Harpsichord News

A posthumous gift from Gustav Leonardt

It is now six years since Gustav Leonhardt departed this mortal coil on January 16, 2012, but his idiomatic arrangements of J. S. Bach’s solo violin and cello suites, partitas, and sonatas have recently been published by Bärenreiter-Verlag. This new volume presents an unexpected New Year’s gift to those of us who had feared that the master harpsichordist’s transcriptions of some of the composer’s most beloved music might have been burned along with the bulk of his personal correspondence.

Issued in the familiar-looking blue Bach Edition as Suites, Partitas, Sonatas Transcribed for Harpsichord (BA 11820, ˇ39.95) the idiomatic arrangements have been prepared for publication by Leonhardt’s friend and student Sieba Henstra, who has contributed a comprehensive editorial commentary. Skip Sempé’s eloquent preface quotes Bach contemporaries Jacob Adlung and Johann Friedrich Agricola, both of whom wrote about Bach’s own keyboard performances of these works that were originally written for bowed string instruments. Sempé concludes by quoting Leonhardt’s own words from the Dutchman’s notes to a 1976 recording: “I think that Bach would have forgiven me for the fact that I have set myself to making arrangements of his works; whether or not he would have forgiven the way I have done it, remains, of course, a moot point.”

The following 135 pages of music comprise the violin sonatas in D minor, transposed from the original G minor, BWV 1001; in G major, from C major, BWV 1005; three Partitas, in E minor, from the original B minor, BWV 1002; G minor, from D, BWV 1004; and A major, from E, BWV 1006. The cello suites in E-flat, BWV 1010, C minor, BWV 1011, and D major, BWV 1012, are transcribed without a change of key; and two individual movements, an Allemande in A minor, from Bach’s Partita for Flute, BWV 1013, and “Sarabande in C Minor” from his Suite for Lute, BWV 997, are likewise both transcribed in their original keys.

It has been an unmitigated pleasure to play through these magnificent pieces and a special joy to have another musical connection to a great mentor and friend­—the opportunity to play Leonhardt’s harpsichord-friendly version of the extensive D-Minor Ciaccona for Solo Violin (which sounds magnificent in its higher G minor key) and to compare it with the thicker, more pianistic arrangement by John Challis (his 1941 manuscript found at the Library of Congress, still unpublished). I recommend this new volume to all harpsichordists who love Bach’s music, and I wish for each player the unique joy of experiencing yet another addition to our ever-expanding keyboard repertoire.

G. L. dubs me his “Doctor-Father”

An excerpt from a letter received from Professor Leonhardt, dated Amsterdam, June 3, 2003:

Dear Larry,

. . . Fond memories bring me back to Dallas’ SMU [Southern Methodist University]. Do you know that you started my series [of honorary degrees]? Followers were Amsterdam, Harvard, Metz and Padova . . .

With all best wishes,

Yours ever,

Utti L.

A lengthy backstory is involved, the culmination of many years of varied experiences with Leonhardt.  

I first visited Haarlem, the Netherlands, during the summer of 1958 when fellow Oberlin organ major Max Yount and I drove through much of northern Europe following our junior year at the Salzburg Mozarteum. We spent several days in the charming Dutch town, attending events sponsored by its annual Summer Academy. Four years later, after completing doctoral study at the Eastman School in Rochester, New York, I was hired for my first academic position at St. Paul’s College, Lawrenceville, Virginia, a small school where I taught for two years as a replacement music professor while the incumbent was pursuing his doctoral studies. Following that first year of teaching I returned to Europe during the summer break to attend the first of my two Haarlem summer academies. The year was 1964, and my purpose was to join the three-week class of intensive harpsichord studies with Professor Gustav Leonhardt.

Three years later I returned to Haarlem, full of ideas and solutions that had been developing since that first encounter with Leonhardt’s teaching. By this time I was fully convinced that his examples of number symbolism and its hidden truths in many Bach works were indeed correct as well as fascinating. We had a very full repertoire assignment for that summer of 1967, and many of the participants in Leonhardt’s classes were too reticent to volunteer as players. I was not afraid to play for him, so I was invited to do so quite frequently. And, since I was staying with a friend in Amsterdam this time around, it happened that I usually arrived at the train station about the same time as my professor. We would have coffee together as we made the short trip to Haarlem, and I came to know Leonhardt as a delightful travel companion, as well as an inspiring teacher.

After my 1970 move to teach in Dallas there were quite a few opportunities to hear Leonhardt during his various concert trips to the United States. As a member of SMU’s faculty senate for 12 years, eventually I was named chair of the Honorary Degrees Committee. Perusing a list of past recipients I noted that artists, musicians, and women seemed to be few and far between in the honors lists, so I proposed three names to the senate: Georgia O’Keeffe, Leonard Bernstein, and Gustav Leonhardt. My faculty colleagues were enthusiastic about all three of them. 

The university president, however, not so much. There was a rule that each honors recipient had to appear in person to receive the degree. Georgia O’Keeffe let it be known that she did not need the honor, but would be happy to accept it if it were bestowed in a balloon over Albuquerque. I suggested that a video could be made of such an event, one that would surely arouse far-reaching interest throughout the entire United States. The president nearly had apoplexy, and that idea was scuttled at once. Leonard Bernstein was already scheduled to be in Dallas to conduct a benefit concert in SMU’s McFarlin Auditorium on the next day following commencement. In this instance I suggested that his degree ceremony be postponed until that evening, when it would make sense to bestow Lennie’s honor during the concert’s intermission. Again, it was too radical an idea, and Bernstein’s honorary degree also was denied.

Leonhardt already had concert commitments on the date of the ceremonies for 1982, but he communicated to SMU’s administrators that he would be delighted to arrange his schedule to accept his first doctorate the following year. Thus it was that on May 21, 1983, I had the proud honor of reading Gustav Leonhardt’s doctoral citation, ending with the time-honored statement, “In recognition of his consummate artistry and service to the world of music, Southern Methodist University is proud to confer upon Gustav Leonhardt the degree Doctor of Music, honoris causa.” 

Shortly thereafter he suggested that, from henceforth, it need not be “Dr. Leonhardt” or “Dr. Palmer,” but, in friendship, the time had come for us to use first names, even the diminutive “Utti” that his close friends were invited to call him.

As part of Utti’s commencement weekend in Dallas he gave a solo recital (which included his transcription of the D-Minor Violin Partita), conducted a harpsichord masterclass for our students, and served as the much-appreciated speaker for the evening ceremony during which each School of the Arts student walked across the stage to receive the diploma signifying a degree that had been granted that morning at the all-university ceremony. Utti had found a 17th-century English poem about a hard-drinking British university student, a word picture that soon had his audience convulsed in paroxysms of laughter. We had many post-ceremony requests for that text, but we never procured a copy of it. I still wonder if, perhaps, Utti, who had a very droll sense of humor, might not have composed the poem himself?

At any rate, I found it amusing, as did he, that a student should become the “Doctor-Father” for his teacher, the whole concept of which has to do with the thesis advisor for the philosophy doctorate in German academia. It has occurred to me that, in writing this long-overdue memoir, my delight at the publication of Leonhardt’s lovely Bach transcriptions may be the final award for such a brilliant “thesis” and should require the time-honored repetition of the words, “Welcome to the company of scholars.” But of course, he had been in that company already for a very, very long time.

2017 Harpsichord News columns: a guide

January: According to Janus: columns published in 2016; the East Texas Pipe Organ Festival 2016: two vignettes; possible future topics.

February: The A-Team: Antoinette Vischer and her commissions of contemporary harpsichord music.

March: Lessons from (François) Couperin: hints for harpsichord pedagogy using his L’art de toucher le Claveçin.

April: Where next? More pedagogical repertory suggestions.

May: An Italian Christmas; Paul Wolfe; Glen Wilson’s Froberger CD.

June: Harpsichord maker Richard Kingston: a tribute for his 70th birthday.

July: Celebrating Scott Ross; a performance practice letter from Beverly Scheibert, Early Keyboard Journal #30; remembering Isolde Ahlgrimm.

August: Christmas in August: reviews of J. William Greene’s Christmas Ayres and Dances, Book 2, a new CD of Stephen Dodgson’s Inventions for Harpsichord, and Meredith Kirkpatrick’s book, Reflections of an American Harpsichordist, essays by her uncle, Ralph Kirkpatrick.

September: Recital programming: sample program notes by LP from a harpsichord recital at the East Texas Pipe Organ Festival, 2012.

October: From the Harpsichord Editor’s mailbox: four new keyboard scores by Carson Cooman; John Turner’s discovery of a lost cantata (with harpsichord) by British composer Alan Rawsthorne; and Mark Schweizer’s 14th Liturgical Mystery.

November: From A to Z: Aliénor retrospective in May 2018 and SMU’s Meadows Museum Zurbarân Exhibition celebrated musically at the 1762 Caetano Oldovini organ.

December: Remembering Zuzana Ru˚žicˇková by Robert Tifft.

Three-score and ten:

Celebrating Richard Kingston

Born June 6, 1947, Richard Kingston reaches his Biblical milestone of 70 years this month. Now he is widely celebrated as one of America’s most distinguished harpsichord makers, but when Richard and I both arrived in Dallas in 1970, the world was younger, and the harpsichord still quite exotic and unfamiliar to many musically inclined listeners. The circumstances of our meeting seem quite humorous in retrospect: Southern Methodist University’s music department secretary left a note in my campus mail box: “Some nut wants to talk to you about a harpsichord.” And yes, the “nut” turned out to be Richard. To celebrate Richard’s multi-faceted life and his many contributions to the visibility and viability of the historic harpsichord during our nearly 50 years of collaboration and friendship, I have solicited some comments from several of our mutual colleagues.

• Jan Worden Lackey was my first Master of Music in harpsichord performance student at Southern Methodist University. Of those bygone years, she writes:

There was much new in the music world in Dallas in the 1970s and much of it revolved around the harpsichord. A young professor had come to SMU to lead its new degree program. Soon after his arrival a young man who, at that time had completed only one instrument, opened a professional harpsichord-building shop. The faculty member was Larry Palmer; the builder, Richard Kingston. We three, together with some others, founded and served on the board of directors of the Dallas Harpsichord Society.

The city was ready for historic keyboards and early music. There was a lot of publicity for our events. The Dallas Morning News printed concert notices, reviews, and feature articles, as did other local publications, for there was considerable interest in these concerts, lectures, instruction possibilities, and instruments.

It soon became apparent that Richard Kingston was an excellent and talented builder of harpsichords who both knew the instrument’s history, and possessed the requisite technical skills and ears to produce beautiful-sounding instruments. As a frequent visitor to his shop I found him friendly, an interesting conversationalist, and one who was ever delighted to show his latest work.

A lasting memory is of an evening spent playing one of Richard’s early instruments: I had been asked to be the solo harpsichordist for the opening of an exhibition at the Dallas Museum of Fine Art. Richard moved and tuned one of his magnificent French double harpsichords for the occasion. Memorable was the enjoyment of being surrounded by beautiful art, music, and the instrument—all together producing something that, individually, would not have made such an impact.

After Richard closed his shop and moved away from Dallas I had no contact with him. A few years ago my husband and I were invited to dinner at the home of a Santa Fe colleague. Included at our table were Dr. Palmer and Richard, who was still the same delightful and interesting person, happily sharing conversation and stories.

After a decade of successful harpsichord building in Dallas, Richard followed some sage advice from George Lucktenberg, founder of the Southeastern Historical Keyboard Society, who suggested that North Carolina had much to offer a harpsichord maker: namely its tradition of fine furniture making. Thus it was that Kingston’s 100th instrument, begun in Dallas, was completed in Marshall, North Carolina. Continuing his investigations into what should comprise a composite “eclectic northern European double harpsichord,” Richard developed a prototype during his first two years in the Carolinas. Important new clients, new craftspeople, and the soundboard painter Pam Gladding became his colleagues. At the apex of his sales, he produced 19 instruments in 1987, 14 in 1989—the final “big years,” as he noted in his shop history notes.

A beloved friend and colleague encountered at many meetings of the Southeastern Historical Keyboard Society (SEHKS) was the late musical and graphic artist Jane Johnson, whose clever drawing celebrating the birth of Richard’s first son combines two of his major achievements of the 1980s: starting a family and continuing to produce instruments of technical brilliance and physical beauty. Jane’s witty announcement card is typical of her warm heart and steady hand.

During Richard’s first decade in the eastern United States I had very little contact with him. However, that changed considerably during the 1990s with our increasing number of collaborations during SMU’s summer harpsichord workshops at Fort Burgwin, the university’s idyllic property near Ranchos de Taos, New Mexico. Richard taught classes in maintenance and tuning and “well-tuned” his elegant instruments. The rustic annual gatherings were succeeded by meetings in Denver and Santa Fe during the first decade of the 21st century. 

• Another of my outstanding harpsichord students from the early years at SMU, Barbara Baird joined us as a workshop faculty member for many of the summer offerings. She writes of her Kingston memories: 

I first met Richard in 1974 when I moved to Fort Worth to teach harpsichord at Texas Christian University. Through the years he and I found ourselves working together in Taos and Denver at SMU summer harpsichord events. I have long admired Richard’s gifts as a builder, his easy-going manner with students and harpsichord enthusiasts, and his willingness to make harpsichords travel. He would load a half dozen instruments worth tens of thousands of dollars into the back of his van and drive across the Southwest to make these harpsichord programs possible. Fearless? Foolish? No: Delightful!

November 1991 found Kingston at Clayton State University (Morrow, Georgia), where their six-day Spivey International Harpsichord Festival included a harpsichord builders’ competition. Twelve American makers each brought an example of their craft. After careful examination, the five-person jury unanimously awarded the Spivey Prize to Richard Kingston. Indeed, the jury chair, the German master craftsman Martin Skowroneck, told his cohorts that Richard’s instrument was so similar to something he himself might have made that Kingston and he must be soul mates! Since I was present to play the opening solo recital and chair a symposium of the builders, I was especially proud of my younger colleague’s great honor, and nearly overcome with emotion, when, for his acceptance of the award, he requested my presence beside him on stage. We had both come a very long way in 21 years!

The Georgia reunion led directly to the acquisition of my own Kingston harpsichord in 1994. A stellar example of Richard’s Franco-Flemish doubles, its keyboards utilize an octave span of 6¼ inches rather than the usual 6½—a small, but vital difference when attempting to negotiate some of the wide stretches found in many of the contemporary pieces that I have championed throughout my career.

A very special example of Kingston’s craft is his “Millennium” Harpsichord, Opus 300, built to celebrate things both old and new for the new century! The instrument received an extensive dedication recital debut on November 3, 2002, in the Washington, D.C., home of Charles and Susan Mize. Basically the well-loved Franco-Flemish Kingston double, this harpsichord is visually striking in its black-matte finish, supported on three stainless-steel pylons. An optional computer screen is also available as an augmentation of the usual music desk, thus allowing digitally scanned scores to be read by scrolling through them by utilizing a foot pedal.

Honored to be the first of a cadre of harpsichordists to “open” the musical feast, I chose a program that began with John Bull’s Coranto Kingston and ended with a commissioned work from composer Glenn Spring, Suite 3-D. This work for two to play at one harpsichord celebrates the hometowns of the composer (Denver) and the players (Dallas for me and D.C. [at that time] for Dr. Mize, who joined me for this first performance).

In the audience was one of Richard’s major mentors, the celebrated Boston harpsichord maker William Dowd. Following consecutive programs by Virginia Pleasants and Brigitte Haudebourg, Dowd’s shop foreman Don Angle brought down the house with his extraordinary keyboard skills in signature pieces by Scott Joplin, John Phillip Sousa, and, of course, the remarkable Angle himself.

When the Mizes moved to New Mexico a few years later, Opus 300 travelled with them. By then it had acquired a stunning lid painting in colorful abstract style by artist June Zinn Hobby. According to the harpsichord’s owners, my compact disc Hommages (recorded in 2007) is the only commercially available recording of this uniquely beautiful instrument.

• A brilliant harpsichordist and recording artist, Elaine Funaro lives in Durham, North Carolina, where her husband Randall Love teaches piano at Duke University. She describes her friendship with Kingston as follows:

Upon graduating from Oberlin College in 1974 I did what many harpsichordists did at the time: I went to Boston. There I started working for the harpsichord historian and decorator Sheridan Germann. For the most part we painted the soundboards of instruments from the shop of William Dowd, at the time the most famous American builder. Sheridan would travel around the country and to Paris [where Dowd had opened a second shop] to decorate soundboards. I recall her returning from a trip to Texas full of praise for the work of a new, young builder, Richard Kingston. That was the first time I heard his name.

Throughout the next decade his instruments, robust and musical, appeared at conferences and concerts. I did not need another instrument since I already had a Dowd, but our paths crossed more often when my husband and I returned from studies in Holland to settle in North Carolina. In 2009 Richard visited me and said that he had the parts for one last instrument and that he would like that instrument to be mine. As I was quite involved in performing contemporary music [as the Director of the Aliénor Competitions] we both wanted to create an instrument that reflected a completely modern aesthetic. Thus Richard’s Opus 333 was conceived. Currently Richard drops by quite often to regulate both the Dowd and his own instruments. We are very fortunate to have him so close by.

From the many archival papers that Kingston has entrusted to me for safekeeping and historical research, I share the following heartfelt words from this month’s honoree himself:

I have had a fascinating life and rewarding career. Often, upon reflection, it seems all that was ever required of me was to get dressed and show up each day. Considering the folk that took time with me, mentored me, gave me direction, I could not be any way other than successful in undertaking a career in harpsichord making.

I was on fire for the subject from the beginning, and that has never ceased. I did not plan it as a lifelong endeavor; I simply went from one harpsichord to the next, each intended to be the best work I could do, each as exciting to me as the very first.

The thrill of getting to the moment when I could begin voicing each instrument, to be reassured by those first sounds, was the same for me from the first to the last!

The sun is happy when it shines, a pen is happy when it writes, and I am happy when I am working on a harpsichord. I would do it all again.

As the fortunate owner of Richard’s harpsichord, the magnificent “Big Blue,” I share his happiness every time I play this triple-transposing instrument with its incredible resonance, even in the uppermost range of a treble that extends to top G.

One of the most memorable of the 101 Limited Editions Dallas house concerts presented during 33 years was the third one in season 28. On Sunday, February 19, 2012, Richard Kingston joined pianist Linton Powell and me as the narrator for a live performance of Said the Piano to the Harpsichord, which he had encountered as a favorite 45-rpm music disc during early childhood. The skit tells a dramatic story, illustrated with musical examples, during which sarcastic rivalry between the two keyboard instruments ends in collaboration, as demonstrated by composer Douglas Moore’s brief but charming Variations on The Old Gray Mare: the very recording that first introduced young Richard to the sounds of the harpsichord, thus beginning his lifelong love affair with the instrument.

It has been a fantastic journey, dear Maestro. Welcome to the “Three-Score-and-Ten” Club! Now, shall we both aim for “Four-Score” status?

An Appreciation

Readers of a report on the third Southeastern Historical Keyboard Society conclave, published in The Diapason for February 1983, were treated to four clever caricatures of harpsichordists featured at the Florida event: Edward Parmentier, Ton Koopman, Robert Conant, and Glen Wilson. These drawings by Jane Johnson introduced her work to this journal, for which she became, de facto, a treasured “house” illustrator during the succeeding decades.

Throughout my entire career as a musician I have been drawn to friendships with graphic artists. These associations began a long time ago during my last two high school years when, playing oboe with the All Ohio Boys’ Band at the State Fair in Columbus, during rare times that were free from performing duties I hung around the Arts Barn and thus came to know the fair’s fine arts director, painter Charlotte [Astar] Daniels. So it was not unusual for me to take note of an interesting-looking, white-haired woman sketching away at various concerts during the Tallahassee conclave. I asked to see her work, requested copies of some drawings, submitted them with my article—and thus began a long-lasting continuing association with Jane Johnson and her immediately recognizable art. (Illustrations 1–4: Harpsichordists Parmentier, Koopman, Conant, Wilson.)

SEHKS Conclave Five was held at Sweet Briar College in Virginia. Julane Rodgers wrote our review of this event (published in September 1985) for which Jane provided two illustrations: highly lauded harpsichordist Lisa Crawford and her fellow soloists performing Bach’s Brandenburg Concerto V and organist Fenner Douglass accompanying soprano Penelope Jensen. (Illustrations 5–6: Brandenburg Ensemble, Douglass and Jensen.) 

Jane’s willingness to contribute several illustrations for my 1989 book Harpsichord in America: a 20th-Century Revival saved two elusive subjects from being un-imaged. Both Frances Pelton-Jones and Claude Jean Chiasson were to be seen in faded newspaper prints and sepia magazine photographs, but portraits of suitable clarity for reproduction could not be found. This first experience of asking Jane to create specific drawings led to a number of subsequent requests. The first one for The Diapason resulted in the evocative image that accompanied “Murder and the Harpsichord” (July 1991), which appeared again when “Murder, Part Two” was published in the August 1992 issue. The artist’s keen eye for period detail resulted not only in a historically accurate harpsichord, but also provided our readers with the image of a historically-correct pistol based on an engraving from Diderot’s 18th-century Encyclopedia. (Illustration 7: Murder and the Harpsichord. ) 

The eminent harpsichord maker William Dowd was honored with a 70th birthday tribute in The Diapason for February 1992. In addition to fourteen short essays by Bill’s friends, co-workers, and players of his instruments, this issue included the first publication of a harpsichord solo, William Dowd: His Bleu by composer Glenn Spring and Jane’s drawing William Dowd Posing as Earl “Fatha” Hines, itself a clever reference to one of the harpsichord builder’s several unexpected musical likes. Another of Jane’s Dowd caricatures graced the honoree’s written response to and clarification of the various celebratory offerings, issued exactly one year later in February 1993. (Illustrations 8–9: Dowd as “Fatha” Hines and William Dowd.)

The Diapason drawings continued with a beautifully bewigged Henry Purcell for “Purcell Postscripts” (April 1996); an irreverent J. S. Bach to accompany the master composer’s “Letter from J S B” (July 2000); and a memorial sketch of Igor Kipnis illustrating “Remembering Igor” (April 2002). (Illustrations 10–12: Purcell, Bach, Kipnis.)

Drawing the twentieth-century harpsichordist’s portrait evoked some memories from Jane: “ . . . I first met Igor Kipnis when he played a concert in Oak Ridge, Tennessee (we had a reception for him at our house after the concert). I arranged to have his instrument stored for a few days at the home of a friend (a fine violinist and violist) who had studied at the American Conservatory as I did.” (Jane, born in Illinois, went on to teach piano in that Chicago conservatory’s Robyn Children’s Department from 1941 to 1945, after which she and her engineer husband David moved south, remaining there in a productive retirement as he indulged his hobby of historical instrument building and restoration.)

“Fast Fingers” was Jane’s 1992 response to my request for a caricature of “ye harpsichord editor.” It soon became a logo for my personal note pads, as well as a frequent cover illustration for recital programs. (Illustration 13: Fast Fingers: Larry Palmer.)

All of the illustrations thus far were included in a tribute to Jane Johnson, the prior Diapason retrospective, offered on pages 18–19 in August 2002. The artist was very pleased with the recognition and display of her contributions; we continued to correspond and I continued to request the occasional illustration, projects always graciously accepted by Jane. For the April 2004 journal article on harpsichord music by Rudy Davenport, Jane halved one that had originally included harpsichordist Peter Marshall, both featured at a joint Texas meeting of SEHKS and its sister organization MHKS (the Midwestern Historical Keyboard Society). 

Mozart, depicted in profile at a harpsichord, was the subject in October 2006 as illustration for my article on an alternative ending for the composer’s incomplete Fantasia in D Minor, K. 397. (Illustrations 14: Rudy Davenport and 15: Mozart at the Harpsichord.) 

For the 25th anniversary conclave of SEHKS I was midway through my four-year term as president of the organization. Founder George Lucktenberg and all of the subsequent SEHKS presidents were alive, and I had the brilliant idea of commissioning Jane to create a composite sketch of all of us. Gracious, as always, she took on this daunting task, producing twelve signed and numbered copies, which we distributed in numerical order to founder (number one), past executives, and incumbent (number twelve). This group portrait was published most recently by The Diapason as part of our tribute to the now-deceased Dr. Lucktenberg, in the issue for February 2015.

Other “re-prints” of Jane’s oeuvre include the sketch of William Dowd (as himself), in the January 2009 appreciation of his life and work, and, yet again, her ever-welcome gun-toting harpsichordist reappeared in August 2014 to anchor the heading for “Joys of Rereading,” a listing of still more mysteries that mention one of our favorite revived instruments. 

If this current retrospective has fomented a desire to view even more of Johnson’s drawings, Harpsichord Playing: Then & Now, another of her 1992 works, is to be found on page 120 of Frances Bedford’s Harpsichord and Clavichord Music of the 20th Century. While holding this book in hand, be sure to check Jane Johnson’s own composer entry (for her solo keyboard work Appalachian Excursion).

Jane had an extensive knowledge of Iberian baroque instruments and the literature composed for them. She travelled multiple times to the Clavichord Symposia in Magnano (Italy) where she contributed both scholarly papers and recitals. I, too, was the grateful recipient of information about Portuguese organs, with her citations and suggestions generously forwarded to me as I prepared in 2000 for a concert trip to play and hear the Oldovini instruments in the Alentejo. I still refer to her handwritten notes about things I simply “had to visit and experience”—papers and citations that were additionally valued (and disseminated) during that segment of the biennial organ literature course offered for decades in the Meadows School of the Arts at Southern Methodist University.

Part of the allure of Tennessee for Mrs. Johnson was the opportunity to study with Judy Glass at Southern College in Collegedale. There, in 1991 Jane gave an all-Iberian concert on the very appropriate meantone organ built by John Brombaugh.

Multi-faceted woman that she was, Jane Louise (Somers) Johnson contributed to the early music community in a widely varied number of ways. She passed away peacefully on May 11, but both art and musical legacies endure. Predeceased by her husband David, she leaves four children, six grandchildren, and two great-grandchildren. A memorial service is scheduled for Friday, July 8, 2016 at 11 a.m. in St. Stephen’s Episcopal Church, Oak Ridge, Tennessee.

This revised and expanded version of a feature article published in The Diapason for August 2002 comprises information from Jane Johnson’s correspondence and deeply appreciated e-mail communications from her son Roger Ward Johnson.

Pedaling the French: 

A ‘Tour de France’ of Revival Harpsichordists 1888–1939

I. Near-death and slow rebirth

“Make what you want: this upstart piano will never replace the majestic claveçin!” Thus began my 1989 book Harpsichord in America: a Twentieth-Century Revival with these combative words from the composer Claude-Bénigne Balbastre (1727–1799). Looking back from our historical perspective, we all know how that prediction turned out! Even for Balbastre himself: his capitulation was a work for the new “upstart” keyboard instrument, a Marche des Marseillois, “arranged for the Forte Piano by Citizen Balbastre, and dedicated to the brave defenders of the French Republic in the year 1792, the first of the Republic.” At least Citizen [Citoyen] Claude-B B survived!

Following a very few antiquarian-inspired appearances throughout the piano-dominated 19th century, the harpsichord’s return to the musical scene as a featured instrument occurred during the Paris Exhibition of 1888 at the instigation of Louis Diémer (1843–1919), a piano professor at the Paris Conservatoire. Diémer was able to borrow a 1769 Pascal Taskin harpsichord to play in several concerts comprising concerted works by Rameau and solo pieces by various French claviçinistes. Of the latter the most popular composer was Louis-Claude Daquin, whose Le Coucou became one of the most-performed works during the early harpsichord revival period.

Diémer and his concerts must have inspired the salon composer Francis Thomé (1850–1909) to write a Rigodon for this most recent French harpsichordist, and thus provide history with the very first new piece for the old instrument. Inspired by Daquin, but also meant as a tribute to Diémer’s “legendary trilling ability,” Thomé’s pièce de claveçin was published by Lemoine in 1893. Around the middle of the 20th century this work was discovered and later recorded in 1976 by harpsichordist Igor Kipnis on a disc of favorite encores. After being captivated by its simple antiquarian charm, I too was able to acquire an original print of the work, thanks to my German friend and European “concert manager” Dr. Alfred Rosenberger, who found it at Noten Fuchs, Frankfurt’s amazing music store, where, apparently, the yellowed score had been on their shelves ever since its publication date. 

As a somewhat-related aside, the probable first harpsichord composition of the 20th century, or at least the earliest one to appear in print, is a Petite Lied by French organist/composer Henri Mulet (1878–1967). This aptly titled work of only 17 measures in 5/4 meter was issued in 1910. (See Harpsichord News, The Diapason, January 2011, p. 12, for a complete facsimile of the score.)

The solo harpsichord works of François Couperin, in a fine 19th-century edition by Johannes Brahms and Friedrich Chrysander, also found some popularity among pianists. From the musical riches to be found in Couperin’s 27 suites, came the lone musical example to be included in the 20th-century’s first harpsichord method book: Technique du Claveçin by Régina Patorni-Casadesus (1886–1961), a slim volume of only eight pages, most of them devoted to stop-changing pedal exercises (thus the genesis of my title—“Pedaling the French”). This one tiny bit of Couperin’s music is the oft-performed Soeur Monique from his 18th Ordre, a work admired and used by many church musicians—some of whom doubtless would be shocked to read in the authoritative reference work on Couperin’s titles, written by Historical Keyboard Society of North America honorary board member Jane Clark Dodgson, that “Sister Monica” may not be a religious “sister,” but refers instead to girls of ill repute, as in a “lady of the night,” according to the definition of the word Soeur by the 17th-century lexicographer Antoine Furetière (1619–1688), “our sisters, as in streetwalkers, or debauched girls.” (See Jane Clark and Derek Connon, ‘The Mirror of Human Life’: Reflections on François Couperin’s Pièces de Claveçin, London: Keyword Press, 2011, p. 170.)

II. Early recorded sounds

Beyond printed music and pedagogical writings, how did the classic French keyboard repertoire fare in the newly emerging medium of harpsichord recordings?

After giving a historical salute to the 16 rare 1908 Berlin wax cylinders that share surface noise with some barely audible Bach performed by Wanda Landowska, the earliest commercial recording of a harpsichord dates from about 1913 and was issued on the Favorite label. It preserves an anonymous performance of a work with at least tangential connections to France: the Passepied from J. S. Bach’s French Overture in B Minor (BWV 831). (See Martin Elste, Meilensteine der Bach-Interpretation, reviewed by Larry Palmer in The Diapason, June 2000.)

More easily accessible today are the earliest harpsichord recordings made in 1920 for the Gramophone Company in England by the Dolmetsch-influenced harpsichordist Violet Gordon Woodhouse (1871–1948). Her repertoire included Couperin’s L’Arlequine from the 23rd Ordre (as played on Great Virtuosi of the Harpsichord, volume 3, Pearl GEMM CD 9242) and Rameau’s Tambourin, from his Suite in E Major. Mrs. Woodhouse became something of a cult figure among British music critics (George Bernard Shaw), upper-class society (the Sitwells), and adventurous musicians (including the avant-garde composer Kaikhosru Shapurji Sorabji [1892–1988]), who wrote of Violet’s powerful musical presentations that her playing was “dignified, moving, and expressive, and of a broad, sedate beauty, completely free from any pedagogic didacticism or stiff-limbed collegiate pedantry.” (Quoted in Jessica Douglas-Home: Violet, The Life and Loves of Violet Gordon Woodhouse, London: The Harvill Press, 1966, p. 228.) This should put many of us in our rightful places, although Sorabji’s own excursions into keyboard literature lasting from four to nine hours in performance (example: a Busoni homage with the title Opus Clavicembalisticum) just might call his own authority into question.

Eight years younger than Woodhouse, the better-known Wanda Landowska (1879–1959) made her first commercial recordings for the Victor Company in 1923, just prior to her American concert debut with the Philadelphia Orchestra. These six sides included short pieces by the three 1685 boys (Handel, Bach, and Scarlatti) as well as the Rigaudon and Tambourin from Rameau’s Suite in E Minor, and what might be considered the first recording of a contemporary harpsichord work, Landowska’s own Bourée d’Auvergne #1. 

Lesser-known players got recorded, too: Marguerite Delcour recorded Couperin’s Le Tic-toc-choc [Ordre 18] in 1924. The following year, 1925, one of Landowska’s Berlin students, Anna Linde, recorded the ubiquitous Rameau Tambourin and the even more ubiquitous Coucou by Daquin. If you recognize Linde’s name it might well be for her edition of Couperin’s L’art de toucher le Claveçin—with its translations into English and German offered side by side with the original French, and the printed music made unique by her Germanically precise “corrections” to the composer’s picturesque (but occasionally unmathematical) beaming of some quick roulades in his preludes. Both of Linde’s recorded legacy pieces sound amateurish enough that I seriously doubt that Sorabji would have enjoyed hearing these performances.

As a matter of history, however, it is quite possible that Anna Linde’s 1925 disc was the first harpsichord performance to be recorded electrically (rather than acoustically), and the difference in sound quality became even clearer in the years immediately following. A 1928 Woodhouse performance of Bach’s Italian Concerto sounds surprisingly present even today, and the performance shows—perhaps best of all her recorded legacy—what her admirers so rightly admired. Indeed her artistry is such that I have thought, often, that had Mrs. Woodhouse needed to earn her living as Landowska did, she could have eclipsed the divine Wanda as a concert harpsichordist. However, as the wife of a titled Englishman she could not make a career onstage for money . . . and that was that! It would have been fascinating to have had two such determined women competing for the title of “the world’s most famous harpsichordist.” 

Realistically, however, Landowska’s tenacity, as well as her superb musical knowledge and sensitivity, should not be denigrated in any way. The 1928 recording of her own second Bourée d’Auvergne (Biddulph LHW 016) especially highlights the rhythmic dimension of her exciting artistry.

In the United States, where Landowska was a welcome visitor during the 1920s, there were several earlier players of the harpsichord; and, not too surprisingly, all of them attempted at least some pieces by French composers. Some of these participants in harpsichord history are nearly forgotten: one of more than passing importance was the Princeton professor Arthur Whiting: a well-received artist in nearby New York City and a campus legend at Princeton, he was known for his ability to attract huge crowds of undergraduates for his popular recitals on both piano and Dolmetsch-Chickering harpsichord. I have not located any recordings by Professor Whiting. The New York Times did mention his concert at Mendelssohn Hall (NYC) on December 11, 1907, which included a Gigue and Rigaudon by Rameau. The unnamed reviewer praised Whiting’s playing as “clear, beautifully phrased, and skillful in ‘registration’ if that term may be used to denote the employment of the different timbres that the instrument affords.”

Writing a letter to the editor of The Times on January 11, 1926, the prominent music educator Daniel Gregory Mason offered a response to a letter from Landowska in which she made the statement that she had “single-handedly [!] restored the harpsichord to its rightful position in the world of music.” In this correspondence Professor Mason called attention to some other “‘Harpsichord Pioneers’—among whom he named the Americans: Mr. Whiting, Miss Pelton-Jones, Miss Van Buren, and Lewis Richards.”

The two ladies differed greatly: Frances Pelton-Jones was one of those wealthy women who could afford to pursue her artistic ambitions (rather similar to the would-be soprano Florence Foster Jenkins). Her recitals in New York were of the club-lady variety; baffled critics most often mentioned the stage decoration and the beauty of Pelton-Jones’s gowns. Lotta Van Buren, however, was a thoroughly professional player and harpsichord technician whose work with Morris Steinart’s instrument collection at Yale was very beneficial, as was her association with Colonial Williamsburg and its program of historical recreations, including musical ones. 

As for Lewis Richards, Mason proceeds: “Mr. Richards, who has played the harpsichord throughout Europe as a member of the Ancient Instrument Society of Paris, was, I believe, the first to appear as a harpsichordist with orchestra (the Minneapolis Symphony) in this country, and contributed much to the interest of Mrs. F. S. Coolidge’s festival in Washington . . .” 

Richards did indeed precede Landowska as the first known harpsichord soloist with a major symphony orchestra in the U. S. He was one of the few American musicians to record commercially in the 1920s. His Brunswick 10-inch discs of The Brook by Ayrlton, Musette en Rondeau by Rameau, Handel’s Harmonious Blacksmith, and the Mozart Rondo alla Turca were played for me by Richards’ daughter, whom I was able to visit in her East Lansing, Michigan, home (on the day following an organ recital I had played there). The sound is somewhat compromised, for I was recording a scratchy 78-rpm disc that spun on an ancient turntable in a garage; but one gets the impression that Mr. Richards was a charismatic and musical player.  

These discs went on to make quite a lot of money in royalties, and Richards actually taught harpsichord at the Michigan State Institute of Music in East Lansing, which almost certainly certifies him as the first formally continuing collegiate teacher of harpsichord to be employed in the United States in the 20th century.

All of these players played early revival instruments. All have, therefore, used their pedal techniques to obtain a more kaleidoscopic range of colors than we may be used to. Of great interest (at least to me) is the recent emergence of curiosity about, and interest in these revival instruments and their playing techniques, frequently demonstrated by questions received from students. One of the finest concert figures of the “pedal” generations was the distinguished Yale professor Ralph Kirkpatrick (now more knowable than previously, courtesy of his niece Meredith Kirkpatrick’s recently published collection of the artist’s letters; see our review in the April 2015 issue). In his early Musicraft recordings, especially those from 1939, we are able to hear the young player show his stuff, just before his 1940 appointment to Yale, displaying superb musical mastery of his Dolmetsch-Chickering harpsichord. From Kirkpatrick’s program that included four individual Couperin pieces, culminating in Les Barricades Mistérieuses, and five movements from Rameau’s E-minor set, I ended this essay with the Rameau Tambourin (as played on The Musicraft Solo Recordings, Great Virtuosi of the Harpsichord, volume 2, Pearl GEMM CD9245). Kirkpatrick’s mesmerizing foot-controlled decrescendo gives a perfect example of his skill in “pedaling the French.”

(From a paper read in Montréal, May 23.)

HKSNA 2015 International Conference in Montréal

Hosted by McGill University’s Schulich School of Music, the fourth annual conclave of the Historical Keyboard Society of North America (May 21–24) offered lectures, mini-recitals, and evening concerts, far too many events for any single auditor to encompass. Two papers that followed mine, Elisabeth Gallat-Morin’s beautifully illustrated “The Presence of French Baroque Keyboard Instruments in New France” and Graham Sadler’s innovative “When Rameau Met Scarlatti? Reflections on a Probable Encounter in the 1720s” attested to the depth of innovative scholarship.

McGill’s instrument roster includes the superb Helmut Wolff organ in Redpath Hall and 15 harpsichords. One third of these came from the workshop of the Montréal builder Yves Beaupré; among the other ten instruments is a 1677 single-manual Italian instrument from the collection of Kenneth Gilbert. This unique historic treasure was available for viewing and playing for small groups of attendees.

The Vermont builder Robert Hicks was the only harpsichord maker who brought an instrument for display. Max Yount demonstrated this eloquent double harpsichord in a masterful recital presentation of Marchand’s Suite in D Minor. Clavichord took center stage for Judith Conrad’s program. Karen Jacob’s thoughtful memorial tribute to Southeastern Historical Keyboard Society founder George Lucktenberg was enhanced by several solicited remembrances from others whose lives had been touched by the late iconic early keyboard figure.

Evening concerts were presented by harpsichordist/organist Peter Sykes and six former students who organized a tribute to McGill organ professor emeritus John Grew. Saturday’s concert brought the final stage of the ninth Aliénor international competition for contemporary harpsichord music. Six winning works (selected by a jury from nearly fifty submitted pieces) were performed by HKSNA President Sonia Lee (Laura Snowden: French Suite), Larry Palmer (Sviatoslav Krutykov: Little Monkey Ten Snapshots), James Dorsa (Ivan Bozicevic: If There is a Place Between, and his own composition Martinique), Andrew Collett (playing his own Sonatina for Harpsichord), and Marina Minkin (Dina Smorgonskaya: Three Dances for Harpsichord). Following an intermission during which the audience submitted ballots naming their three favorite works, Aliénor presented world premieres of two commissioned works for two harpsichords: Edwin McLean’s Sonata No. 2 (2014), played by Beverly Biggs and Elaine Funaro, and Mark Janello’s Concerto for Two (2015), played by Rebecca Pechefsky and Funaro.

And the three pieces chosen by the audience? Smorgonskaya’s Three Dances for Harpsichord, Collett’s Sonatina, and Dorsa’s Martinique. Bravi tutti.

Comments, news items, and questions are always welcome. Address them to Dr. Larry Palmer, e-mail: [email protected].

Recent recordings of Bach’s Goldberg Variations

Now universally known as the Goldberg Variations, Johann Sebastian Bach’s self-financed 1741 publication of his most extensive set of diverse variants on a simple theme bears this title on its cover: Keyboard Exercise Comprising an Aria and Differing Variations for a Two-Manual Harpsichord, composed for Amateurs by Johann Sebastian Bach, Composer at the Courts of Poland and of the Elector of Saxony, Chapel Master and Choir Master in Leipzig. Published in Nuremberg by Balthasar Schmid (translated from the original German).

Following the 1933 first recording of the complete masterwork by pioneering harpsichordist Wanda Landowska (a weighty 78 rpm recording project that has been reissued in every successive record format) the “Goldbergs” have been consigned to disc by a widely varied list of keyboardists, a tradition that continues, seemingly without any ritardandi. Indeed, while writing this report on recent compact disc releases, I have noted at least two more new recordings advertised for sale.

Just as I look at my extensive collection of books and think about the immense amounts of time and energy that are required for each publication (having been a writer all my adult life), I feel a similar empathy for the effort and dedication required when we consign our musical performances to disc (having done a fair number of these, as well). Thus, I try not to be overly critical in my reviews but rather hope that I may serve primarily as a reporter: one who gives enough information about the new offerings so that a reader may decide to seek more information, or even, perhaps, wish to acquire the item being discussed.

In alphabetical order, I present for your consideration three recent recordings of Bach’s magnum opus as performed by Diego Ares (born 1983) [Harmonia Mundi HMM 902283.84]; Wolfgang Rübsam (born 1946) [Naxos 8.573921]; and, as an archival reissue, a legacy from the renowned German organist and teacher, Helmut Walcha (1907–1991) [the last disc in a boxed set of thirteen compact discs comprising all of the major Bach solo harpsichord works, Warner Classics 0190295849618]. To make matters even more interesting, it so happens that I have had personal connections with each of these three keyboard artists.

Diego Ares

I met this brilliant harpsichordist in November 2009 and was blown away by his virtuoso performance of the Manuel de Falla Concerto for Harpsichord and Five Instruments at the opening event of the Wanda Landowska Exhibition organized by Martin Elste of the Musical Instrument Museum in Berlin, Germany. On my way to offer congratulations to the young artist, he met me halfway, as he wished to speak with me. At that time Diego was a student in Basel, and we both expressed our regrets that he had to return immediately to Switzerland for his semester end examinations, especially since we each had a special interest in contemporary harpsichord music.

We have, however, kept in touch since that brief encounter, and Diego has been generous in sending me his compact discs as they are produced. The immediate predecessor to his Goldberg Variations offering, his 2015 premiere recording of previously unknown Soler harpsichord sonatas (discovered in a manuscript now owned by the Morgan Library in New York City) won international acclaim, garnering both a Diapason d’Or and the German Record Critics’ first prize. I suspect that this latest two-disc set may well do the same.

In eloquent notes to the recording, Ares writes of his daily ritual that begins with a complete play through of the entire set of variations, but also he expresses his feeling for the need of a prelude to precede Bach’s opening statement of the Aria. For this recorded performance, Ares made a clever choice: Bach’s own transcription of an Adagio (BWV 968) based on the composer’s Violin Sonata (BWV 1005). It is indeed a lovely piece, but, since Bach left us only this one movement which cadences in the dominant key, it is a difficult work to program. As the desired prelude it makes a perfectly logical opener, connecting smoothly to the Aria in G Major.

Ares’s performance, with the added prelude, spans 1 hour, 29 minutes. He performs on his two-manual harpsichord by Joel Katzman (2002) based on a Taskin instrument from 1769.

Wolfgang Rübsam

Appointed to succeed the far-too-early-deceased James Tallis as harpsichord and organ professor at Southern Methodist University, I moved to Dallas, Texas, in late August 1970, to join the music faculty of the Meadows School of the Arts. Wolfgang Rübsam was, at that time, a stellar student in Robert T. Anderson’s organ class, and he went on to prove his stature by winning the first prize for interpretation at the 1973 Chartres organ competition. He also played a superb organ recital during the dedication year of SMU’s Fisk Opus 101 installation, and we continue to meet at various organ events throughout the United States.

Following a successful set of Bach recordings on the modern piano, Rübsam has turned his considerable musical insights to performing the Goldberg Variations on an instrument known to have been of interest to J. S. Bach: the lautenwerk or “lute harpsichord” of which a postmortem inventory of Bach’s belongings included two examples. Unfortunately, neither instrument is known to have survived the passage of time.

The proud owner of the fifth such instrument to be built by the highly respected American harpsichord maker Keith Hill, Rübsam provides a totally different sound picture for Bach’s variations. The constant arpeggiation certainly gives a different aura to the work, while the gentler plucked tones produced from this single-manual instrument soothe the ear. To record the entire work on one disc with a total timing of 78 minutes and 24 seconds, the artist confided that he made his own choices as to which of the variations would be played with the indicated repeats and which ones would not. I find his selections well made and actually agree totally that not all of the arbitrary double dots at the conclusion of each section need to be observed in any performance. I especially dislike the carbon-copy reruns of the B sections once one has made that trip from dominant cadencing back to the tonic. Most of the time one traversal is quite enough for my ears.

Amazing as it may seem to those of us who require two manuals as specified by the composer, Glenn Gould, Rübsam, and some other players seem quite able to negotiate the crossing of hands and notes, as well as the general awkwardness of compressing such acrobatics to one keyboard only. Bravo to all involved. 

Helmut Walcha

I first experienced a concert by the legendary professor of organ at the Hochschule für Musik und Darstellende Kunst of Frankfurt, Germany, during the unforgettable summer trip that followed my year at the Salzburg Mozarteum as an Oberlin Conservatory junior (1958–1959). In Letters from Salzburg
(Skyline Publications, Eau Claire, Wisconsin, 2006) I mentioned Walcha’s organ recital at the Frankfurt cathedral, with its eight-second reverberation, and noted that the organist was “an inspired player.” While visiting the Hochschule I met its harpsichord teacher, Frau Maria Jäger, and did not realize that Walcha was also a harpsichordist. 

During many summer trips to Europe in the earlier years of an academic career, my German friend and “European manager” Alfred Rosenberger and I often would attend Saturday Vespers at the Dreikönigskirche where Walcha was organist. There we could marvel at his expressive hymn playing and masterful improvisations, while also enjoying both the intimate beauty of the rather sparsely attended afternoon services as well as the post service opportunities to speak with the genial organ master.

Still there was no mention of the harpsichord; so, imagine my surprise when I discovered that the present thirteen-disc set comprising all the major solo harpsichord repertoire of J. S. Bach had been recorded starting in the spring of 1958 in Hamburg, continuing for the next several years, and culminated during March of 1961 with the 75 minutes and 38 seconds of Walcha’s interpretation of Goldberg Variations. And, for one further surprise, the recording engineer for all these sessions was none other than Hugo Distler’s brother-in-law, Erich Thienhaus! 

The two-manual harpsichord used for Walcha’s recording sessions was built at the Ammer Brothers factory located in Eisenberg in the eastern German province of Thuringia. What nostalgia that inspired! My first harpsichord teacher, Isolde Ahlgrimm, made her famous Bach recordings playing an Ammer instrument. My first harpsichord was a small double built at the Passau factory of Kurt Sperrhake, who also provided a larger two-manual model instrument during our Mozarteum year. (Ahlgrimm’s comment: “I’ve slept in smaller rooms than this instrument!”) While I would not want to return to these well-built, but heavy, leather-quilled factory instruments, there is a certain nostalgia for that youthful time of discoveries and the blooming of my first love for the harpsichord.

Would I recommend the Walcha recordings? Perhaps. It is remarkable that he could play absolutely perfectly since he had been struck blind at age nineteen, most likely from a reaction to his vaccination for smallpox. I do not hear any mistakes or smudged notes at all, but I also do not hear much in the way of personality or nuance either. It has somewhat the same effect as reading a dictionary—but as a source for checking the notes as they appear in the original Bach-Gesellschaft Editions there would likely be no deviations from that urtext.

And what a tribute to the human spirit! Every note required for thirteen compact discs full of music was retained in that brilliant memory! One of Walcha’s prize students, my SMU colleague Robert Anderson, told many tales of being summoned to visit his mentor for the purpose of following a score while his teacher played through the complete Art of the Fugue or some other complex set of organ pieces. And, said Bob, “There was hardly ever even one wrong note!”

Where next?

So, you have mastered Couperin’s eight preludes from L’Art de toucher le clavecin. What harpsichord repertoire should follow these basic pieces?

To my ears Domenico Scarlatti was the ultimate artist/composer when it came to varying textures in writing for our instrument. I have advised more than a few curious contemporary composers to consult the 500-plus keyboard sonatas from this Baroque genius and then to emulate his wide palette of various densities of sound: one of the best ways to create a varied dynamic range.

Suggestions: perhaps the most-assigned to first-semester students have been two A-major Sonatas, K (Kirkpatrick) numbers 208 and 209. There are several fine editions from which to choose, but, once again as with my choice for the first Couperin pieces, I have found that another “made in America” publication works well on several levels. The sometimes-maligned yellow-bound Schirmer Editions offer Sixty Sonatas by Scarlatti in two volumes. Chosen and edited by the formidable scholar and artist Ralph Kirkpatrick (he of the most-used numbering system for this composer), these 60 were published as Schirmer Library Volumes 1774 and 1775. (Too bad they could not have waited until number 1776, which would have been even more patriotic!) K. 208 and 209 are found in the first of these collections.

Kirkpatrick, working midway in the 20th century (the copyright is dated 1953), used source materials transmitted to him via microfilm. In a rare misreading of the dim and hazy film, he mistook the tempo indication for K. 208, transcribing Adº as “Andante” rather than the indicated “Adagio,” providing once again a perfect teaching moment when one presents the proof of this mistake. Also, it does make quite a difference: Andante, a moving or walking tempo, is not at all the same as Adagio, which, in the composer’s native Italian, means “at your ease” and thus should suggest more flexibility with rubato and a quieter, more involved personality—perhaps that of a lovesick flamenco guitarist. As for texture: the sonata begins with only two voices, soprano and bass, and adds a middle line in measure three, introduces a fourth voice in the chords of measure seven, and builds a terrific crescendo in the penultimate measure thirteen of the A section, before cadencing on an open dominant octave.

The B section begins with a single bass note, and in its first measure we are confronted with the instruction “Tremulo,” indicating a needed ornament in the melodic line. There has been much speculation and some gnashing of musicological teeth about this particular instruction in Domenico’s works. I have tried various solutions, but fairly late in my career I decided that it might possibly indicate the mordent! My reasoning: the mordent is one of the two most generally prevalent ornaments in Baroque music, but there is no indication of it in Scarlatti’s sonatas; and the mordent seems to be feasible each time a Tremulo is indicated.

Vis-à-vis that other musical ornament, the trill, it was the Iberian music specialist Guy Bovet who, during our one semester as Dallas colleagues, reminded me that the usual starting note for Scarlattian trills should be the main (written) note! I realize that many of us were heavily influenced by our piano or organ teachers who taught us to begin all Baroque trills with the note above; but in actual musical practice, this is rather silly: trills normally do begin on the written note in this Italian-Iberian repertoire, but here, and in general, I refuse to be bound to one invariable rule, and frequently substitute an upper-note trill, particularly in cadential figures that seem to ache for a dissonance (or, occasionally, simply to avoid ugly-sounding parallel octave movement of the voices). My advice is to follow Bovet’s instruction as a general practice, but also to use one’s musical instincts when required: after all, we have yet to hear those “recordings” from the 17th and 18th centuries that would prove once and for all what the local practice was. (Do, please, let me know if they are discovered.)

The paired sonata, K. 209, could not be more different from its shorter sibling: an Allegro (Happy) with some technical challenges (as opposed to the many musical challenges offered by K. 208) should prove again the inventiveness of the composer, especially in his use of varied textures. One spot that particularly delights is found in measure 70, where, after the vigorous cadence begins with two voices, the resolution is one single soprano E, a totally unexpected surprise! Kenneth Gilbert, in his eleven-volume edition of 550 sonatas for Le Pupitre, adds the missing bass note, choosing the reading found in a different manuscript source in which the next iteration of that same figure (measure 147) does resolve with an open octave in the bass. I still prefer Kirkpatrick’s reading for these passages: rather than adding notes in the first example, he does away with them at the second iteration . . . and thereby preserves an equal surprise for the B section.

Quite a few other sonatas that serve well as technique-enhancing pieces are to be found in the set comprising the first Kirkpatrick numbers 1 through 30: works published in London (1738) as Scarlatti’s Essercizi per gravicembalo. If your student (or you) want a bit of narrative music, the final entry in this set, K. 30, is particularly fun to play and hear: nicknamed the “Cat” Fugue, it is easy to imagine a favorite feline frolicking treble-ward on the keyboard to create a fugue subject spanning an octave and a half. Several years ago, when preparing a program of Iberian music to play on Southern Methodist University’s Portuguese organ (a single-manual instrument built in 1762 by Caetano Oldovini for Portugal’s Evora Cathedral), I turned to the Alfred Edition print of this sonata, which incorporates some of the quite useful (and interesting) minor corrections offered in a second edition from the year 1739, also published in London by the English organist and Scarlatti-enthusiast Thomas Roseingrave. 

Finally, should one become entranced by Scarlatti’s delightful catwalk, there is a rarely encountered piece by the Bohemian composer Antonín Rejcha (1770–1836) from his 36 Fugues, op. 36, published in Vienna (1805). Fugue Nine is subtitled “On a Theme from Domenico Scarlatti.” In it our musical cat, elderly and more reserved, is heard ranging a keyboard that extends to top F, before settling down, finally, with quiet cadential chords. The score, published by Universal Edition, is found in Bohemian Piano Music from the Classical Period, volume 2 (UE18583), edited by Peter Roggenkamp.

Some contemporary components

It will come as no surprise to our loyal readers that, during my lengthy tenure at the Meadows School, Southern Methodist University, I required at least one 20th- or 21st-century composition to fulfill repertoire requirements during each semester of harpsichord study. Among the most admired of these pieces were the twelve individual movements of Lambert’s Clavichord by Herbert Howells. These, the first published 20th-century works for the clavichord, are true gems, and equally delightful both to play and to hear. Issued by Oxford University Press in 1928, they are not widely available now, but I have been told that they may be obtained as an “on-demand print” from the publisher. Howells’s own favorite of the set was De la Mare’s Pavane, named for his friend, the distinguished poet Walter de la Mare. Indeed, it was a question about one chord in this piece that precipitated my first visit with the composer in 1974. Dr. Howells did not answer me immediately, but before we parted he took a pen in hand and drew in the missing sharp sign before the middle C on the second half of beat two in measure 24. That had been my concern, that missing sharp! Thus, I was relieved to have a correction from the only person who could not be doubted, the great man himself.

Other works recommended for investigative forays into this literature (works offering a great deal of good examples for the development of dynamic, articulate, and musical playing) include Rudy Davenport’s Seven Innocent Dances (which I have dubbed the “With It” suite): With Casualness, With Resolve, With Playfulness, With Excitement, With Fire, With Pomposity, With Steadiness­—available in the Aliénor Harpsichord Competition 2000 Winners volume published by Wayne Leupold (WL600233); Glenn Spring’s Trifles: Suite Music for Harpsichord comprising the miniatures A Start, Blues for Two, Burlesque, Cantilena, Habañerita, Recitative, and Introspection, lovely pieces indeed, as are Spring’s more recent Bartókian miniatures: Béla Bagatelles (2011). Both sets are available from the composer ([email protected]). Finally, from the late British composer Stephen Dodgson, three movements of his Suite 1 in C for Clavichord: Second Air, Tambourin, and Last Fanfare (published by Cadenza Music in 2008) form a delightful group of pieces. Equally effective at the harpsichord, they have proven to be very audience-friendly.

A May reminder

Do not forget Lou Harrison’s centenary (May 2017), the perfect month in which to investigate the American composer’s Six Sonatas, as detailed in Harpsichord News, The Diapason, October 2016, page 10.