Harpsichord Notes: Rübsam's recording of Bach's partitas on lautenwerk

Dialogue: Bach, Buxtehude, Kathryn Cok, harpsichord. DMP Records, DVH 140431, 2022, €15. Available from dmp-records.nl.

Chromatische Fantasie und Fuge d-moll, BWV 903, Johann Sebastian Bach; Wie schön leuchtet der Morgenstern, BuxWV 223, Dieterich Buxtehude; Fantasie und Fuge a-moll, BWV 904, Bach; Fuga in C, BuxWV 174, Buxtehude; Fuge C-dur, BWV 952, Bach; Praeludium in g, BuxWV 163, Aria: Rofilis, BuxWV 248, Buxtehude; Fuge a-moll, BWV 959, Bach; Canzona in C, BuxWV 166, Buxtehude; Präludium, Fuge, und Allegro Es-dur, BWV 998, Bach; Courante Simple in a, BuxWV 245, Buxtehude; Capriccio B-dur, BWV 992, Bach.

Dr. Kathryn Cok is a native New Yorker currently living in the Netherlands, where she completed her graduate studies and now teaches at the Royal Conservatory in The Hague. She is active as a performer and researcher and currently serves as vice president of the Historical Keyboard Society of North America. As far as I am aware, this production represents her first commercial recording of late Baroque solo keyboard repertoire.

Cok presents on this recording a very interesting collection of famous and obscure keyboard works by the two most celebrated keyboard composers of the German high Baroque. The program opens with a Bach work clearly influenced by Buxtehude and a challenge: how does one approach and perform a work so often heard and familiar as Bach’s Chromatic Fantasy and Fugue? Is it even possible to bring something new to this work, studied and performed since Bach’s own time, without introducing bizarre elements (as many have tried) or otherwise deviating in significant ways from the score? In hearing the first notes, the Dutch influences in Cok’s playing are evident, particularly in the slower sections of the piece. She plays with great sensitivity, emphasizing the forward motion of the voices rather than the vertical harmonies, usually slightly delaying the upper voice. The recitativo sections are treated with subtlety and tenderness, while the rapid sections are played with flair and virtuosity. Added ornaments are always tasteful and appropriate, although her inclusion of the supertonic in the final arpeggiated tonic chord (here and elsewhere) was a fresh surprise. In short, Cok succeeds in breathing life into the work without deviating significantly from the score.

The accompanying fugue is more sedate in character, earning its epithet in the chromaticism of its theme. Bach makes extensive use of pedal points throughout the fugue in all voices. Many performers allow these extended notes to simply fade into silence or use trills to extend the pitch; Cok chooses to repeat the tied pitch at the beginning of each tied bar, sometimes alternating octaves upon repetition. Her solution keeps the harmonies active in our ears. Given these extended pedal and inverted pedal points, the parallel octave passage (pedal?) at the work’s conclusion, and other elements, I believe this work could be appropriately performed on the organ.

It is interesting that most of the Buxtehude works in the present collection have been published traditionally with the organ works and are most frequently performed on that instrument. That said, Cok makes a persuasive case for their performance on the harpsichord.

The first Buxtehude work heard, a charming setting of the chorale Wie schön leuchtet der Morgenstern (BuxWV 223), is one such case. It is sectional, with each line of the chorale treated in contrasting style. In performance on the organ, it is easy to facilitate these contrasts by changing manuals or registration. In this performance, the resources of the harpsichord provide the ability for similar dynamic contrasts.

The next Bach work, while similarly titled Fantasie and Fugue, could hardly be more different than the Chromatic Fantasy and Fugue. The Fantasy and Fugue in A Minor, BWV 904, is a more serious and profound work, likely a product of a later time. The first movement is a prelude in fairly strict, mostly three-, although sometimes expanding to four- or five-voice counterpoint. The fugue is a splendid double fugue, with both subjects combined at the conclusion. It is a work that appeals to the mind as much as the ear and was a wise choice to show contrast with the much earlier chromatic pair. Interestingly, the second theme of this fugue is a descending chromatic line, thus an inversion of parts of the subject of the D-minor chromatic fugue.

Three other great works of Buxtehude (alternating with Bach works on the CD) are also drawn from the organ repertoire. These are the famous “Gigue” Fugue in C Major, BuxWV 174; one of the large stylus phantasticus praeludia, BuxWV 163, this one in G minor; and the lesser-known Canzona in C Major, BuxWV 166. The fugue is a rollicking delight, briskly performed by Cok. Both the G-minor praeludium and the Canzona in C are extended dramatic works in stylus phantasticus with alternating imitative contrapuntal sections and free dramatic flourishes. Cok has clearly mastered this style, performing these works in a highly improvisatory manner, with bold contrasts in registration and tempo and lavish embellishments.

Cok has included two relatively obscure Bach fugues, found among those many works buried in the appendices of the Bach Gesellschaft and mostly ignored for generations. The Fugue in C Major, BWV 952, is not a particularly interesting work in three voices. The subject is one of those instrumental-type “sewing-machine” subjects that rambles on in a sequence before finally finding an answer. The counterpoint and harmonies do suggest the work of the young Bach—indeed, the successful working out of the piece implies a somewhat later date of composition—but the lack of musical creativity suggests the work of a lesser mind, perhaps the exercise of a young student or even a youthful Bach son. The performance is quite fine, bringing as much life and interest to the work as is possible given the rather feeble source material.

The Fugue in A Minor, BWV 959, brings us into another world altogether. It is a fugue à 3 with occasional chords expanding to four voices. One immediately notices in comparison with the previous fugue the more interesting and intriguing fugue subject, ripe with possibilities. There are many “un-Bachian” elements to be found in this work, unlike the previous straightforward C-major fugue, which surprise the listener on first hearing and mark it as a product of his earliest productive years. In earlier times the authenticity of many of these early “quirky” works was questioned by scholars simply because “there’s nothing else like it in the canon.” One need only to study works such as the famous Toccata in D Minor, BWV 565, Chromatic Fantasy in D Minor, BWV 903i, Passacaglia in C Minor, BWV 582, the Pastorale in F Major, BWV 590, the Piece d’orgue, BWV 572, the canzona, the capriccios in B-flat major and E major, and many others, to realize that Bach was experimenting and often composed only one example of a form, genre, or style.

This experimentation is equally evident within works, with almost unlimited experimentation in harmony, modulations, scales, manual (and pedal) figurations, endings, etc. These striking and unusual techniques allow us to follow his compositional matriculation as they merge and evolve into more mature music.

This is a lengthy way of saying that I have no problem accepting this curious and creative work as the effort of a youthful Johann Sebastian Bach, despite its eccentricities. I do not know for certain, but I suspect it was these same quirky eccentricities that attracted Cok to this work and inspired her to this dynamic and dramatic performance, which succeeds without overemphasizing the more unconventional elements.

The two remaining works by Buxtehude included in this recording are both variation sets, published in modern editions not among the organ works, but with a collection of traditional keyboard suites presumably intended for performance on harpsichord or clavichord. Seldom performed, these suites and variations for keyboard are far less well known than are Buxtehude’s brilliant and justly acclaimed so-called “organ works” (and that’s an article for another day).

According to Emilius Bangert, publisher of the first modern edition of these suites and variations (Hansen, 1941, suites only republished by Dover), the tune Rofilis “is a melody from Lully’s Ballet de l’Impatience; it became widely known, and already in the seventeenth century was used in Denmark as a hymntune.” Without an initial statement of the unadorned tune, Buxtehude provides a set of three brief (sixteen-bars without repeats) variations in Aria: Rofilis, BuxWV 248, a work that requires subtlety rather than virtuosity. The entire work is scarcely two minutes in duration, but it is ample time to demonstrate Cok’s ease with this style. Her playing here is a fine example of pure musical poetry.

The roots of the final Buxtehude work in this collection, Courante Simple, BuxWV 245, are more shrouded in obscurity. It is immediately a larger-scaled work than Rofilis, with more variations exploring higher technical and stylistic demands. The variations tend to increase in complexity as they progress, allowing Cok to again demonstrate her subtlety, creativity, and virtuosity at the keyboard.

The final music of Johann Sebastian Bach included in this delightful collection comprises two major works, both well known. Heard first is the Prelude, Fugue, and Allegro in E-flat Major, BWV 998. This work has been a standard of the keyboard repertoire at least since Wanda Landowska recorded it on her Pleyel harpsichord in 1949, but it is actually catalogued as a “lute work” in Wolfgang Schmieder’s Bach-Werke-Verzeichnis catalog. There have always been questions about this group of so-called “lute” works, even though lutenists have played them, and guitar transcriptions and performances have been popular since the days of Andrés Segovia. The manuscript of the E-minor lute suite includes a notation at the top of the page reading aufs lautenwerk. The lautenwerk, a gut-strung keyboard instrument designed to imitate the sound of the lute, was supposedly invented by Bach himself, and his post-mortem instrument inventory suggests that he possessed two of them. Although no historical examples are known to exist, several modern instrument builders have constructed modern lautenwerke based on surviving descriptions. In style, all of the lute works are similar, typically featuring a flowing melody in one voice or two, accompanied by a walking bass line in slower notes, and/or passages of style brisé. They are seldom contrapuntally complex, with voices being fragmented even in fugues.

Under Cok’s fingers, the leisurely prelude is pure poetry. The melody sings, and there is just enough flexibility of rhythm and agogic to keep the music flowing and engaging the listener. Likewise, the fugue is brought to life in a tranquil way, allowing us to anticipate and appreciate each entry of the theme.

When the mood suddenly changes, Cok makes the shift in style without a noticeable bump. The return of the original section restores tranquility. The final “Allegro” is an outburst of joy, and Cok brings the whole work to an exciting, rollicking conclusion.

Arguably the earliest popular instrumental work by Bach is the so-called Capriccio sopra la lontananza del suo Fratello dilettissimo, BWV 992 (“Capriccio on the departure of his beloved brother”), the work with which Kathryn Cok concludes her recorded performance. It was written for the occasion of his brother Johann Jakob’s departure to serve the King of Sweden. The work is in six sections, each relating in a programmatic way to the departure:

1. Arioso: Adagio, “Friends Gather and Try to Dissuade Him from Departing;”

2. (Andante), “They Picture the Dangers Which May Befall Him;”

3. Adagiosissimo (or Adagissimo), “The Friends’ Lament;”

4. (Andante con moto), capriccios “Since He Cannot Be Dissuaded, They Say Farewell;”

5. Allegro poco, “Aria of the Postilion” (Aria di postiglione);

6. “Fugue in Imitation of the Postilion’s Horn” (Fuga all’imitazione della cornetta di postiglione).

Due to the youthful genesis of the work, it lacks many elements of the style of the mature Bach. Yet it has remained a standard of the harpsichord repertoire at least since it was popularized by recordings released by both Wanda Landowska and Ralph Kirkpatrick in the late 1950s. It is easy to see how this work has far surpassed most of Bach’s early keyboard works in popularity, given its obvious charm and the documented transmitted program. Textures vary from simple figured-bass passages to full-fisted chords in some cadences. Quite a bit of ornamentation is notated in modern editions, but given the provenance of its multiple sources, it is unclear how much of it actually originates with the composer.

Like much of the music of Buxtehude and the young Bach, it requires great freedom and imagination to interpret successfully in performance. Throughout this entire program, Cok has demonstrated repeatedly that she has mastered the art of the stylus phantasticus. Her performances show thoughtfulness, creativity, subtlety, and virtuosity—all in the service of the music.

The harpsichord heard in this recording, built by Titus Crijnen in 1999, has a rich and resonant sound, superbly captured by the recording team. Kathryn Cok’s spirited and musical performances throughout this disc make recommendation easy. She is an artist of considerable skill, and this compact disc recording should only serve to further her already impressive reputation.

A member of The Diapason’s 20 Under 30 Class of 2021, Curtis Pavey is a graduate of the doctoral program at the University of Cincinnati where he studied harpsichord under Michael Unger and piano under James Tocco. In fall 2023, he will be the assistant professor of piano pedagogy and performance at the University of Missouri. More information is available at curtispavey.com.

Fischer: Eight Suites of 1698, Colin Booth - harpsichords. Soundboard, SBCD-222, $16.98. Available from ravencd.com and colinbooth.co.uk. 

Harpsichordist Colin Booth’s latest recording focuses on the music of German composer Johann Caspar Ferdinand Fischer’s (1656–1746) suites from 1698 published as Musikalisches Blumen-Büschlein. The recording, finished in August 2021, appears to be the only available complete recording of this collection, offering listeners an excellent opportunity to hear this music in its entirety. 

Fischer’s Musikalisches Blumen-Büschlein was originally published as Les pièces de clavessin in 1696, but Fischer enlarged and revised it, and it was published again in 1698 under the new title. The work contains eight suites that comprise a variety of different dances. Each suite opens with a praeludium unique and stylistically different from the others, similar to Bach’s partitas. The ensuing set of dances in each suite differs greatly, and most do not contain the traditional “core movements” (allemande, courante, sarabande, and gigue) as mentioned in the CD liner notes. Booth believes that Fischer’s collection functions as a “survey” of contemporary French dance suites, which allows listeners and performers to become familiar with genres such as plainte (lament), variation sets, branle, and other dance types. 

In his detailed liner notes, Booth discusses Fischer’s life and works and additionally how these works influenced other German composers of the time, namely J. S. Bach, G. F. Handel, and Johann Mattheson. Several of Fischer’s preludes contain textures that Bach borrowed for his Well-Tempered Clavier, Book I, and it is clear that Bach was quite familiar with this set. Suite VI is perhaps the most interesting of the collection, containing the largest praeludium of the entire collection, which Bach later used in his first B-flat-major prelude. The influence of Fischer’s work on Handel is also apparent in this work, given Handel’s later use of the variation form in his suites, in addition to the fact that Handel’s suites are also inconsistent with the types of dances included in each suite. 

Booth recorded this collection on two different instruments from his workshop. The first instrument is a seventeenth-century Italian harpsichord that includes a short-octave bass. Both harpsichords are strung in brass, but the Italian harpsichord is tuned at A = 392 in Werckmeister III. The other harpsichord, a French double manual based on an instrument from 1661, provides a slight tonal contrast. In the liner notes, Booth clarifies the need for a short-octave bass given that the first and sixth suites in the collection require its use; however, he also wanted the additional registration benefits of the double-manual harpsichord.

Throughout the recording, Booth’s performance is strong, and each suite sounds unique from the others. Booth used a variety of registrations and frequently added ornamentation to the repeats of dances. Each dance is infused with character and careful attention to details. The disc includes many highlights; among them are the large “Praeludium” from Suite VI, the deeply pensive “Plainte” from Suite VII, and the rigorous “Chaconne” from Suite VIII. Perhaps most impressive, though, is Booth’s handling of Suite V, which contains an aria with eight variations. Booth performs this suite with varied approaches to articulation, dialogue between the different voices, and a clear arch to unite the whole suite as a singular work.

For those unfamiliar with Fischer’s music, this disc serves as an excellent introduction to his first collection of harpsichord suites. Booth performs Fischer’s harpsichord suites in a convincing manner that helps connect stylistic elements from France to the harpsichord literature of the eighteenth century.

Gavin Black is director of the Princeton Early Keyboard Center in Princeton, New Jersey.

The harpsichord: an introduction, part 1

This month’s column, my first after a hiatus caused by now-resolved orthopedic issues, is my first in a short series of columns about the harpsichord. Since 1990 I have presented summer workshops to introduce the harpsichord to organists and pianists. This series is based on the approach that I have taken in those workshops.

I have a desire to demystify this unfamiliar instrument. This is something that many experienced organists and pianists feel when walking up to a harpsichord, and not just because of the erroneous sense that it is a very fragile object.

I wish to share a decades-old memory, reminding me of the perils of the unknown, but also how simple it often is to learn and what a difference that can make. The first time I prevailed on a church to let me practice on their organ was when I was about thirteen. I had been sort of playing for a while but did not know very much about the organ. When I sat at this instrument and turned it on, I tried a stop or two, but then I could not get any keyboard to be silent by turning off all the stops! I was panicked—had I broken something? Would I never be able to grapple with a wondrous instrument that was this complicated? Or would I just have the unpleasant task of telling the church that their organ did not work? I left very quickly without practicing and phoned the church later to tell them that the instrument seemed broken. After doing so, I was too scared by the whole thing to ever talk to them again; I never practiced there. Of course, the whole “problem” was just that a crescendo shoe was slightly on. I had never heard of the crescendo shoe! If I had known what was up, I would have fixed the issue in a few seconds as a matter of routine and very possibly practiced on that instrument for years.

It is not possible in a few columns to include everything that there is to know about the harpsichord. I will try to frame what I write about in such a way as to point to further means of fleshing out the columns. That will include reading and listening links, but the core is to make the content open-ended and to answer some questions in ways that make it easy to answer more questions of your own. I will write about teaching harpsichord and using the harpsichord to elucidate certain facets of the organ and organ playing. This first column introduces general points, and subsequent columns will explore these in detail.

The question that I hear most from pianists and organists about the harpsichord is whether there is an advantage or disadvantage in learning to play the harpsichord if you already play another keyboard instrument? The answer, not surprisingly, is both. The disadvantages are subtle but worth being aware of—most of them fall under the umbrella of technical habits carried over from one of the other instruments to the harpsichord, when they suit the former but not the latter. The great advantage is more concrete—an organist or pianist already knows how to find notes on the harpsichord keyboard! With some careful listening and the rethinking of some aesthetic presuppositions and technical habits, an organist or pianist can start executing very satisfying harpsichord playing very promptly, certainly more than someone who is not already a keyboard player.

What is a harpsichord? To start with, it is a string instrument. It has strings or wires stretched out so that they can vibrate in a musical sound, and these strings are fitted over a resonant object to which they transmit that sound. As far as I know, that description fits every non-electric string instrument from every place and era. Therefore, the harpsichord belongs to a family that includes the piano, of course, but also the violin, guitar, mandolin, viola da gamba, hurdy-gurdy, and so on.

More specifically, the harpsichord is a plucked string instrument. This puts it into the family of the lute, guitar, vihuela, shamisen, mandolin, banjo, and so many more. This has significant implications for the way the instrument shapes the sound and the ways in which we can use the sound to shape music. The harpsichord’s status as a plucked string instrument is just as important for its own musical identity as that it is a keyboard instrument. This also has implications for the sound—the main one is that the player at the keyboard cannot change the pure volume level of the notes using variations in force. This is the chief difference between the harpsichord and the piano, though not necessarily the most important one. It is also a parallel between harpsichord and organ, since the organ swell mechanism, though it affects volume, still functions in the context of the player’s inability to control volume through pressure on the keys. More importantly, it has a strong influence on the kind of music that can be written for the instrument, and it opens the door for the harpsichord to share repertoire, players, and some aspects of technique with other keyboard instruments.

Over centuries, the harpsichord has always been grouped conceptually as much with other non-keyboard plucked instruments, the lute in particular, as with other keyboard instruments. It can be enlightening to keep this in the back of the mind.

The word “harpsichord” is an English-language name, though it probably came originally from Italian or French. The early history of the name is obscure. In other languages the instrument is usually called some variant of either the Italian cembalo or clavicembalo, or the French clavecin. For example, cembalo is the German name, and variants of clavecin are used in Spanish, Russian, Polish, and so on. There have always been different shapes and sizes of instruments that are fundamentally similar to the harpsichord or close variants of the harpsichord. Some of these are wing-shaped in the manner, more-or-less, of a grand piano. Those are the ones that have been most reliably called “harpsichord” over the centuries. There are also rectangular variants, often called spinet or virginal. There are pentagonal instruments, also often called spinet, and more rarely there are various other shapes. There are harpsichord-type instruments that are upright in the manner of upright pianos. For purposes of this discussion and in a manner that reflects the usage of the instruments over the years, I will normally mean any and all of these variants when talking about harpsichords. If there are distinctions that need to be made I will note them.

The harpsichord was in its day also a workhorse instrument. At any time over the last centuries there was some sort of keyboard instrument that was typically found in homes, rehearsal spaces, churches, schools, coffee houses, bars—any place where music-making occurred—and that served the practical needs of working musicians, not just the need for effective performance tools, but also all needs associated with practicing, drilling, teaching, demonstrating, figuring things out, and so on. For several centuries, harpsichords filled a large part of this need. Of particular interest here is that for many years organists did a significant portion of their practicing on a harpsichord, and sometimes a clavichord. Practicing on an organ itself required the assistance of someone else to pump the wind, until the mid- to late-nineteenth century. Before then this was a cumbersome process. In due course the harpsichord and clavichord were replaced in the everyday role by the piano, which in its turn is now being replaced for these sorts of purposes by electronic keyboards. We do not know how thorough this transformation will be, but it is at least a possibility that it will in due course become pervasive and that the piano in the traditional sense will be redefined as a specialized art instrument, as the harpsichord now largely is.

A harpsichord is a tool designed to produce a sound that people will react to as compelling, intense, interesting, beautiful, a sound that has that sort of quality intrinsically, regardless of any compositional content, and essentially independent of how it is played. The exact same thing is true of the organ. To me, this is the real bond between the two instruments, more than the fact that both are keyboard instruments and have a significant shared repertoire. Presumably, most people involved with making or listening to music expect the net overall effect of a musical performance to have these qualities. But with every sort of music making there is a different balance as to where this kind of musical and emotional effectiveness comes from. And with instruments whose sonorities cannot be changed very much by the player, the instrument itself, as created and delivered by the instrument maker, provides a larger proportion of that effectiveness than with instruments that can be shaped and varied as they are played.

Like the organ, the harpsichord is an instrument with stops. An instrument has a number of discrete, discernibly different sounds, and they can be used by the player separately or together in various patterns determined in part by the distribution of those sounds over different keyboards. Any organist can get comfortable with this aspect of the harpsichord right away. The most evident difference between the organ and the harpsichord in the matter of stops is that harpsichords have fewer stops than all but the smallest organs. This is in part of necessity and in part through choices. There are harpsichords with only one stop. In fact, most of the variants—virginals, spinets, and so on—are one-stop instruments. Two or three stops is normal, sometimes there are four or five, and that’s about it. Unlike with all but the smallest organs, choosing stops for a given musical situation by just trying everything is actually a practical possibility. In the history of harpsichord building, instruments with two 8′ stops and nothing else have been very common indeed. So have instruments with one 8′ and one 4′ or two 8′ and one 4′ stops. The latter usually implies three sets of strings. It is rare for a harpsichord to have more than that, though not impossible or unheard-of. In the heyday of the harpsichord there were a few instruments with 16′ stops and a very, very few with 2′ stops. To a large extent “stops” correspond to “sets of strings,” but not entirely. There are ways to make a given set of strings provide more than one sound, and I will get into some of the details of this later.

This hints at my last general point here. The harpsichord and its variants were and are highly non-standardized. Standardization is a flexible concept—no two pianos, clarinets, golf clubs, or just about anything else are absolutely identical. But with the harpsichord this is about not just the nuances of sound of touch or the even disposition of stops. It extends to compass, size of keys, the nature of the coupling mechanism, sometimes the distribution of notes or pitches to the keys, and much more. The accompanying photograph is a small appetizer to later more detailed discussion of this bewildering variety. It is a close-up of a two-manual harpsichord in which the two keyboards are not aligned and do not play the same pitches as each other—strange until you know what is going on! There are fascinating reasons that the harpsichord developed this way—or that the modern snapshot that we have of an instrument that thrived between 200 and 600 years ago looks like this. Over the next few columns I will discuss the harpsichord mechanism and set-up as well as harpsichord sound in considerable detail.

Prelude to Twilight

Dark Harpsichord Music, by Colin Booth. Soundboard, SBCD 203, 2023, $16.98. Available from 
ravencd.com.

Jean-Henri D’Anglebert: Prelude in G Minor; Armand-Louis Couperin: Allemande in G Major; Johann Mattheson: Air in G Minor; Louis Couperin: Prelude in F Major; Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach: “Andante” from Sonata in F Major, W62/6; D’Anglebert: Prelude in D Minor; Johann Sebastian Bach: “Chaconne in A minor” from Violin Partita in D Minor, transcribed by Booth; François Couperin: “Prelude in A Major” from l’Art de Toucher le Clavecin; Louis Andriessen: Overture to Orpheus; Louis Couperin: Passacaille in G Minor.

This album is the replication of a program that Colin Booth presented in the Great Hall at Dartington, England, on a summer’s evening in 1995, a performance involving gradually dimmed candlelight throughout the program until only twilight remained with birdsong accompanying. With such an evocative title, one may wonder what music will unfold and how, and Mr. Booth’s compelling album invites the listener to sit with and absorb equally compelling music. As one discovers throughout this album, the moving selection of harpsichord works is never truly “dark,” i.e., without light. Rather, Booth’s own note on the Andriessen work speaks to the theme of the entire program: “exploring at length, and in a limited range of tonalities, a mood of subtly varied introspection.”

Without question the objets d’art of this album are the prelude and postlude of sounds of nature, and the improvisatory links between works complement the atmospheric approach to programming. Booth’s brief improvisatory links guide the listener through both changes of key and of nuance between the works of Mattheson and Louis Couperin, and then C. P. E. Bach, D’Anglebert, and J. S. Bach. The shortest of links is a mere five seconds and opens an unmeasured prelude in a relative minor key to the piece preceding it. The other two links are over twenty seconds and are comprised of more elaborate improvisatory material.

After an atmospheric presentation of birdsong, the first sound of the harpsichord is a D’Anglebert prélude non mesuré in G minor. Booth gently acquaints the listener with this new timbre emerging from the twilight, and his pacing is a foretaste of the sweetness to come. Armand-Louis Couperin’s “Allemande in G Major” from the 1751 Pièces de clavecin smoothly follows the D’Anglebert and graces the listener with its richness and suave character. Couperin’s exploration of the lower, richer, and indeed darker register of the harpsichord renders Booth’s selection of the work highly appropriate. A graceful “Air” from the second of Mattheson’s two suites in G minor from the 1741 publication follows. It is an ambling piece and contains a blending of French and German styles common with Mattheson’s works. Booth tastefully changes registration between a single 8′ and the lute stop. (If one listens to Booth’s other albums, one will find considerable creativity in registration.)

The grander of Louis Couperin’s two préludes non mesuré in F Major follows a brief improvisatory link, and the listener is invited to sit with a soliloquy-like statement from the pen of the first remembered Couperin. Booth’s timing in works of this genre becomes somehow predictable, especially in ornamental gestures that contain repeated notes, which come across as accents more than graceful additions to texture. In the French dance movements, one may observe a similar predictability in Booth’s inegalité, occasionally preventing one from enjoying these magnificent dances as entire structures comprising significant harmonic events and flowing passagework between them.

The linking of French claveciniste repertoire to a German Rococo sonata movement may strike the listener as odd, but the suave nature of the C. P. E. Bach “Andante” movement follows the smoothness of the Couperin prelude well. Booth’s graceful ornaments and creative fermata improvisations serve the placement of this German andante between two French claveciniste works. The subsequent D’Anglebert prelude arrests the listener with its registration and its frequently breathless pacing. The agitation Booth brings to this performance perhaps prepares the listener for the scope of the Bach “Chaconne” to come, following an appropriately solemn link. Perhaps the pièce de résistance of this album is Booth’s transcription of Bach’s monumental “Chaconne in D Minor” for solo violin, transcribed to A minor in this rendition. Booth’s performance effectively highlights the dance element to this massive work and allows the listener to follow the natural unfolding of Bach’s writing. Rather than create a virtuosic transcription à la Busoni or merely replicate the backbone of the work à la Brahms, Booth both honors and amplifies Bach’s original harmonic and motivic structure, adding material idiomatic to the harpsichord’s sound and textural capabilities while leaving the core of the work intact. Booth also utilizes his harpsichord’s registration to great effect, thus showcasing contrasting sections and highlighting the work’s structure. This is among the most engaging performances on this album and worth the lengthy listen. (Interested harpsichordists may find Booth’s transcription in the key of D minor at https://www.colinbooth.co.uk/.)

From the darkness of the chaconne’s end, a gentle glimmer of light emerges in the François Couperin “Prelude in A Major” from L’Art De Toucher Le Clavecin. Some of the Bach’s energy may have carried over into this performance, as Booth takes a little time to settle into the differing affect of the work. The only contemporary piece on the program, Overture to Orpheus, comes from the pen of Louis Andriessen, a Dutch composer recognized for his early serialism and neoclassicism, and later for his minimalism. Booth’s performance emphasizes the score’s tranquillo markings, perhaps placing the mind at ease as twilight falls. Whether the piece ponders, dances, races, or waits, it must be experienced as Andriessen himself described it, “prelude-playing.” The number of improvisation-based works on this album lead up to this one piece, which surpasses them all in length and as such must not just be listened to, but absorbed, even accepted.

The final work on the album, a gentle Passacaille in G Minor by Louis Couperin, cleanses the palate and allows the listener a final respite before a night’s rest. The sweetness of the middle G-major section in particular lifts the spirit from the darker sonorities of this album, and the final G minor seems less heavy than the solemn register of the harpsichord may indicate. The final birdsong becomes all the more meaningful. Having listened to several of Colin Booth’s albums, I can confidently state that this is my favorite so far. From start to finish, its originality engages the listener, who is transported into a mysterious twilight and beyond.

J. S. Bach: The Well-Tempered Clavier, by Colin Booth, harpsichord. Soundboard, Book One, SBCD-218, $16.98; Book Two, SBCD-219, $16.98. Available from ravencd.com and
colinbooth.co.uk.

Colin Booth, harpsichordist and harpsichord maker, performs Bach’s complete Well-Tempered Clavier in these two CD sets. Making use of his own harpsichord, a copy of an instrument by Nicholas Celini from 1661 built in 2016, Booth here performs a convincing rendition of one of Bach’s most important works for keyboard instruments. The discs were recorded between 2018 and 2019 and demonstrate Booth’s vast knowledge of Bach’s compositional style and notational language.

Booth has a special relationship with the harpsichord used in this recording. Before building his own copy of this double-manual instrument, Booth restored Celini’s original 1661 harpsichord in 2013. In replicating this harpsichord, Booth expanded the compass and strung it in brass. The brass stringing sounds beautiful and allows for exquisite clarity of contrapuntal lines. While the instrument has three choirs of strings, Booth only uses the two 8′ sets of strings—individually and in combination—noting that he wanted to preserve the contrapuntal clarity as much as possible. Regarding tuning, Booth uses Kirnberger III, preferring its conservative qualities while preserving unique characteristics for each of the different keys.

The playing on these discs is of exceptional quality, demonstrating Booth’s thoughtful approach to musical expression, articulation, and pacing at the harpsichord. There are many highlights throughout this recording: the endurance and structural considerations given to the extensive fugues in A minor and B minor (Book One), effective ornamentation in the G-minor prelude and the C-sharp-minor fugue (Book Two), and contrapuntal clarity within the massive five-voice fugues from Book One (C-sharp minor, B-flat minor). Booth’s attention to detail is audible throughout, sensitively shaping phrases with clear articulation and direction. Of particular interest is Booth’s regular use of rhythmic inequality and unevenness in his playing; sometimes the inequality is quite subtle, other times, less so. It is often effective, particularly in the D-major fugue from Book One, in which French overture performance practice and elements of the notation seem to disagree. Some of Booth’s ideas are unconventional—for instance his approach to the rhythmic gestures at the beginning of the D-major prelude from Book Two. In his choice of tempi, Booth diligently considers meter along with character effectively. The F-minor fugue of Book One, as an example, comes to life in Booth’s unhurried rendition with sliding chromatic lines, whereas the grace of the F-minor prelude from Book Two becomes audible in Booth’s fluent choice of tempo. Listening to the entire collection is rewarding and reveals so many beautiful and thoughtful ideas.

In addition to his performances, Booth has included fantastic liner notes for both CD sets. The essays are lengthy, including a variety of information about historical context, model compositions, tuning considerations, and thoughts on his interpretation. The liner notes go far beyond an introduction to this repertoire, thoroughly breaking down recent scholarly debate on tuning and suggesting ideas for future performers to consider in their own interpretations.

Altogether, these CD sets feature outstanding playing, musically and technically, from Booth. His intimate knowledge of the harpsichord, and particularly this harpsichord, helps him to bring out the best of its beautiful sonic qualities. This recording absolutely deserves a listen and a place among other important recordings of Bach’s Well-Tempered Clavier.

Mattheson: The Melodious Talking Fingers and Harmony's Monument

Johann Mattheson: The Melodious Talking Fingers (Die Wohlklingende Fingersprache), Colin Booth, harpsichordist. Soundboard, SBCD-220, $16.98.

Johann Mattheson: Harmony’s Monument (Harmonisches Denckmahl), The Twelve Suites of 1714, Colin Booth, harpsichordist. Soundboard, SBCD-208 (2 CDs), $16.98. Both available from ravencd.com.

Of the memorable Baroque composers of quotable music and words, Johann Mattheson does not appear as a household name, but in his day he achieved recognition among his peers, particularly for his writings on music. Nowadays he is known both as a composer and author of theoretical works, and as the one who nearly brought an early end to the composer of The Messiah! Handel and Mattheson violently quarreled during the premiere of the latter’s opera Cleopatra, and were it not for an obtrusive coat button deflecting a sword thrust, Baroque music might have lost a significant body of music! The two later reconciled, and Mattheson dedicated his Melodious Talking Fingers to Handel. Keyboardists are fortunate enough to hear this work and Mattheson’s twelve suites in a masterful recording by harpsichordist and builder Colin Booth. His research into Mattheson’s life and music are well reflected in these two albums, which provide a window into the music of a highly instructive and colorful composer. In addition, Mr. Booth precedes this captivating repertoire with program notes that bait the listener without meaningless or uninformed conjecture.

Though different in many ways from Bach, Handel, and Telemann, Mattheson utilized many of the same musical ingredients via different tastes and yielding highly inventive and engaging flavor. The collection’s curious title perhaps hints at the occasionally capricious nature of its contents. These “technically competent fugues . . . do not sound as if written to demonstrate Mattheson’s desired contrapuntal rigor from his colleagues,” yet the contrapuntal mastery is evident. Numerous fugues consist of multiple subjects and demand considerable dexterity and singing interpretations to convey their richness. Additional pieces in this collection display grace and wit, providing even more opportunities for the player’s hands to sing and speak. Colin Booth does both. His performance shows admirable command of the fugues’ structure, yet the learned nature of the pieces yields to very characterful interpretations, from the singing quality of the fugues’ subjects to the unusual fugal characteristic of complete silence. The radiant first fugue gives way to a graceful and lyrical fifth fugue (complete with the buff stop), while the severe eighth and the triple-subject ninth receive their own creative colors, even with their austere nature. A palpable energy permeates most of the livelier fugues, and the listener is rewarded for embarking on this journey in the peaceful conclusion of the final fugue on the chorale Werde munter mein Gemüte. The dances are likewise imbued with character befitting their wit and charm, and Mr. Booth delivers a both a humorous Burla and a Seriosità whose sensitivity recalls the warmth of Couperin’s many sensuous pieces.

The twelve suites contrast enormously from those of Mattheson’s German contemporaries, as the former contain a more overt personal touch, especially in their fantastical opening movements. Their dance movements, though similar in nature, are far more adventurous in rhetoric and surprise, and Mr. Booth’s recording captures the adventurous qualities of these suites as a whole. His performance conveys the architecture of both individual dances and entire suites with the same mastery as in the fugues. His tempo choices and interpretations of character hold the suites together well, and his use of inegalité, though occasionally predictable in allemandes and courantes, imbues the dances with elegance. Gigues drive relentlessly and energetically, while their slower counterparts sway gracefully, whether sarabandes, airs, or minuets. The more fantastical movements rivet the listener in their arresting character, from the seventh’s virtuoso “Prelude” to the sixth’s suave “Prelude” to the second’s brilliant “Tocatine.” Mr. Booth seems especially committed to selling the unusual movements or those placed unusually; these stand out, especially the hilarious fugue that begins Suite No. 11 and precedes an equally outrageous gigue of an overture! The gorgeous third and sixth suites are the highlights of the album. Their soulful allemandes, energetic courantes, dulcet slow movements, and vivacious gigues show that composer of austere fugues could write absolutely beautiful dances.

As if the listener were not already in for a treat, Colin Booth’s instruments add yet another dimension of both inventiveness and craftsmanship to these albums. His 2016 restoration of the Nicolas Celini harpsichord yields a sound befitting to the speaking quality of Die Wohlklingende Fingersprache, and both instruments in the suites provide a vibrant sound for the many contrasting movements. Furthermore, Mr. Booth recently issued an edition of Fingersprache, available for purchase on his website (colinbooth.co.uk) and from Raven. All in all, these albums provide a rare opportunity to hear lesser-known and deserving repertoire played by someone committed to making its presence known and able to deliver it masterfully via both interpretation and instrument.