is held for five beats, and in bar three the note marked C is held for three beats. This is consistent with 19th  century piano practice.

Leslie Spelman, who has spent a good bit of his extraordinarily long career promoting the "Eleven" in both recital and masterclass, sees a parallel to the above technique in No. 10 (see Figure 9). The notes with the horizontal bars added above them form a melody, and Dr. Spelman suggests holding them beyond their indicated value. The notes with the added slurs are to be held even longer. All the while, observing Brahms' molto legato indication and keeping the pulse nicely articulated in the bass.27 This exquisite chorale is also very pianistic and, in fact, is marvelously realized on the piano with a cello playing the cantus. Organists have been ending this piece with an a minor chord for nearly a century, and the A Major ending in the new editions--correcting an error in reading Brahms' autograph by the original editor Mandyczewski--sounds very strange to ears accustomed to the minor ending. But Henle edition editor George Bozarth points out that all of the minor-key preludes in the "Eleven" do, in fact, end with a Picardy third.28 A pronounced ritard in the penultimate measure and a generous observance of Brahms' indicated Adagio in the final bar does "set up" the A Major chord.

Soloing Out Melodies

In several of the Chorales, Brahms allows a clearly discernible melody in the soprano to move moments later to an inner voice where it can be obscured by the accompaniment above it. For example, this happens in measures 5-6 and 14-16 of Es ist ein Ros' entsprungen and measures 28-31 and 38-41 of O Gott, du frommer Gott. There are two schools of thought on this challenge.  Vernon Gotwals feels it is wrong to solo out melodies because this:

. . . shows an unawareness of the abstract nature of Brahms' conception.  It is wrong to emphasize any voice in the manner of the piano in these organ pieces, as Brahms knew that the melody would be lost when it dipped into the tenor in No. 7 or climbed from tenor to alto in No. 8. His subtle conception is destroyed by those who cannot forebear going beyond his precise registrational directions simply because it is physically possible to do so.29

Of course, this implies that in Op. 122 Brahms' conception was a total departure from almost everything he had written before. In his previous compositions, the pianists, instrumentalists and vocalists were able to emphasize and bring out musical lines in a way most suitable for the performance. I find it very unlikely that Brahms would prohibit emphasis of these obscured melodic lines--in fact, he probably would find the very question incomprehensible.

There are two ways to treat these lines. One can choose "solo" stops of exactly the same character as the accompaniment so that the principal difference between solo and accompaniment is volume, or one can choose a contrasting tone color. The former approach is probably more characteristic, although I must confess that the temptation to solo the tenor portions of Es ist ein Ros' on a Clarinet is very strong. The Clarinet was one of Brahms' favorite instruments, and if one has a nice one it may serve quite well. One doesn't have to play these works exactly the same way each and every time. The tenor melody in Es ist ein Ros' can be played on the pedals as suggested in the Biggs' edition (see Figure 10). But an alternative solution, which Leslie Spelman learned from Joseph Bonnet, is to play both the bass and tenor on the pedals starting on the third beat of m. 5, leaving the left hand free to solo the melody (see Figure 11).30

O Gott, du frommer Gott is one of the longest and most graceful of the chorales. One can very easily play the cantus on the Pedal 4' Chorale Bass. Draw 8' stops (at least the 8' Diapason and flute) on both the Great and Swell and couple them. Thus in the forte sections played on the Great, the Swell box can give an arch to the line. And in the piano sections played on the Swell, the box allows expression and perfect balance whether the solo soars out above or is buried within the accompaniment. The timbre of the Chorale Bass would be quite similar to the Diapason and flute of the Swell, with just a boost to the volume (see Figure 12). For emphasis one can add the Swell 4' Octave in measures 22-26, 50-54 and during the final five bars, but there is no indication that the forte section with which the work concludes should be significantly louder than the forte section with which it begins.

Repeated Notes

In the slower of Brahms' chorales, repeated notes in the soprano and bass should always be articulated, but there are some decisions to make about the inner voices. No. 11 O Welt, ich muss dich lassen is an excellent case in point. Though instances occur throughout the piece, the final three bars with their implied molto ritardando are critical. One might very well separate all the repeated notes in a room with five seconds reverberation. But see Figure 13 for a suggestion of adding ties on the inner voices to have the feeling of repetition without choppiness. This is not to say that Brahms should "ooze." In mm. 24-25 of the same chorale are two instances where added phrasing marks in the left hand and pedal can help set up the ending (see Figure 14).

Conclusion

Brahms' Chorale Preludes are very special compositions. As Fenner Douglas once observed, it's too bad for organists that Brahms didn't have a church job for a while, so that we might have more works from this master. I would urge those interested to seek out the cited articles by Bozarth, Gotwals, Miller, Peterson and Schuneman for a broader scope and fuller understanding of the problems and possibilities these works present. Playing these works expressively on the piano is also very helpful, as is experimenting with legato and super legato touch on the organ. Those who unlock the secrets of Op. 122 will not just have gained eleven lovely pieces for their repertoire--they will have learned things of inestimable value which they can apply in countless other works. n

Appendix: Survey of Opus 122 Recordings

The Early Recordings

Of the four late '50s and early '60s recordings, the best are by Robert Noehren and Franz Eibner, but none of them leaves you wishing for a reissue on CD. Dr. Noehren's Brahms (Lyrichord LLST 7123) is well played with sufficient rubato and convincing transitions between sections. But both of the Noehren organs he recorded on were totally unenclosed 2-manual organs with Positiv rather than Swell. The lack of a swell box and absence of registrational variety limited this recording.

Franz Eibner (Teldec SLT 43018-B) had the best organ of the early LPs. The 3-manual, 61-voice Walcker in Vienna's Votivkirche dates from 1878 and was certainly heard by Brahms. The organ's sound--with its rich palette of flutes, strings and principals--is most appropriate to Brahms. Eibner's playing, though consistently a bit stiff, borders on satisfactory, with suitable rubato at times but some awkward transitions. Some chorales, like Schmücke dich, he trots through with no regard to musical subtleties.

The other two early recordings are very disappointing. Karl Richter's recording on the Steinmeyer in the Herkules-Saal in München (Deutsche Grammophon 138906 SLPM) features a most unattractive organ sound. His registrations overemphasize screechy upperwork and de-emphasize the fundamental, sometimes creating a "music box" effect. Richter's playing is completely insensitive to the music, charging right through Opus 122 from start to finish.

Kurt Rapf's recording on the organ of Vienna's Ursulinenklosters is even worse, with an organ sound lacking fundamental but featuring prominent chiff on the manuals and a loud, deep and murky pedal sound. The plenum on No. 11 has searing mixtures, snarly reeds, booming bass and no "middle." Rapf's playing displays the fastest tempos at which these pieces have ever been recorded. All of the notes are there, but none of the music.

The Best of the Modern Recordings

(Note: All the CDs except Arkay include the complete works of Brahms.)

One of the most satisfying recordings to date is by Carole Terry on the 4-manual Flentrop of St. Mark's Cathedral in Seattle (Musical Heritage Society MHS 512523M). Blessed with a rich palette of principals and flutes in a gorgeous acoustic, the organ has a fine sound although the pair of Gemshorns on the Swell are a far cry from real strings. This recording was made before the recent rebuild added a wonderful 32' Posaune to the Pedal and an 8' Trumpet to the Great, plus enabled the 32' Prestant to actually speak. Ms. Terry's playing is simply elegant. She has a real empathy with Brahms and uses rubato and phrasing to create a truly musical result. The two settings of Herzlich tut mich verlangen are the high point of the recording: No. 9 is quite virile on a big registration and No. 10 is the essence of sensitivity.

Another fine recording on LP, unfortunately out of print, is by Bernard Lagacé (Titanic TI-38).  He recorded Opus 122 on the 1977 2-manual 23-voice Wolff organ in New York's Eighth Church of Christ Scientist. The neoclassic design has its limitations for Brahms, but Lagacé uses it fully and well. His playing is inventive, lively and sensitive.  Hopefully this recording will be reissued on CD.

Nicholas Danby made an elegant recording on the organ of the Church of the Immaculate Conception in London (CRD 3404). This 3-manual 44-voice organ is of some historical interest, having been built by Anneesens in 1876, rebuilt by Bishop in 1914, and completely remodeled in 1926 by Henry Willis III to the designs of G. Donald Harrison and Guy Weitz (organist from 1917 to 1967). Its virile plenum (with tierce mixtures), typically English reeds, rich foundations and colorful flutes make for a varied listening experience. Unfortunately, Danby failed to use the two sets of strings, but his playing is imaginative, solid and sensitive. A high point is an attractively up-tempo rendition of Herzlich tut mich erfreuen with well handled transitions between the forte and piano sections, and a sensible (that is to say, slight) volume differential between the sections. All in all, a rewarding experience.

The Interesting Middle Ground

Georges Athanasiadès has made a charming recording on the huge 103-stop Jann organ of 1989 in the lush acoustics of the wildly Baroque Basilica of Waldsassen (Tudor 790). It missed the first tier only because of a severe lapse of taste on the chorale No. 1, where the cantus in the pedal is registered on flue stops plus a set of tubular bells--the effect is ghastly. But in the remaining ten chorales, Athanasiadès proves to be a resourceful player who provides the most tasteful registrational variety of all the recordings. In Herzliebster Jesu and O wie selig he goes to an extraordinary effort to solo out the melody--unnecessary, but interesting and not at all unpleasant. He makes tasteful use of the tremulant on the pedal cantus of the second Herzlich tut mich verlangen and on a splendid rendition of Es ist ein ros'. In the final chorale he exhibits a sensitive balance between the forte, piano and pp sections, with a very attractive string celeste based pp section. Clearly Mr. Athanasiadès has many good ideas and much to offer on this CD.

Jean-Pierre Leguay, one of the four titular organists of Notre Dame in Paris, has made an impressive recording on the monumental 4-manual 1890 Cavaillé-Coll at the Abbey of Saint Ouen in Rouen (Euro Muses 590073 AD 184).  This organ--lavishly equipped with diapasons, a great variety of flutes, several sets of strings and reeds galore--is actually not far from what one might consider an "ideal" Brahms organ. All the stops are colorful, and there is a great amount of variety in the 8' range. The massed unison stops, which are exhibited in Herzliebster Jesu, sing beautifully. For a climactic effect, nothing in the recorded literature of Opus 122 quite matches the final section of the first chorale, where Mr. Leguay adds the 32' Bombarde to an already grand plenum. Some of the chorales, Nos. 4-6 and 11 for example, are given a rather indifferent treatment, but O Gott, du frommer Gott sparkles in a high-energy high-volume treatment with reeds in both the forte and piano sections. A tasteful Es ist ein Ros' alternates a beautiful string celeste with a quiet flute. Opting for contrast and clarity, Mr. Leguay gives the pedal cantus in Herzlich tut mich verlangen to a Trompette. This recording is recommended for generally excellent playing and a quite stupendous sound.

Jacques van Oortmerssen chose the 1906 Setterquist organ of the Kristine Church in Falun, Sweden for his recording of the works of Brahms (BIS-CD-479). This 2-manual 30-stop instrument is based on the French Romantic organs of Cavaillé-Coll, but the sound is a far cry from St. Ouen. There are some lovely individual stops, but the plenum with pedal is murky and a 2' Octava sticks out rather than blending. Oortmerssen's usually elegant playing is uneven, with one chorale singing and soaring and the next plodding quirkily along. He does observe the implied crescendo in O wie selig and builds to a satisfying forte.

Herman Schäffer chose a 4-manual 92-stop 1911 Steinmeyer at the Christuskirche in Mannheim for his Brahms recording (Motette CD 10711). This instrument offers generally attractive sounds and great variety, but Schäffer's playing is uneven. Herzliebster Jesu has no energy and a painfully slow O Welt, ich muss dich lassen (No. 3) falls flat, but these are followed by an energetic and stylish Herzlich tut mich erfreuen.  Schäffer loves contrast, and solos the melody in Schmücke dich on an oboe, the pedal cantus in Herzlich tut mich verlangen (No. 10) on a trumpet, and the melody in O wie selig on a Nazard combination (with the bass played on a heavy and murky 16' pedal). In Es ist ein Ros', Herzlich tut mich verlangen (No. 9) and O Welt, ich muss dich lassen (No. 11) the contrast between the forte and piano sections is far too great. Within these works, however, there are registrations of great beauty, including some luscious string celestes. In sum, the playing and interpretations are uneven and the largely original historic organ is of interest.

Recordings Of Lesser Merit

One might think that recording Brahms on a 1965 4-manual 56-stop Marcussen organ would give a thin, chiffy and uncharacteristic sound (Nimbus NI 882 286-909). On the organ at the Odense Domkirche this is not so, although the upperwork (used only in the first chorale) is too intense. Kevin Bowyer's registrations prove that this instrument can give an appropriate sounds to Opus 122. His playing is another matter, though--tempos seem either to be too fast or too slow. For example, he makes a race out of Herz-lich tut mich erfreuen. But whether the tempo is fast or slow, he doesn't offer much more than the notes. In O Welt, ich muss dich lassen (No. 3) he misinterprets the slurs over the two eighth note groups for a very choppy result. His favorite chorale would seem to be Herzlich tut mich verlangen (No. 10), as he gives a very sensitive performance of it (at 4:38 the slowest of all the recorded performances) with a lush sound and a lovely articulate solo flute with tremulant for the cantus solo. Would that the other ten chorales had had this degree of attention.

Jonathan Dimmock recorded Opus 122 on a 2-manual 26-stop Frobenius at St. Stephen's Episcopal in Belvedere, California (Arkay AR 6113). A visceral involvement with the music seems to be missing, and there are some note problems. Dimmock followed a basically conservative approach to registration, passing on the opportunity for a true forte even for No. 9 Herzlich tut mich verlangen. Although he did make good use of the Gambe Celeste in two chorales, it was an unfortunate choice to solo the melody in O Gott du frommer Gott on the Swell Oboe, because this precluded a significant contrast between the forte and piano sections, a key element of the work.  Whereas O wie selig is satisfying with a nice Oboe combination, No. 11 O Welt, ich muss dich lassen receives a perfunctory performance without the crucial implied ritards between the pp and forte sections.

Robert Parkins recording on the large Flentrop in the Duke University Chapel would seem to have a lot going for it (Naxos 8.550824). A lush acoustic, large organ, talented performer. Large as the Flentrop is, however, is has no expressive divisions and no strings--one wonders how Opus 122 would have fared on the spectacular Aeolian at the front end of Duke Chapel. Parkins gets around this limitation well, however, and the massed 8' tones provide needed warmth. His tempos are the key problem--Nos. 1, 2, 3, 7 and 9 are or are among the slowest tempos on record. The energy of these pieces drains away and you are left wanting to shout "Get on with it!" Balance this criticism with artful performances of No. 4, 6, 10 and an especially sensitive rubato in No. 11. Interesting though flawed, but at a bargain price.

Rudolph Innig's performance of Opus 122 has little to recommend it (Dabringhaus and Grimm MD+GL 3137). The 3-manual Klais organ at St. Dionysius in Rheine is a lightweight neoclassical design with lots of mutations which Innig, unfortunately, uses.  His interpretations feature separated pickups, which are decidedly un-Brahmsian, and a general lack of sensitivity to the music.

 

Notes

                  1.              Heinz Becker, "Johannes Brahms," The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians, 1980, Vol. 3, p. 161.

                  2.              Peter Williams, Review in The Organ Quarterly.

                  3.              Anonymous essay on "Brahms' 11 Chorale Preludes" on Lyrichord LP (LL 123).

                  4.              E. Power Biggs, Preface, Brahms' Chorale Preludes, Mercury Music Corporation, 1949, p. 2.

                  5.              Becker, op. cit., pp. 173-174.

                  6.              Robert Schuneman, "Brahms and the Organ," Music/The AGO-RCCO Magazine, September, 1972, p. 34.

                  7.              Schuneman, op. cit., p. 34.

                  8.              Jonathan Ambrosino, "Lessons with Dr. Courboin--A Conversation with Richard Purvis," The Erzähler, Volume 4, Number 3, January, 1995, pp. 3-4.

                  9.              Brahms' Complete Organ Works, ed. by Walter E. Buszin and Paul G. Bunjes, Edition Peters.

                  10.           Peter Williams, The European Organ 1450-1850, published by The Organ Literature Foundation, 1967, pp. 94-95.

                  11.           Vernon Gotwals, "Brahms and the Organ," Music/The AGO-RCCO Magazine, April, 1970, p. 42.

                  12.           Günter Lade, Orgeln in Wien, Austria, 1990, p. 184.

                  13.           Franz Ebner, Program Notes to Teldec LP: SLT 43018-B.

                  14.           Max B. Miller, "The Brahms Chorale Preludes Master Lesson," TAO, April, 1979, pp. 43-46.

                  15.           Schuneman, op. cit., pp. 32-33.

                  16.           John David Peterson, "Some Thoughts on the Sound of the Organ," The Diapason, April, 1981, p. 16.

                  17.           Schuneman, op. cit., p. 34.

                  18.           Imogen Fellinger, Uber die Dynamik in der Musik von Johannes Brahms, (Berlin and Wunsiedel: Hesse 1961), p. 20. Translated by and cited in Schuneman, op. cit., p. 34.

                  19.           The "median" is the middle value in a distribution of data--half of the times are shorter and half are longer than the median.

                  20.           Robert A. Schuneman, "Playing Around With Tempo," The Diapason, May, 1970, p. 16.

                 21.           Arthur Rubenstein, The Chopin Nocturnes, RCA 5613-2-RC (two CD set).

                  22.           Schuneman, "Tempo," op. cit., p. 16.

                  23.           Peter Hurford, Making Music on the Organ, Oxford University Press, 1990, p. 67.

                  24.           George S. Bozarth, "Brahms Organ Works: A New Critical Edition," The American Organist, June, 1988, p. 56.

                  25.           Miller, op. cit., p. 46.

                  26.           Less a brief "lift" on the first quarter note in measure one, so it can sound again on beat three.

                  27.           Leslie Spelman, in a February, 1995, masterclass.

                  28.           Bozarth, op. cit., p. 57.

                  29.           Gotwals, op. cit., p. 48.

                  30.           Masterclass, February, 1995.

Permission to reproduce segments from Werke für Orgel granted by G. Henle Verlag.

 

Other articles of interest:

Franz Liszt and Johann Gottlob Töpfer: A Fruitful Relationship in Weimar

Théodore Dubois and César Franck at Sainte-Clotilde

Brahms Opus 122 in score