Johann Heinrich Buttstett, Part 1: His life and work

Alexander Meszler

Alexander Meszler’s performances and research aim to inspire new perspectives on the organ. He spent 2018–2019 in Versailles, France, on a Fulbright grant to study secularism and the organ. In 2020, he completed his Doctor of Musical Arts degree in organ at Arizona State University with Kimberly Marshall. He is a member of The Diapason’s 20 Under 30 Class of 2019.

In December 1516, Pope Leo X revoked Ottaviano Petrucci’s exclusive 1513 privilege to print keyboard intabulations. A lesser-known publisher, Andrea Antico, was awarded rights to the genre. Just one month later, January 1517, Antico delivered Italy its first collection of printed keyboard music, Frottole intabulate da sonare organi, Libro primo (henceforth, Frottole intabulate). This collection is the first known publication of keyboard music in Italy, the second known keyboard publication anywhere (after Arnolt Schlick’s Tabulatur etlicher Lobesang of 1512), and the second extant collection—manuscript or published—of keyboard music in Italy (after the fifteenth-century Codex Faenza, Biblioteca Comunale 117).¹ No other collection is single-genre, and no other similar collection is almost entirely secular in content. Though future Italian keyboard collections continued to include song intabulations, no other publication represents the late-fifteenth, early-sixteenth century frottola genre.

Clearly, Frottole intabulate is special if only based on the merits of its innovative, first-of-its-kind, and in some respects, one-of-a-kind status. Yet in histories and critiques of early keyboard literature, the collection is consistently received coldly. In a textbook on historical performance, Jon Laukvik, without abridgment, writes only,

Frottole intabulate da sonare organi libro primo, published in 1517 by Andrea Antico, are the first Italian keyboard works to appear in print. These frottole, intabulations of simple songs, are in four parts throughout and contain ornamental flourishes (groppi) already familiar to us.²

Even more apathetically, Willi Apel writes: “as the title indicates, it [Frottole intabulate] contains only intabulations of frottole, and is thus of little interest for the history of keyboard music.”³ If Frottole intabulate is so unique, why has it been received unenthusiastically?

While “reevaluate” in the title of this essay might on the surface seem disingenuous given Frottole intabulate’s obscurity to today’s keyboardists, the reality remains that there is a substantial body of writing related to this collection. Reevaluate, then, is to reexamine and perhaps “re-present” the body of scholarship related to the collection, but also to reconsider its value as keyboard music for listeners and performers of today. I begin by presenting a brief overview of Antico’s life and the contents of Frottole intabulate. Next, I contextualize the keyboard collection within the framework of early print culture by considering aspects of economics, reception, genre, authorship, instrumentation, and Frottole intabulate’s famous frontispiece. Finally, I analyze the intabulation technique in Antico’s collection, proving that the difficulty and artistic merit are well-situated with other contemporaneous compositions and arrangements.

Andrea Antico

The most comprehensive secondary source on Andrea Antico, both for his life and music, is Catherine Weeks Chapman’s more than four-hundred-page Harvard University dissertation from 1964.⁴ Though not impossible to obtain a copy, her document is not widely available. Chapman’s work, though significantly dated, is thorough and is still the baseline source for the Grove Music Online encyclopedia entry on Antico by Martin Picker. Figure 1 is compiled from these sources and may serve as a reference point and visual guide to Antico’s life; this chart and the following sketch of Antico’s life and publications serve as an outline, not a comprehensive biography.

It is not uncommon that the lives of sixteenth-century figures be shrouded in a degree of ambiguity, and Antico is no exception. However, since publishers were held in high regard and typically claimed ownership of their work, the level of uncertainty related to Antico’s biography is unusual. Antico began his life sometime around 1480 in Montona, present day Croatia, then governed by Venice. Some editors and authors have confused Montona with Mantua. It is not known why or when he moved, but Antico’s first work surfaced in Rome around 1510. During this early part of his career, Antico was exceptionally prolific. Chapman states,

From 1510 through 1521, Antico actually produced more music books than Petrucci—a great many more if reprints are included. But it is less the volume of Antico’s output than his use of a printing method fundamentally different from Petrucci’s that makes him an important figure in the early history of music printing.⁵

Not only was Antico a prolific printer, but he also worked by using woodcuts instead of movable type, the method used by Petrucci. Antico was Petrucci’s first significant competitor. Although Petrucci produced the first prints of polyphonic music, Antico was the first to do so in Rome in 1510 with Canzoni nove con alcune scelte de varii libri di canto (henceforth, Canzoni nove). It was during his years in Rome that Antico produced Frottole intabulate, his only collection for the keyboard.

Between 1518 and 1520 Antico was in partnership with the Giunta family of printers in Venice. Nothing is known about why he moved north or the circumstances around why he partnered with another printer, but Antico’s name continued to be featured prominently in his work. After this, for more than ten years between 1522 and 1533, references to Antico disappear. It is likely that he continued his work in Venice with the Giunta family or some other publisher. Still in Venice, Antico resurfaces in 1533 working with the Scotto family of publishers. During this time period, he produced what might be considered his magnum opus, Mottetti di Adrian Willaert, libro secondo a Quattro voci (1539). After this publication, little more is known about Antico’s life.

Frottole intabulate da sonare organi, Libro primo (1517)

The frottola (frottole, plural) is a genre of secular Italian song that was popular during the late-fifteenth and early-sixteenth centuries. It is widely considered to be a predecessor to the emerging, more complex, and now more well-known madrigal.⁶ The frottola generally contains a text with lighthearted themes and elements of humor. Frequently strophic, any discernible text painting quickly dissolves. Thus, at least in theory, the frottola can be easily accommodated by textless versions like keyboard intabulations. Intabulations are arrangements of vocal pieces for an instrument, particularly keyboard or lute.

Frottole intabulate is a collection of twenty-six frottola intabulations for keyboard. As is the case with most early music, certain aspects of performance practice are and will probably always remain unknown. Maria Luisa Baldassari suggests that there are numerous possible ways to perform the music in Antico’s collection including as an accompaniment for a solo voice or as works for keyboard alone.⁷ Until recently there were two original surviving copies of Frottole intabulate, one in Prague (National Museum, Nostitz Library) and another in Milan (Private Library Polesini), but the Milan copy (originally missing a single folio) has been lost. All but two vocal models survive in other Antico publications that predate Frottole intabulate.⁸ One of the remaining two intabulations exists in a Petrucci publication that also predates Frottole intabulate, and the other has no known vocal model.⁹

Frottole intabulate does not include the original texts other than what is provided in the title, but many of the songs would have been very well known. Even though frottola texts are generally lighthearted, the lyrics are important to a successful interpretation of the pieces because their themes still vary significantly from song to song. Despite access to almost all the texts from the original vocal models, translations are unavailable in all the modern editions of Frottole intabulate; this is most likely due to the problematic nature of translating fifteenth- and sixteenth-century poetic Italian into modern English. I have included tentative translations of the titles in Figure 2 in an effort to increase the accessibility of this music to performers and listeners.

By including partial translations in the liner notes to his Antico recording, Glen Wilson also recognized the importance of these texts. Because he only translated lyrics that he felt particularly influenced his interpretations, some of his translations only include the title while others include significant portions of text. Some of the extended texts significantly change the meaning of the title. For instance, “Fiamma amorosa e bella” (number 13) alone translates to “Flame loving and beautiful,” but with more context from the rest of the poetry, Wilson translates, “Beautiful flame of love, why have you turned to ice?”¹⁰ Still other pieces introduce elements of humor only after the initial title like in “Che farala che dirala” (number 21), which alone becomes “What will she do when she hears?” With additional context, however, it becomes something akin to “what will she do when she hears I have become a monk?”¹¹ Though the translations I provide in Figure 2 are a starting point, a future resource might work with an expert on literature of the Italian renaissance to complete full translations.

Figure 2 is a complete list of the contents of Frottole intabulate. It contains the number, title, tentative English translation of the title, a potential source for the intabulation, and possible original composers.

Contextualizing Antico’s frottole in the print culture of the early-sixteenth century

Very little is known about the culture of early-sixteenth-century music printing, and it is easy to imply inaccurate generalities. Stanley Boorman states,

We can hardly begin to say anything about the general acceptance of music, beyond the assumption that printed editions reached many more readers than did manuscripts.¹²

Boorman suggests that scholars have often arbitrarily considered smaller, less productive companies to be more important than others based on predetermined ideas about value and quality.¹³ Evaluating a print’s significance consists of studying, among numerous other factors, the success or lack of success of individual prints, how they were received, interrelationships of printers and patrons, and profitability. Because of the passing of time, trying to comprehend the cultural background of these prints can seem futile, but not doing so can make the music itself seem distant and irrelevant. Newer research into the early decades of music printing has unlocked many previously inaccessible aspects of the culture and music.

Economics

The printing process was expensive and time consuming; having a print in the early decades of the existence of printing technology brought the owner pride and prestige. Thus, just like the origins of the music that was composed and played in the first place, what was printed was largely controlled by patronage. As machinery and materials later became less expensive, demand for more publications also increased, and publishers needed to compete to stay in business. It is tempting to posit that this caused printing businesses to function within a framework similar to free-market capitalism, but Kate Van Orden maintains this competitiveness comes only from complexifying relationships of patronage.¹⁴ Even late in Antico’s life, but certainly for the publication of Frottole intabulate, privileges that limited the legal printing rights of different publishers were controlled by persons of authority, local governments, and even the pope. These privileges regulated the majority of competition among publishers. Disobeying a papal privilege for exclusive printing rights, for instance, could result in “excommunication, a fine, and confiscation of the offending copies.”¹⁵ The exclusivity of these privileges affected the publication of Frottole intabulate. Not only did Antico obtain a papal privilege in order to print his keyboard intabulations, but doing so also resulted in the inability of other publishers to print something similar, including Petrucci, his rival.

Aside from the complexities and cost of getting permission to print, the cost of carrying out the printing was astronomical; the cost of printing was so high, in fact, that it is difficult to ascertain why someone would venture to do it at all. For Boorman, financial gain could not have been a primary motive. Given these high costs, a print that was successful enough to result in subsequent prints would be one of the only conceivable ways to make a profit.¹⁶ In reprints, materials could be reused, saving the printer the time and money associated with making the materials for the initial print run. Thus, the existence of multiple editions or reprints could be evidence for profit of these early sources.

There are no extant copies from a second printing of Frottole intabulate, and it is unlikely that one ever existed. If nothing else can be said about the economics of Antico’s keyboard collection, it could not have been too successful since its subtitle, Libro primo, implies a future second volume which never came to fruition. While it is likely that economics was a factor in Antico’s failure to produce a second volume, this is far from verifiable and was certainly not the only factor.

Reception

Very little can be said about the reception of Frottole intabulate. As discussed above, multiple reprints can be considered a sign of positive reception and continued appreciation of musical repertoires, but it is unlikely that this occurred for Frottole intabulate. Almost nothing is known about the logistical dissemination of this collection, but there must have been some reason to print an edition of secular song intabulations: an audience, a patron, a desire to do something innovative? Since there was never a second volume, likely no reprints, no similar frottola or other single-genre keyboard publications in sixteenth-century Italy, the print was probably not a wide-ranging success.

Antico’s frontispiece

The publishing rivalry between Petrucci and Antico is apparent in Frottole intabulate. Not only did Antico’s papal privilege to print keyboard intabulations result in the revocation of Petrucci’s ability to do so, Antico flaunted it in the frontispiece to Frottole intabulate (Figure 3). This frontispiece, probably by Antico’s regular collaborator, Giovanni Battista Columba, has been interpreted in numerous ways in the twentieth and twenty-first centuries. It is likely that the monkey holding a lute represents Petrucci because he previously published two sets of frottola arrangements for voice and lute. The woman dismisses the monkey and his lute intabulations in favor of Antico’s superior arrangements for keyboard. Antico’s decision to later publish frottola arrangements for voice and lute, a style he derided in this frontispiece can be interpreted in two chief ways: first, Antico’s Frottole intabulate was unsuccessful since lute was still the primary domestic instrument, which would be further supported by the fact that there was never a second volume of keyboard intabulations. Second, his attack on lute intabulations depicted in the title page was trivial and was of no consequence to the later publication of his own collection for lute and voice. It is probably some combination of the two of these. The important element to consider from this frontispiece is not the debatable specifics of the meaning of each of its characters and features, but rather that the very concept of intabulation for keyboard might have been controversial as a starting point at all. The frontispiece demonstrates that Frottole intabulate’s publisher was self-aware; indeed, it was the first of its kind.

Genre

The frottola was a popular genre in the late-fifteenth, early-sixteenth century. Ottaviano Petrucci, for instance, produced more than ten books of frottole. In addition to the multi-voice original frottola compositions, a tradition of single voice versions accompanied by lute developed, both improvised and in print. The fewer resources needed to execute a performance with just one or two musicians instead of an ensemble of singers allowed for greater versatility and improvisation. Anthony Cummings has examined this performance practice and found evidence that the practice of playing solo versions with self-accompanied improvised lute parts was widespread.¹⁷ Unwritten music (most music in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries) influenced publishers. Both Petrucci and Antico produced volumes of frottole for single voice accompanied by lute: Antico’s Frottole de Misser Bortolomio Tromboncino & Misser Marcheto Carra from around 1520 and Petrucci’s two books from 1509 and 1511, Tenori e contrabass intabulate col sopran in canto figurato per cantar e sonar col lauto, arranged by Franciscus Bossinensis.

There is severely limited evidence for a similar improvised tradition of performing frottole on the keyboard. If there was a significant unwritten precedent for Antico’s intabulations, it is difficult to understand why Petrucci would not have printed for the medium while he had held the papal privilege to do so. It is unlikely that there was a significant precedent for Antico’s collection. Nevertheless, as I have already stated, the frottola, which often contains texts deemed “frivolous”¹⁸ and disconnected from the music, lends itself nicely to textless versions.

Authorship

Understanding authorship in the Renaissance is obscured by modern notions of intellectual property and copyright. Van Orden states,

Though the notion clashes with modern definitions of authorship, one could say that it was not composers who authored printed books, but printers, printer-booksellers, and editors.¹⁹

Composers were not able to title their own music in anthology publications and their music was “rebranded” to suit the needs of the publisher. The frontispiece of a different Antico publication, Liber quindecim missarum (1516), visually demonstrates the prominence of the publisher over the composer. While Antico provides the names of the composers in its table of contents (Figure 4), the more prominent title page shows only Antico and his audience with Pope Leo X (Figure 5).²⁰ Given the beauty of the entirety of this Antico anthology (see Figure 6), one can begin to understand the printer’s prominence.

The elevated importance of publisher over composer in the Renaissance can be seen in Frottole intabulate. Van Orden states, “once again, Antico visually claims authorship of the volume, even though it is devoted almost entirely to the Frottole of Bartolomeo Tromboncino.”²¹ In the case of Frottole intabulate, unlike Liber quindecim missarum, there is an added layer: arrangement. Many past scholars have attempted to attribute or unattribute the arrangement of the frottole in this publication to Antico himself. There is not adequate evidence for or against such an attribution. This lack of information regarding who arranged the songs for keyboard can serve as yet more evidence that musical factors were less important than the publications themselves.

Conflicting attributions among different publications with the same content are pervasive in the early decades of music printing. This further illustrates the indifference publishers had for original authorship since correct attributions were clearly a lower priority than the overall quality of the publication. For example, “Fiamma Amorosa e bella,” number 13 in Frottole intabulate, first appears as number 6 in Canzoni sonetti strambotti et frottole, Libro tertio (henceforth, Libro tertio) and is ascribed to Marco Cara (Marchetto Cara).²² In the 1520 reprint in Venice with Giunta it is anonymous and in Frottole intabulate it is attributed to Bartolomeo Tromboncino. Both Christopher Hogwood and Peter Sterzinger, editors of two modern editions of Frottole intabulate, seem to ignore this issue. Sterzinger simply keeps the attributions from Frottole intabulate, while Hogwood does not include attributions, yet provides references to all the vocal sources. Hogwood’s preface seems as though he is aware of the issue but is unsure how to approach it. Maria Luisa Baldassari, the editor of another modern edition, does not dwell on the issue of attribution, but she denotes possibilities above each individual piece.

Another type of borrowing in early print culture involves using the previously printed content of other publishers. It is common to see repeated pieces among competing publishers without noting who published it first. For example, Antico’s Canzoni nove borrowed nearly half of its contents from Petrucci, his direct competitor. A publication like Frottole Intabulate is embedded in the notion of borrowing given the nature of arrangements.

Separately, composers worked to gain their own independent identity in print. Significantly later, in 1554, for instance, Palestrina paid for the publication of a high-quality volume of his own music.²³ Similarly, one can look as far back as Petrucci’s Josquin publication, the first publication dedicated to a single composer. While it is possible that this is a humanistic turn (the rising importance of the singular creative mind associated with the Renaissance), this is likely not the case. Boorman maintains that the publication of single-composer volumes like those by Petrucci (inclusive of Josquin, Obrecht, and Brumel) are probably an attempt to gain the favor of composers or flatter them into taking a position somewhere.²⁴ When composers did finally accomplish the publication of their own oeuvre, the line of authorship remained blurred: another publisher, Valerio Dorico, took inspiration from Antico’s frontispiece to Liber quindecim missarum for the publication of Cristóbal de Morales’s Missarum liber secundus in 1544. Dorico later modified this woodcut yet again to serve as the famous title page of Palestrina’s Missarum liber primus of 1554 (Figure 7). Although Dorico modified the woodcut from the version he used from the Morales publication, the changes were minimal; the music that Palestrina is holding actually belongs to Morales.²⁵ Despite almost forty years of separation, Palestrina’s frontispiece remains strikingly similar to Antico’s (see Figure 5).

The overall lack of information is not the only reason that making an attribution to Antico himself as the arranger of Frottole intabulate is not possible: publishers were not commonly musicians. Van Orden states,

Though many [publishers] had or acquired some musical literacy, none were composers. Rather, they were inventors, printers, engravers, woodcutters, type founders, and booksellers, developers of a new technology.²⁶

Though not frequently musicians themselves, there is no doubt that publishers possessed remarkable talent. Nevertheless, Antico’s musical literacy and abilities remain ambiguous at best. There is not enough biographical evidence to draw any conclusions regarding his abilities as a musician. On the other hand, given that he signed them, it is possible that two of his own frottole appear in Libro tertio.²⁷ Kimberly Marshall summarizes,

Who actually arranged the pieces for keyboard is not known, but in the absence of precise attributions, it has been assumed that the publisher Antico was himself the transcriber.²⁸

While Marshall questions the assumption that Antico arranged the frottole, Glen Wilson, going a step further, categorically denies such an attribution:

[Antico] was also clever in his choice of arranger (it was not Antico himself, as is often thought, any more than the printer/publisher Attaingnant arranged the first lute publications in France around the same time, or than Bennett Cerf wrote Ulysses). This anonymous master, doubtless one of the countless Italian organists whose works have been lost, produced a very early example of a fully-balanced polyphonic keyboard style. In 1517 Josquin still had four years to live, and voice crossings and gothicisms still frequently appear even in frottole. In Antico’s book there is a radical change: generally keeping the all-important melody and bass lines free and intact (except for modest amounts of added ornamentation), the arranger substituted supple, idiomatic inner voices for the spiky originals, which are often mere filler. Once the notational fog is dispersed, his work turns out to deserve a place of high honour in the annals of music history.²⁹

Wilson’s ideas about the need for a skilled and creative arranger to set the idiomatic inner voices in Frottole intabulate are further supported in my analysis below. However, Wilson provides no concrete evidence for his categorical rejection of Antico as arranger. Ultimately though, the focus of who arranged the frottole is probably a misguided question in the first place—one raised by a modern perspective. If anything is to be learned from this discussion of authorship in early print culture, who arranged the frottole was inconsequential.

Instrumentation

Intended instrumentation of early keyboard music is frequently a source of mystery. The frontispiece of Frottole intabulate (Figure 3) shows the collection being performed on a stringed keyboard instrument. However, as is usually the case for early music, the pieces can certainly be performed on other keyboard instruments. In the preface to his edition of Frottole intabulate, Christopher Hogwood states,

Nothing in the style of the intabulations suggests a preference for one type of keyboard instrument over another, and the title-page illustration itself reinforces the interpretation of “organo” as meaning any keyboard instrument—a usage that was normal in Italian for several centuries.³⁰

The shorter compass of sixteenth-century organs (starting on F) that is evidenced by existing organs and treatises not only suits most of the ranges of the frottole, it accounts for the transposition of several of them; numbers 5, 11, 12, 21, 22, and 23 are all transposed up a fourth or fifth.³¹ Modern recordings have generally favored the harpsichord over the organ, but Baldassari’s recording persuasively makes the musical case for using many different instruments. While they are playable on many instruments, there are characteristics of each keyboard that favor different styles. For instance, I find that “Me lasserà tu mo” (number 24), if played slowly, is enhanced by performance on the organ to accommodate the sustained tones. A testament to the instrumentation’s flexibility, Baldassari successfully uses the spinetta for the same piece. If approached creatively and openly, there are a great many possibilities for instrumentation, including the addition of text with a singer.

Intabulation technique: an analysis

An analysis of characteristics in Antico’s keyboard intabulations and the intabulation technique itself reveals that the simplicity of this collection has been overstated. Comparing Antico’s frottole with Marcantonio Cavazzoni’s Recerchari, motetti, canzoni . . . libro primo from 1523 reveals many similarities, both in terms of intabulation technique and performance difficulty. Though the textures are different due to the frottola’s less complex contrapuntal starting structure, the technical difficulty and aesthetic results are comparable.

Through pointing out shared characteristics of Cavazzoni’s “Plus ne regres” and Antico’s “Dolce ire dolci sdegni” (number 18) and “Che farala che dirala” (number 21), Figures 8 and 9 demonstrate similarities between the Antico and Cavazzoni intabulations. In Figure 8, both examples have surface-level ornamentation in the cantus part (circled in yellow). This ornamentation is generally stepwise with few leaps, almost always in the opposite direction than the way the line was previously moving. Both examples also have non-cantus ornamentation and elements of moving counterpoint (circled in blue). While moving inner voices might seem like a given, the reception of the Antico pieces as somehow simpler or completely homophonic is not demonstrated in these excerpts. From a technical perspective, both examples include challenging left-hand position changes (circled in green). While these hand position changes hardly constitute “difficult,” they are markedly active and noticeably similar.

A comparison of different excerpts reveals another similarity. Both Antico’s “Che farala che dirala” (number 21) and Cavazzoni’s “Plus ne regres” demonstrate a consistent use of parallel thirds in one hand (Figure 9, circled in red). In addition to considering the thirds as a musical element, they also present a technical challenge of comparable difficulty.

One significant difference not evidenced by these examples is that these musical elements are almost always present in the Cavazzoni and not always in the Antico (entire Antico pieces not presented here lack these elements). Figure 9, for instance, involved using a different Antico intabulation than Figure 8, while the same Cavazzoni piece could be retained. Antico’s pieces generally mix fewer elements than Cavazzoni’s. While it is possible to attribute this difference to less artistic merit of the Antico, these differences are better explained by the type of pieces they are arranging for keyboard in the first place. The motet is a longer, more complex, and freer form than the frottola. The simplicity of some of Antico’s intabulations is symptomatic of the straightforwardness of the frottola genre as well as specific elements of single pieces. Nevertheless, in isolated examples like those provided in Figures 8 and 9, it is difficult to distinguish between the two genres.

Since there is an extant copy of almost all the original vocal models for the arrangements in Frottole intabulate, it is possible to place the intabulations side-by-side with the vocal originals to illustrate the degree of difference between the two. Using a prototype comparative graphing system, I demonstrate that the intabulations of the original vocal models are less exact than has often been assumed. This approach removes the complexities of musical notation allowing for measure-by-measure comparison between the vocal original and the intabulation. The system is temporally oriented, meaning that each column represents one voice for one measure. Measure numbers are indicated along the x-axis, and the voices from the vocal model as they relate to the intabulation are along the y-axis. Thus, there is one “cell” for each voice per measure. The shading within these “cells” represents differences between the vocal model and the intabulation. There are three degrees of shading: (1) no shading if the voice in the intabulation is identical to the vocal original; (2) light grey if a voice is embellished in an easy-to-categorize manner; and (3) dark grey if the voice is altered in a hard-to-categorize manner or does not resemble the original model. This macro level analysis leaves many details undescribed, and because of this, there is a significant degree of subjectivity. If the analysis system was refined to be more precise, this subjectivity would all but disappear, but the distillation would also necessarily be more complex.

My goal is not to design a complex analysis system, but rather to uncover general characteristics about the Antico intabulations, I have opted to keep the system simpler, sacrificing specificity that would reduce subjectivity. Since there is currently no systematic way to do an analysis of intabulation technique, a refinement of this graphing system could be useful for analyzing intabulation technique across the repertoire. However, in its current state, it gleans only the most basic information about differences between vocal originals and their intabulations.

This system is put into practice to analyze the differences between “Amor Quando fioriva mia speme,” number 1 in Frottole intabulate, with the vocal model from Antico’s second book of frottole (Figure 10).³² The comparative graphic model of “Amor Quando fioriva mia speme” reveals that it is far from a simple note-for-note intabulation of the vocal original. It seems to indicate the opposite: Antico’s setting is as complex and irregular as it is categorical. By calculating the average number of “cells” that contain alterations from the vocal original, this comparative graphic model reveals that slightly over 58% of the piece’s measures include at least one alteration from the vocal original. Because of the system’s need to define temporal units (here, one measure), this percentage indicates the number of measures that contain alterations. In other words, the 58% does not indicate the exact percentage difference between the original and the intabulation because the measure unit does not account for every note. A percentage difference that accounted for every note would result in a significantly lower number.

Out of all of the “cells” that include a difference, only 34% contain easily categorizable alterations. This seems like a very low number, but it is important to note than many of the embellishments that modern ears associate with “easy to categorize” were less common in the renaissance. Some ornamentation and embellishment in the Antico intabulations may be more categorical than this system assumed. Thus, 58% of the overall number of cells is a more useful and accurate number.

As Glen Wilson identifies in his liner notes, the inner voices of the intabulations in Antico’s collection are significantly altered: “the arranger substituted supple, idiomatic inner voices for the spiky originals.”³³ Figure 10 supports Wilson’s claim because around 75% of the interior “cells” in the comparative graphic model contain alterations, and well more than half of these are substantial.

An analysis of only the outer voices, the cantus and bassus, indicates that a much lower percentage of “cells” contain alterations. 42% of the two outer voices include changes, but this time, 63% of that 42% are easily categorizable differences. This indicates two things: (1) keeping the outer voices recognizable, either by having a lower total amount of alterations or using far fewer uncategorizable alterations, is a priority, probably to retain the essential characteristics of the original song; and (2) large amounts of voice crossing in the vocal original make it impossible to set the inner voices with a high degree of accuracy while the outer voices are easier to retain. Another noticeable but predictable element is that the bassus contains significantly fewer alterations than does the more adventurous cantus. This aligns with what was likely the performance practice of embellishing the melody.

Another piece in the collection, “Per Mio Ben te Vederei” (number 2), further demonstrates the high rate at which the cantus is altered while the bassus remains virtually unchanged (Figure 11). Around 71% of the measures in “Per Mio te Vederei” contain alterations in the cantus voice, and 63% of that 71% are not easily categorizable. Meanwhile, only around 10% of the measures contain alterations in the bassus voice.

Based on these prototype analyses, it seems safe to conclude that an experienced musician, beyond someone who has basic musical literacy, would be required to arrange a polyphonic song as skillfully as has been done in Antico’s collection. Significantly more conclusive data could be drawn if this kind of note-for-note comparative analysis was done for the entire collection of intabulations as well as if the system was further refined. However, even in its present state, these analyses demonstrate that Antico’s collection is well situated and comparable in difficulty with other contemporaneous keyboard music.

Editions, recordings, and conclusions

Given the obscurity of this collection, it is surprising that there are several modern editions of Frottole intabulate. The most extensive preface is in Christopher Hogwood’s edition published by Zen-On Music in 1984.³⁴ Although still worthwhile, its editorial practices are less consistent and some of the ideas in its preface are dated. Another modern edition by Peter Sterzinger published by Doblinger is widely available.³⁵ I highly recommend the most recent edition, which is edited by Maria Luisa Baldassari and published by Ut Orpheus.³⁶

There are also several complete recordings of the collection. Fabio Antonio Falcone performs the entire keyboard oeuvre of Marcantonio Cavazzoni and Andrea Antico in The Renaissance Keyboard produced by Brilliant Classics in 2015.³⁷ He uses the organ for the Cavazzoni and the harpsichord for the Antico. As previously mentioned, Glen Wilson has also recorded the complete collection. To affect, his recording, Animoso mio desire: 16th-Century Italian Keyboard Favourites, produced by Naxos in 2015,³⁸ is mixed with dances from manuscript sources. All his performances are on harpsichord or spinetta. My own complete recording is the only to use exclusively the organ. Experimental in nature, my unproduced recording was made in conjunction with a related research project on early secular keyboard music across Europe.³⁹ I most highly recommend Maria Luisa Baldassari’s complete recording, Andrea Antico: Frottole Intabulate, Libro Primo, 1517, produced by Tactus in 2017.⁴⁰ Her recording embraces, to great success, the instrumentation possibilities of the collection. Her performance includes the spinetta, clavichord, clavisimbalum, harpsichord, and organ. Her choices are effective, but there is no reason performers should feel obliged to adhere to her instrumentation decisions. While I generally prefer Baldassari’s interpretations, much can be learned from the varied tempi and stylistic choices of many of the other performances.

There are innumerable recordings that only include several pieces. In many ways these recordings are more successful since listening to twenty-six intabulations in the same style is not particularly captivating. While I do not intend to provide a complete list, two notable recordings of this type are Kimberly Marshall’s Sienese Splendor, produced by Loft in 2002⁴¹ and, though it only includes one of Antico’s frottole, Francesco Cera’s The Organ at European Courts produced by Brilliant Classics in 2016.⁴²

Antico’s frottole, now more than five hundred years old, still sound fresh if given the energy of a thoughtful performer. This short essay revisits two areas, cultural context and musical analysis, to inspire new interpretations of this collection. Though frequently acknowledged, Antico’s collection has been largely ignored for its contents. The only factor that seems to attract attention to Frottole intabulate is that it was innovative, but this was relatively unimportant during its time. If given the chance, the music transcends simple innovation. The song intabulations in Antico’s collection can be charming, fun, serious, emotional, and intensely beautiful. The short duration of almost all its pieces (some can be less than one minute!) make them easily programmable in a variety of modern contexts. With a little creativity and musical imagination, these pieces can come to life.

The research for this project was completed in part thanks to funding from The Arizona Center for Medieval and Renaissance Studies.

Notes

1. The intended instrumentation of the Faenza collection has been debated. See Timothy J. McGee, “Once again, the Faenza Codex: A reply to Roland Eberlein,” Early Music 20:3 (August 1992): 466–68; Roland Eberlein, “The Faenza Codex: music for organ or for lute duet?” Early Music 20:3 (August 1992): 460–66; and Timothy J. McGee, “Instruments and the Faenza Codex,” Early Music 14:4 (November 1986): 480–90.

2. Jon Laukvik, Historical Performance Practice in Organ Playing: An Introduction based on selected Organ Works of the 16th–18th Centuries, trans. Brigitte and Michael Harris (Stuttgart: Carus, 1996), 113.

3. Willi Apel, The History of Keyboard Music to 1700, trans. Hans Tischler (Bloomington, Indiana: Indiana University Press, 1997), 109.

4. Catherine Weeks Chapman, “Andrea Antico,” microfilm (PhD diss., Harvard University, 1964).

5. Ibid., 1.

6. Grove Music Online, s.v. “Frottola,” accessed January 14, 2019, http://www.oxfordmusiconline.com/subscriber/article/grove/music/10313.

7. Baldassari, v.

8. Antico’s second book of frottole is of questionable origins. What seems like an existing copy is missing its title page in the Biblioteca Marucelliana in Florence. This particular copy is probably a reprint from around 1520.

9. Giuseppe Radole cited a manuscript in the Biblioteca Nazionale Centrale di Firenze as containing the bass part to number 3. However, Baldassari has determined that this was initially incorrect and, despite being an error, has been repeated by editors who had not seen the Florence manuscript. Maria Luisa Baldassari, ed., Frottole intabulate da sonare organi, Libro primo, Andrea Antico, 1517 (Bologna: Ut Orpheus Edizioni, 2016), v. In addition to existing in Petrucci’s eleventh book of frottole, Christopher Hogwood has suggested that number 19 may have been in Antico’s lost fifth book of frottole. This would make number 19 the only intabulation that was published before its vocal model, and there is no reason beyond wild speculation to assume this would be the case. Christopher Hogwood, ed., Frottole da sonare organi, Libro primo, Andrea Antico, 1517 (Tokyo: Zen-On Music, 1984), 6.

10. Glen Wilson, Animoso mio desire: 16th-Century Italian Keyboard Favourites, liner notes, Naxos 8.572983, 2015, 5.

11. Ibid., 6.

12. Ibid., 131.

13. Stanley Boorman, “Thoughts on the Popularity of Printed Music in 16th-Century Italy,” Fontes artis musicae 48:2 (April 2001): 130.

14. Kate Van Orden, “Music Books and Their Authors,” in Music, Authorship, and the Book in the First Century of Print (Berkley, California: University of California Press, 2013), 36.

15. Ibid.

16. Boorman, 132–134.

17. Anthony M. Cummings, “The ‘Great Italian Songbook’ of the early cinquecento: Arrangements of frottole for voice and lute,” Studi musicali 2:1 (2011): 25-48.

18. Grove Music Online, s.v. “Frottola.”

19. Van Orden, 30.

20. Ibid., 31.

21. Ibid., 34.

22. William F. Prizer, “Local Repertories and the Printed Book: Antico’s Third Book of Frottole (1513),” in Music in Renaissance Cities and Courts: Studies in Honor of Lewis Lockwood, 347–372, eds. Jessie Ann Owens and Anthony M. Cummings (Michigan: Harmonie Park Press, 1997), 352.

23. Van Orden, 42.

24. Ibid., 44.

25. Ibid., 58–59.

26. Ibid., 38–39. She says that Gardano (Gardane) is an exception since he was a professional musician first.

27. Grove Music Online, s.v. “Andrea Antico,” accessed January 14, 2019, http://www.oxfordmusiconline.com/subscriber/article/grove/music/01015. Some have posited that Andrea Antico is the same person as the composer of frottole featured in Petrucci’s publications called A. de Antiquis. Martin Picker, however, posits that Antico never signed his name this way and that it is unlikely that they are the same person.

28. Kimberly Marshall, ed., Historical Organ Techniques and Repertoire: An Historical Survey of Organ Performance Practices and Repertoire, vol. 9, Renaissance 1500–1550 (Colfax, South Carolina: Wayne Leupold Editions, 2004), 9.

29. Wilson, 3.

30. Hogwood, 8.

31. Ibid.

32. These analyses were completed using modern editions except the first book of frottole, which is readily accessible online. Baldassari.; Francesco Luisi, ed. Il Secondo Libro Di Frottole. Andrea Antico (Rome: Pro Musica Studium, 1976).

33. Wilson, 3.

34. Hogwood. See complete citation above.

35. Peter Sterzinger, ed., Frottole intabulate da sonare organi, Libro primo, Andrea Antico, 1517 (Vienna: Doblinger, 1984).

36. Baldassari. See complete citation above.

37. Fabio Antonio Falcone, Andrea Antico & Marc Antonio Cavazzoni: Complete Keyboard Music, Brilliant Classics BC95007, 2015, compact disc.

38. Glen Wilson, Animoso mio desire: 16th-Century Italian Keyboard Favourites, Naxos 8.572983, 2015, compact disc.

39. Alexander Meszler, “Andrea Antico: Frottole intabulate da sonare organi, Libro Primo (1517) (Complete Collection),” accessed January 14, 2019, https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLc8LXDy2nGngm1hmp2tNfcS2jYswvHbcT.

40. Maria Luisa Baldassari, Andrea Antico: Frottole intabulate da sonare organi, Book 1, Tactus TC480101, 2015, compact disc.

41. Kimberly Marshall, Sienese Splendor, Loft LRCD-1046, 2002, compact disc.

42. Francesco Cera, The Organ at European Courts, Brilliant Classics BC95240, 2016, compact disc.

Alexander Meszler

Alexander Meszler is a doctoral student of Kimberly Marshall at Arizona State University. He currently lives in Versailles, France, on a Fulbright award where he is investigating secularism and the organ as well as continuing organ studies with Jean-Baptiste Robin. A strong advocate of music by living composers, he serves as a member of the American Guild of Organists’ Committee on New Music. He is a member of The Diapason’s 20 Under 30 Class of 2019.

Elements of old and new make for fertile ground in organ composition; Klaus Huber (1924–2017) built his organ works on this ground. Although even the most recent organ works can hardly be considered new, they still stand outside of the standard canon of repertoire, and thus, sound refreshing.

Music historians have already begun to specialize in classical music of the last decades of the twentieth century. Varying interpretations of historical periods and styles among musicologists have emerged, but the lasting impact of post-war music is still up for debate. In writing about Huber, I intend to introduce a composer who I believe deserves a place in the organ repertoire.

Apart from his work as a composer, Huber is best known as a teacher. Two of his most significant teaching positions were as professor of composition at the Académie de Musique (1964–1973) in Basel, Switzerland, and later, at the Fribourg Musikhochschule (1973–1990). He won numerous awards and prizes for his work in orchestral and chamber genres. The depth of Huber’s influence as a composition teacher cannot be overstated; his name is found prominently in the biographies of composers such as Brian Ferneyhough, Toshio Hosokawa, Michael Jarrell, Younghi Pagh-Paan, Wolfgang Rihm, André Richard, Hans Wüthrich, and Hans-Ola Ericsson. Many of his students went on to write their own organ works.

I became interested in the music of Klaus Huber for three reasons: (1) a desire to explore music of the twentieth century that is underrepresented; (2) Huber’s historically influenced approach to composition for the organ; and (3) the fact that most of his works are relatively short and can be performed on a wide variety of instruments, making them easily programmable. Currently, the only article related directly to Huber’s organ works is a similar introduction from 2010 in La Tribune de l’Orgue, in French, by Guy Bovet.¹ This article combines my observations with Bovet’s and explores aspects of the difficulty, style, and programmability of each of Huber’s organ works. As a supplement, interested readers should consult Bovet’s article, Huber’s Oxford Music Online entry,² the composer’s thorough website (www.klaushuber.com),³ and finally, the Institute for Research and Coordination in Acoustics/Music (IRCAM) contemporary music database, “B.R.A.H.M.S.” (Base de documentation sur la musique contemporaine, http://brahms.ircam.fr).⁴

Huber’s style

Huber’s early compositions exhibit a combination of influences that is paradoxically both conservative and progressive—for instance, Franco-Flemish polyphony, harmony and counterpoint of the Baroque and Classical eras, serialism, and non-Western music.⁵ On the one hand, his initial resistance to the progressive (but standardized) serial developments of the Darmstadt School made him seem unadventurous and attached to the past. On the other hand, the application of his unique voice to the music of the past is remarkably postmodern. In many ways, he anticipates some later styles that, early in his life, were yet to emerge.

Des Engels Anredung an die Seele, his 1959 chamber cantata, unified serial structures with consonant intervals that launched him onto the world stage and won him first prize in the International Society for Contemporary Music (ISCM) competition. Huber loved texts, especially old ones, even medieval. Though opera is not a significant genre in his compositional output, the oratorio and other vocal genres are. Later in life, Huber wrote experimental compositions that use unusual techniques such as having multiple temporal planes that differ in tempo. Finally, perhaps an influence from his students, he eventually turned drastically away from traditional Western styles toward non-Western musics where he used non-Western pitch constructions, instruments, and styles.

Organ works

In general, Huber’s organ works date from his early professional decades (after his student years) and are representative of a more conservative aesthetic, not necessarily typical of all his compositions. Metanoia, however, was not composed until 1995. Though he has written only five solo pieces for organ, a significant number of chamber and choir pieces use organ. I will not discuss these, except one, Sonata da chiesa (1953), for which the organ part is particularly prominent and marks his first exploration of the instrument’s capabilities. Since Huber was a proficient violinist, a composition that combines the unfamiliar territory of the organ with the expressive potential of the violin, an instrument Huber was intimately conversant with, seems an appropriate starting point. Guy Bovet has compared it to a better-known piece by the same name and similar instrumentation, Sonata da chiesa (1938) of Frank Martin (1890–1974). Huber’s piece comprises three movements: Poco Allegro, Allegro, and Largo. Until 2004, this piece remained in manuscript, but now that it is available in print, it will hopefully find its way into the repertoire.

It is a strange coincidence (and, to my knowledge, only a coincidence) that the first organ work of György Ligeti (1923–2006), Ricercar (1953), was conceived only one year before Huber’s first solo work, Ciacona per organo (1954). Both works have thin textures and are in relatively antiquated forms. It is notable that despite vast political separation, two significant postwar compositions, for an instrument virtually forgotten to the Second Viennese School, share much in common. Huber’s chaconne is influenced by a repeated figure that is difficult to identify since it appears in so many modified forms. Ciacona’s form is, in loose terms, ABA. The first large section marked Allegro molto starts with an alternation of chromatic passages (Example 1) with sections marked subito tranquillo (Example 2). The same section culminates in a passage marked agitato with a thicker chordal texture (Example 3). The B section is scored as a trio with the first entry in the pedal. Huber’s fascination with the organ’s capability to play trios continues and develops throughout his other compositions. Following this rhythmically challenging trio section, the composer requests a twenty-second pause (Example 4) before returning to the material of the A section presented in quasi-imitation. Registration suggestions are generally limited to pitch levels, but dynamic markings are supplied liberally. Thus, the piece should transfer easily to organs of many styles.

In memoriam Willy Burkhard (1955), Huber’s second piece for the organ, is dedicated to the passing of his former teacher at the Zürich Conservatory. Burkhard, like Huber, had written solo works for the organ and featured it in his other chamber works. The structure of the piece is in two movements, Molto sostenuto and Adagietto. The harmonic content is strongly tertian but includes hints of quartal harmonies. Unfamiliar harmonies in Huber’s early works can usually be accounted for as expressive, dissonant, but resolving, albeit unconventionally, non-chord tones. Bovet compares the singing quality of the first movement (Example 5) to Hindemith’s Trauermusik, but I am inclined to go a step further and argue that this singing quality even extends to parts of Hindemith’s organ sonatas, particularly the slow movements. The second movement is again written as a trio. In the decades surrounding 1950, Huber is not alone in his fascination with the trio texture—Vincent Persichetti’s sonata of 1960 (and his first harpsichord sonata from 1951), or earlier, Distler’s Organ Sonata of 1938/9. Huber’s second movement is technically a chorale trio since it features Vater unser im Himmelreich on a 4′ reed in the pedal. The composer achieves a great deal of harmonic and rhythmic interest though having only two free voices over the chorale (Example 6). It is important that performers, despite the rhythmic complexity, not lose sight of the compound triple meter that is crucial to the gentle, lilting character. Bovet has argued that this piece is suitable for liturgical use as well as concert use. In total, both movements are only around seven minutes long.

After about a ten-year hiatus from writing for solo organ, Huber returned to the instrument with In te Domine speravi (1964). It was around this same time that he composed Des Engels Anredung an die Seele, which, among other pieces, confirmed his fame and solidified his compositional identity. In te Domine speravi was composed for a three-manual Merklin organ in Basel and was awarded first prize in the Kulturwerk Nordhessen composition competition for organ. It is a short fantasy followed by a quieter section in compound meter. Though the piece seems intimidating since it includes irregular and challenging rhythms, prominent double pedal, and four staves, the piece is significantly easier than it appears (Example 7). Bovet humorously writes, “Despite the complicated appearance of the score upon first look, the piece is not difficult (One does not even need to know how to count since the composer indicates ‘senza misura’!).”⁶ The dense beginning may mark a definite change in style from his earlier organ works, but in the second section, Huber returns to a tranquil trio texture in compound meter. The piece concludes with a rapid crescendo returning to the opening material. This work is around six minutes long, making it even shorter than the previous works.

Cantus cancricans (1965) was composed the following year. Though the title seems to indicate the presence of a crab canon, Huber does not provide a strict one. However, the opening is mirrored at the end. Cantus cancricans, unsurprisingly, is scored as a trio. It was composed for “Schweizerischen Arbeitskreises für Evangelische Kirchenmusick,” a church group in Zurich. Originally, it was to be played after the reading of John 3:30 on the feast of Saint John the Baptist. The piece also includes a short congregational song that should be sung at the fermata on page five before continuing. By this point, Huber’s writing style had become much more complex, both harmonically, but especially rhythmically (Example 8). Logistically, to follow Huber’s dynamic markings, it is necessary to either utilize two expression boxes or frequently change registrations. The former is probably preferable since it would allow the colors to remain intact even though operating two boxes can often be cumbersome. Cantus cancricans is only about four minutes in length, yet is likely the hardest of his works, excepting Metanoia.

Following Cantus cancricans, Huber took an even longer hiatus from solo organ but returned in 1995 to write his longest and by far most complex work for the instrument, Metanoia (1995). The work is a meditation that lasts slightly under thirty minutes. The score consistently has five staves that, though difficult to read, accurately and helpfully portrays the intended colors by manual and register. The work has been published only in manuscript facsimile that, although adequately clear, still makes it more challenging to learn. Metanoia I, from the same year, is the same composition reworked for organ, alto trombone, two boy sopranos, and some simple percussion. It received its first performance, despite being written later, earlier than the original score. The Greek title literally means repentance or penitence and is a reference to the fundamentally Christian admittance of sin. The score calls for an organ in a non-equal temperament.

Metanoia begins by alternating stacked harmonies broken up by various colors and rhythms and frequently changing densities (Example 9) with sections of fast polyrhythmic passagework (Example 10). When these passages include a pedal part, they can be dauntingly challenging. At other times, similar passagework is presented over pedal tones. After the third fast passage, the texture returns to broken harmonies as expected (as in Example 9), but the dynamic suddenly changes to fortissimo and it introduces double pedal. Following this, Huber returns to quieter dynamics and presents a new texture. The work then returns to the newly introduced fortissimo section of broken chords with double pedal. At the end of this section, only about halfway through the piece, Huber changes again and does not return to any of the opening material. From here to the end of the piece (around fifteen minutes), Huber presents alternating chords on different manuals. He calls for alterations of pitch by various degrees of a semitone that are not possible when restricted by equal temperament.

Bovet describes the overall aesthetic of Metanoia: From the listeners’ perspective the experience is not truly musical: it is more like a musical-theatrical happening, or a long meditation; in short, the experience is total. Time is abolished; the sonorities inspire dreams. In the end, Metanoia is a large dream: a moment when the listener gives himself or herself the time, where life stops in a sort of parenthetical reflection on eternity. In our time when no one has time for anything, this can be pure happiness.⁷

A harpsichord work

Though not an organ work, readers may be interested in La Chace (1963) for solo harpsichord. The Diapason has enough harpsichord readers that I believe interest in this work is probably self evident. The piece was written for and dedicated to Antoinette Vischer, though she did not premiere it. It is scored in four staves, two for each manual, which, though complicating the notation, displays his specific intentions related to the use of each keyboard. His registration markings are clear and useful. Interested harpsichordists will find this a technically challenging and musically satisfying piece of music.

Conclusion

Huber’s organ works are rarely recorded or performed. Given his influence on the world of twentieth-century composition, it is curious that he seems to have almost no place in the organ literature. Several of his pieces, as Bovet has pointed out, could be used in more exploratory church music programs. Concert organists should take note of the relatively short duration of most of Huber’s pieces, making them programmable. If nothing else, I hope that organists will take note of Huber, not only for his works, but also for the extent of his influence elsewhere. Having passed only recently in 2017, we should take stock and remember the significance and beauty of the music of Klaus Huber.

Notes

1. Guy Bovet, “L’œvre pour et avec orgue de Klaus Huber (né en 1924),” La Tribune de l’Orgue – Revue Suisse romande, 62/3 (2010): 3–11.

2. Max Nyffeler, “Huber, Klaus,” Grove Music Online, Oxford University Press, 2001, accessed June 6, 2017, www.oxfordmusiconline.com.

3. “Klaus Huber,” accessed June 6, 2017, www.klaushuber.com.

4. “Klaus Huber: Compositeur Suisse né le 30 novembre 1924 à Berne,” Ircam-Centre Pompidou, accessed June 6, 2017, http://brahms.ircam.fr/klaus-huber.

5. Nyffeler.

6. Bovet, 8.

7. Ibid., 11.

Scores by Klaus Huber

Cantus Cancricans. Basel: Bärenreiter-Verlag Kassel (5486), 1968.

Ciacona. Kilchberg: Sinus-Verlag (10016), 1954.

In memoriam Willy Burkhard. Basel: Bärenreiter-Verlag Kassel (4462), 1965.

In te Domine speravi. Basel: Bärenreiter-Verlag Kassel (4463), 1966.

La Chace. Mainz: Edition Schott (5429), 1965.

Metanoia. München: G. Ricordi & Co., 1995.

Sonata da chiesa. München: G. Ricordi & Co., 2004.

Photo credit: Harald Rehling

Gavin Black

The Art of the Fugue, II

For discussion in this the next two columns, I offer the program notes I wrote for my first performance of The Art of the Fugue in May 1985. This performance, on the Fisk organ at Westminster Choir College, was one of my two graduate recitals. I prepared these notes over more or less an entire semester and had some input and help from my teacher Eugene Roan and from William Hays, who was the advisor for degree recital program notes. I have been pleased with this essay, and I have used it as partial program notes for subsequent performances. It has an integrity to its overall structure—thanks in significant part to Dr. Hays’s assistance—such that I have not changed it or excerpted it. Despite that, if I were to write these notes today, there are a number of things I would phrase differently.

It could be fruitful to use some of those theoretical revisions to frame future columns about the learning process, the evolution of my relationship with this work, and the relationship between my own work on this piece and teaching. Some of what I wrote about the order of the movements was too cut-and-dried, rather too simple, failing to reflect some of the complexities of what we do and do not know about the piece. In later columns, I will discuss that, including some new ideas.

History and form

J. S. Bach wrote The Art of the Fugue during the last years of his life, probably beginning work on what turned out to be his longest and most complex instrumental composition in 1743, leaving the opus incomplete at his death in July 1750. It was published in 1751 in Leipzig in a poorly engraved edition, the preparation of only part of which had been supervised by Bach himself. The publication was not a commercial success, and the project was soon abandoned by Bach’s heirs.

Copies of The Art of the Fugue circulated among musicians, however, from that time on. In 1799 a scholar referred in print to the work as “celebrated,” and both Mozart and Beethoven owned copies. The Art of the Fugue was studied extensively by musicians throughout the nineteenth century, and nearly twenty editions or arrangements were published during those years. The first known public performance of the whole work took place in 1927 in Leipzig under the direction of Karl Straube, one of Bach’s successors as Kantor of Saint Thomas School in that city.

The Art of the Fugue is a work of well over an hour in length, consisting of eighteen movements all based in one way or another on the same musical theme. This theme occurs in something like one hundred different forms throughout the piece. The first and simplest form of the theme is shown in Example 1.

The theme is closely based on the tonic triad of the key of D minor, or, looking at it another way, on the interval of a fifth, and on the idea of filling that interval in. The first gesture creates a perfect fifth; the next gesture fills in that fifth, in the simplest possible way. The rest of the theme provides the remaining notes needed to fill in the perfect fifth, D–A, by step, and outlines a diminished fifth, C-sharp–G. In the tonal world of Bach the perfect fifth is the source of security and repose, while the diminished fifth is a source of tension, unrest, and striving. The two are antithetical to one another. This antithesis, with the one side represented not only by the perfect fifth as such but also by all diatonicism, and the other side mainly represented by the chromaticism implicit in the diminished fifth, is a major source of direction, growth, and meaning throughout The Art of the Fugue.

The opening theme also contains, in significant contexts, all the intervals from the semitone to the perfect fifth. This is in spite of the brevity, compactness, and apparent simplicity of the theme. The use of such a theme creates a situation in which any interval, either open or filled in by step, can be used by the composer as a motive significantly related to the main theme of the work. This possibility for motivic interrelation is an important source of unity and coherence in The Art of the Fugue in spite of considerable variety and diversity.

Most of the movements of The Art of the Fugue are fugues or are largely constructed through fugal procedures. Four movements are strict two-voice canons. Bach did not designate any of the movements as fugues, but rather as contrapuncti. (He may well also not have been responsible for the title under which the work is known, since the title page was engraved after his death.) He seems to have been concerned in his use of nomenclature to suggest that the movements were not autonomous fugues such as the organ fugues or the fugues of the Well-Tempered Clavier (all of which are paired with non-fugal preludes), but rather stages in the working out of a musical idea, or a set of musical ideas, through a variety of contrapuntal techniques. Several of the movements, even apart from the canons, would probably not have satisfied Bach’s own definition of a fugue as such, because of serious irregularities in the construction of their opening sections. These irregularities, however, make perfect sense as stages in the contrapuntal development of the work as a whole. They serve invariably as responses to what has come before and as preparations for what will follow. These relationships are described in detail below in the comments on the individual contrapuncti.

The four two-voice canons (numbers 12–15) are lighter in texture and mood than any of the other movements and are simpler in construction. Coming after the most complex of all the contrapuncti, and before the movements in which contrapuntal ingenuity is carried to its farthest extremes, they provide for performer and listeners a moment of repose. This makes possible a renewal of energy and of momentum towards the climax of the final movement. Many individual Bach organ fugues contain within their structure a similar “relaxed” passage, which serves a similar function of providing a breathing space before the final climactic musical gesture. (Measures 121–139 of the Fugue in C minor, BWV 546ii, and measures 141–155 of the Fugue in E minor, BWV 548ii, are particularly good examples of this.) This suggests that The Art of the Fugue should be thought of not as a collection of fugues, but as one structure analogous to a single giant fugue. Further facts bear this analogy out (assuming it is not pressed into too detailed a form). The first movements of the work introduce the main musical ideas in a straightforward way, as does the exposition of a fugue.

The middle movements of The Art of the Fugue develop those musical ideas and others, with increasing complexity, contrapuntal and harmonic, and with increasing variety of texture. This is similar to the middle section (sometimes called “development”) of many fugues, especially, longer ones. The four canons fulfill the purpose described above. In the final three movements harmonic complexity is reduced, and anything even approaching the almost impenetrable density of Contrapunctus 11 is abandoned. In Contrapunctus 17, the original theme is reintroduced in a form closer to the opening of Contrapunctus 1 than anything that has been heard since Contrapunctus 4. This is analogous to the return of the initial subject that characterizes the final section of many fugues. The extraordinary contrapuntal ingenuity of Contrapuncti 16 and 17 (see below) is analogous to the increase in contrapuntal complexity that is found at the end of many Bach fugues, usually in the form of stretto.

Neither the first edition of The Art of the Fugue nor any of the eighteenth-century manuscript copies say on what instrument or instruments the work was meant to be performed. Over the years many different performing forces have been used, including piano, chamber ensembles of various composition, symphony orchestra, jazz combo, harpsichord, and organ. Many scholars believe that Bach actually meant the work for organ, some that he meant it for harpsichord, even though the posthumous title page says neither. The first edition was published in open score, that is, with a separate line for each voice. This was an old Italian and German way of presenting keyboard music used, for example, by Samuel Scheidt in his Tabulatura Nova (1624). It was certainly not the standard keyboard notation in 1750, but Bach had used it shortly before, in his Canonic Variations, BWV 769. The contrapuncti all fit very well under two hands and two feet, and with some difficulty under two hands alone. The pedal parts work as pedal parts: that is, they can be learned using the kinds of pedal technique known to Bach and his students, and when so learned they are comfortable (though occasionally challenging) to play. This would not be true of the bass lines of Bach chamber works or harpsichord works, by and large. The editors of the first edition chose to include a short additional piece by Bach, to compensate the purchaser for the incomplete state of the last movement. The piece they selected was an organ chorale, which they also presented in open score. It is thus likely that they assumed that the users of the work would be organists, even though they did not say so on the title page. It is also quite possible that Bach himself wanted musicians to use their own judgment as to how the piece can be realized in sound.

B-A-C-H

The third subject of the last movement of The Art of the Fugue is made up of notes that, in the standard German musical nomenclature, spell the name “Bach” (Example 2). In the German system, B-flat is called B, and B-natural is called H. Bach was aware throughout his life that the letters of his name made a plausible musical theme—it was certainly known to his musical ancestors as well—but he used it sparingly in his music. The only extensive use he made of it was in The Art of the Fugue. The final appearance of the B-A-C-H theme as the subject of a powerfully climactic fugue in Contrapunctus 18 is prepared by a chain of musical developments running through the whole work. This chain is best followed retrospectively. Before Contrapunctus 18, the B-A-C-H theme appears in Contrapunctus 11. Here, the four relevant notes form part of a lively and insistent eighth-note motive (Example 3). They do not stand on their own, but they are clearly present. This eighth-note motive, however, is an inversion of one of the main themes of Contrapunctus 8. That movement is thus revealed to have contained the B-A-C-H theme in a highly disguised form. The motive also occurs in once in Contrapunctus 8, casually, without repetition or development, in the bass voice at measure 143, transposed up a whole step. The first appearance of the B-A-C-H theme in the work occurs at the end of Contrapunctus 4, where the four notes form part of an otherwise meandering free chromatic countersubject to the main theme. This serves to underline the essential chromaticism of the B-A-C-H theme, and to tie that theme to the other chromaticism in The Art of the Fugue. The seeds of the chromaticism in the work, and thus the seeds of the B-A-C-H motive itself, are found, as explained above, in the initial statement of the main theme. The four contrapuncti in which the B-A-C-H theme is found (4, 8, 11, and 18) are by a considerable margin the four longest movements in the work, and each of the four is longer than the last.

To be continued.

Michael Delfín

Equally at home with historical keyboards and the piano, Michael Delfín is a top prizewinner of the Jurow International Harpsichord Competition and is a member of The Diapason’s 20 Under 30 Class of 2021. Based in Cincinnati, Ohio, he is artistic director of Seven Hills Baroque. Michael Delfín’s website: michaeldelfin.com

A new edition of Mattheson’s Fingersprache

Die Wohlklingende Fingersprache (The Melodious Talking-Fingers), by Johann Mattheson, edited by Colin Booth and Matthew Brown. Soundboard, 2020, 70 pages, with preface in English and German, $37.00. Available from ravencd.com.

Two years ago, the British publishing house Soundboard unveiled a new edition of Johann Mattheson’s largely neglected Die Wohlklingende Fingersprache, best translated as “The Melodious Talking Fingers.” Edited by Colin Booth and Matthew Brown, this publication presents the performer with both a clean reprint of the original 1730s text as well as a historical preface, performance practice suggestions, and critical commentary. Considering the rarity of reliable editions of this work, Soundboard’s issue is a must-have for all historical keyboardists.

German composer Johann Mattheson published the Fingersprache in two halves, in 1735 and 1737, and dedicated it to his one-time rival and subsequently colleague George Frederick Handel. The work consists of twelve fugues as well as various dances and character pieces interspersed throughout the work. A second edition followed in 1749; though merely a reissue of the original with a French title, it specifies the harpsichord as the intended medium for enjoyment. Breitkopf & Härtel presented a new edition just over two centuries later, edited by Lothar Hoffman-Erbrecht, which presented musicians with considerable errors. Booth and Brown have corrected many of these errors, and with the addition of substantial commentary, their work fulfills a need in the historical performance field, particularly in drawing attention to Mattheson’s much-neglected output.

Mattheson’s music utilizes the same vocabulary as that of his German compatriots Handel, Johann Sebastian Bach, and Georg Philipp Telemann, but he developed his own dialect through his fugal writing and often singular dances, both of which reveal a taste for harmony and phrasing bordering on idiosyncratic. The Fingersprache’s creativity in fugal writing constantly entertains the reader, who will encounter various contrapuntal games such as multiple subjects and/or countersubjects within the same fugue, choral-sounding textures thrown in between highly idiomatic keyboard writing, and a rich figural vocabulary stemming from Mattheson’s German roots. In addition, Mattheson demonstrates a thorough knowledge of other styles such as the French clavecinists in Seriosità, an allemande-like character piece, and also a learned style combined with galant virtuosity in Fugue X for three subjects. He nonetheless closes with his Germanic roots in the final fugue, which takes as its subject the chorale tune Werde munter, mein Gemüte.

Booth and Brown provide details of Mattheson’s life that allow the performer some context into the Fingersprache’s origins and transmission. Their commentary situates the collection within the world of Bach and Handel, sometimes comparing the keyboard music of the three but more commonly highlighting the singularity of Mattheson’s unique writing.

As very little performance practice exists specifically for Mattheson’s music, Booth’s brief summary of practices will serve the performer well as a starting point for further exploration. Although sources themselves are left to the performer to explore, any keyboardist who knows of Mattheson will also know of
Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach and likely Johann Kirnberger and other Germans who penned guidance for keyboardists of their day. One might also benefit from consulting Booth’s liner notes from his recent recording of the Fingersprache for a more personal take on the music (see “Harpsichord Notes,” November 2021 issue, page 11). After all, performers are the ones actually getting their hands dirty!

Also included in this publication is a critical report by Brown, complete with a statement of editorial practice. A policy of “refraining from intervention” guided the editors, and their critical report reflects this practice. They state ambiguities in the original edition, rather than merely correcting them without comment, as many twentieth-century urtext editions tended to do. The curious performer may consult the original editions on the International Music School Library Project (IMSLP, imslp.org) to verify accuracy.

Booth and Brown’s publication deserves a place in the library of any serious historical keyboardist. As original sources become more and more easily obtainable, the need for updated, clean editions requires a critical approach to editing. Keyboardists will readily appreciate this painstaking publication that brings to light a neglected yet considerable work of the High Baroque.

Colin Booth’s website: colinbooth.co.uk

Steven Young

Steven Young is a professor of music at Bridgewater State University, Bridgewater, Massachusetts, where he teaches courses in music theory and directs the University’s choral ensembles. He is also organist at St. Martin’s Episcopal Church, Providence, Rhode Island. Young has presented papers and performances for regional and national conventions of the American Guild of Organists, the Organ Historical Society, and the American Choral Directors Association. He research interests focus on late nineteenth- and early twentieth-century French organist/composers, and he has written several feature articles and reviews for The Diapason. He also wrote the liner notes for Christine Kamp’s series of recordings of the organ works of Louis Vierne on the Festivo label. Young has recorded several of the works of Boston organist/composer Henry M. Dunham on the AFKA label.

In October 1926, just a month before his death, Aloÿs Claussmann chatted with an old friend, Claude Nievre, a writer for La Montagne, a newspaper whose office was directly below the apartment where Claussmann lay dying. Nievre had written an article titled “Un grand talent méconnu, Claussmann, musicien et compositeur” (An underestimated talent, Claussmann, musician and composer).¹ Among other things, Nievre made the point that Claussmann’s many years of service to his community of Clermont-Ferrand should be rewarded by naming him to the Legion d’honneur, the highest civilian award given by the country to celebrate accomplishments given in service to one’s country. Claussmann had spent fifty years selflessly serving the musical and religious community of Clermont-Ferrand with little or no thought to promoting his own career as performer, teacher, or composer. Sadly, the award was never granted to Claussmann, despite the efforts of all his friends and colleagues. However, his tireless efforts bore many wonderful fruits in terms of quality students, artistic performances, and respected compositions.

A native of the Alsace region of France, born in Uffholz on July 5, 1850, Claussmann began piano lessons at age 11 with his uncle, a local musician and teacher. Following those lessons, Claussmann studied at the Petit Séminaire de La Chapelle-sous-Rougemont. Between 1868 and 1870, he studied with organ virtuoso Eugène Gigout at l’École Niedermeyer in Paris, during which time he was awarded the premier prix in both piano and organ.

Interrupting his studies, Claussmann returned to Uffholz to perform his military service in the Franco-Prussian War in 1870 and 1871. When Alsace was lost to Germany at the end of the war, Claussmann opted to retain his French citizenship. He returned to Paris to complete his studies, where he distinguished himself as both performer and composer, earning the grand prix de composition in 1872 from l’École Niedermeyer.

In 1873, the position of maître de Chapelle at the cathedral of Clermont-Ferrand became available. Claussmann applied and was offered the position. He accepted it, and remained in Clermont-Ferrand for the entirety of his career, possibly to his professional detriment. Nonetheless, according to one writer, Claussmann wasted no time in establishing himself as a first-rate musician.²

In 1877, shortly after his appointment, the cathedral acquired a new organ with three manuals and forty-eight ranks of pipes, built by the Merklin firm, one of the most respected in France. The dedication program featured Edmond Lemaigre, then titular organist of the cathedral, and Alexander Guilmant, renowned organist. Claussmann participated as well, conducting two motets, including a Salve Regina of his own, newly composed for the event, and performing two organ works, one by François Benoist and another new work, also written by Claussmann, Offertoire.³

Claussmann’s musical work was not limited to his position at the cathedral. In 1881, Claussmann established the short-lived Société Philharmonique. Though enjoying only a brief existence, this may have been the first orchestra to provide written critical program notes for its concerts, attesting to Claussmann’s scholarly inclinations.⁴ Shortly thereafter, in 1886, he assumed position as organist titulaire, following Edmond Lemaigre’s relocation to Paris. It was at this tribune that Claussmann remained until his death in 1926.

During his tenure he composed the majority of his works for the organ (approximately 350 pieces), nearly a hundred for the piano, a fair number of songs, and a few other works for chamber ensembles and orchestra.⁵ Claussmann’s next big success was the premiere performance of his commissioned drame lyrique, Pierre, l’Eremite, composed to commemorate the 800th anniversary of the First Crusade (the text of the work was by the Abbé Raynaud). Written in 1892, the work awaited its premiere for three years. According to the reports, it was a resounding success, performed at least two times (May 15 and 17, 1895). The reviewer, while admitting that one could not analyze such a large work on one hearing, admired its beauty in both composition and performance.⁶ The performance featured an orchestra of sixty, a chorus of 200, and soloists, all led by Claussmann. It must have been quite the tour de force!

In 1909, Claussmann was appointed director of L’École municipal de Musique, and he remained its director until 1918 when he suffered from a serious health crisis that disabled him for nearly three months, at which point he was named honorary director, and Louis Gémont assumed directorship.⁷ The formation of this school was fraught with difficulties. Prior to its founding, there were two competing institutes, the Petit Conservatoire, headed by Jean Soulacroup, and the École de musique, directed by Louis Gémont, both of whom were considered for the position of director of the École nationale de musique. After several years of contentious battles about the school, and once it was decided to move ahead with the formation of a national music school that would align itself with the Conservatoire nationale in Paris, a closed door meeting took place, and Claussmann was named as director to the pleasure of many community members, and the displeasure of others, including the mayor of the city.⁸ Claussmann accepted, but wrote, with apparent jocularity, that if the conservatory were to open as planned, the undertaking would be substantial, and it would force him to cut his annual vacation very short. He did exactly that, and served with distinction for many years.

Little is known of Claussmann’s personal life; there are few letters and no personal papers. In 1877, he married Marguerite Barthélémy, and they had a daughter, Madeleine, in 1878. It is presumed that his wife predeceased him, based on the eulogies given at his funeral.⁹ According to Joseph Desaymard, writer and critic, who was his pupil and friend, Claussmann possessed a gentle spirit, keen intellect, good sense of humor, and youthful attitude.¹⁰ He rode his bike to work every day, and until the final few years of his life, he appears to have possessed good health.

Unfortunately, little is known about the critical reception of his work, at least in France. The local newspaper of Clermont-Ferrand rarely commented on musical events. However, the Société nationale included his Sonate pour violon et piano on a concert in May 1906, and the composition and performance received an extensive review reprinted in the Revue pratique de Liturgie et de Musique sacrée. The reviewer praised Claussmann’s melodic gift, his interesting harmonies, and his well-crafted forms.¹¹ This seems to be the generally held view of Claussmann as a composer.

Claussmann’s vast output of organ works includes music for any number of occasions. The two large collections, Cent pieces pour orgue ou harmonium, opus 34, and Cent pieces pour grand orgue, opus 66, encompass smaller works designed for liturgical usage, such as Entrées, Communions, and Sorties.¹² Undoubtedly he used these pieces himself over his fifty-year career at the cathedral.¹³ Even in these smaller works, Claussmann demonstrates substantial contrapuntal skill. The Entrée in D Minor, which opens opus 66, is only 63 measures long, yet it displays Claussmann’s fascination with counterpoint and with Franck, as the theme appears twice, in related keys, and then, upon returning to the tonic, is subjected to canonic treatment throughout (Example 1). The ninth piece in this set provides further evidence of Claussmann’s meticulous craftsmanship. While only 29 measures long, it has a tripartite form in which the return of the opening A section receives a new accompaniment with the melody moved to the left hand. In terms of larger organ works, Claussmann penned two sonatas, a Suite pour orgue, and several Livraisons containing varying numbers of pieces likely intended for concert use. These include fantaisias, pastorales, marches, toccatas, and many others. In these works one sees Claussmann’s wide-ranging inventiveness with their well-developed themes and solidly crafted counterpoint.

While steeped in the style of the Romantic era, the organ music often displays surprising originality. From the earliest opera, Claussmann combines both French and German styles, which may be the result of his earliest influences in Uffholtz, an area of France that reflected a great deal of Germanic influence due to its shared border with Germany. For example, opus 16 is entitled Orgelstücke rather than Pièces pour orgue. In the music, one often finds well-crafted melodies, a staple of the French tradition, fused with the intricate counterpoint that is intrinsic to German composition, making Claussmann’s organ music unique for its time.¹⁴ Claussmann’s fusion of the aforementioned styles is evidenced in Scherzo in G Major, opus 33, no. 4. While making use of a rather extended model of the scherzo and trio form—ABA′CA′, which resembles more of a Rondo—the typical French scherzo would not make use of the extensive counterpoint found in the fugal exposition that comprises the B section (in B minor). The fourth section, which itself is a small three-part form in the key of E-flat major, has a very lyrical melody for the outer parts and, again, the composer briefly employs some imitative polyphony in the middle portion.

Though Claussmann’s music is influenced by the style of César Franck, as evidenced in the Allegro symphonique, opus 33, no. 2, whose opening recalls Franck’s Pièce heroïque (Example 2), Claussmann often moves into unusual areas of tonality through his inspired use of chromaticism, following on and expanding the chromatic harmonic language of Franck. One even finds an example of progressive harmonic movement in some of Claussmann’s works, such as Pastorale, opus 26, no. 3, which begins in E major and ends in A minor, delivering an unexpected conclusion.¹⁵

In the United States, as early as 1892, one finds references to performances of Claussmann’s music. A concert review in the Indianapolis Journal accorded the Scherzo in A Minor a favorable assessment.¹⁶ (One assumes that the reviewer had heard other Claussmann pieces.) Several of the pieces from opus 26 were dedicated to American organists, including Clarence Eddy and William C. Carl, both former students of Alexandre Guilmant. (It is possible that Guilmant helped make the connection by recommending the works to Carl. Guilmant participated in the dedication of the organ at the Clermont-Ferrand cathedral in 1887 where he would have heard Claussmann’s music. It is also possible that Gigout recommended his music to Carl.¹⁷) The first volume of opus 16 was reviewed favorably by Everett Truette in The Organ, 1893, who wrote, “Three extremely interesting pieces . . . which are written somewhat in the style of reveries, and contain many passages of striking originality.”¹⁸ (It was of this Fantaisie in C Minor that Gigout wrote his praise of Claussmann.¹⁹) It is likely because of the work of Carl and Truette, who published some of this music in The Organ and other collections, that Claussmann’s music achieved some measure of popularity in America. Early twentieth-century newspaper accounts indicate that several of Claussmann’s works were performed quite regularly, especially Easter Dawn and Grand Choeur for organ and his Magnificat for choir.

Among other comments on Claussmann’s works, Pierre Balme linked him to a progressive aesthetic:

In his day, Claussmann had difficulty with being a ‘pioneer,’ even in spite of the example of his co-disciple Fauré, who remained all through to the end of his time, as innovative as younger composers. But why not have others reported rather how much he (Claussmann) was, in his prime, so profoundly ahead of the taste and knowledge of audiences and even music professionals? Twenty years ago, he was not afraid of modifying his composing technique according to the latest developments of the impressionist school.²⁰

Connecting Claussmann to the Impressionist school seems to be a stretch, though examples of augmented triads and unexpected harmonic connections are evident, as is the use of non-functional harmony, as witnessed in the frequent use of the raised fourth and fifth scale degrees, creating the sensation of whole-tone harmony. If this is what Balme refers to, then it is possible to put Claussmann in that category. However, Claussmann’s music is thoroughly steeped in the chromatic harmony of the period, and he often makes unexpected harmonic connections, such as moving between C major and F-sharp major for the middle section of the Fantaisie in C Minor, opus 10. These unexpected relationships may also be seen in the transitional passages of Au Crépusucle from opus 33, where the dominant seventh chord of the tonic G-flat resolves to a D major sonority, which is then repeated whole step below, obscuring any sense of the tonic (Example 3). If this fluidity of key relationships is considered “impressionistic” by the writer, then the term applies.

Overall, Claussmann retains a consistent style throughout his other music; one finds equally challenging tonal relationships in most pieces. Additionally, his treatment of form does not necessarily conform to expectations of his era, but a clear structure is always evident and logical. One might apply musicologist Carlo Caballero’s argument about Fauré, who he claims maintained the consistency of style throughout his works, which Fauré believes was “a crucial property of any music that is truly original,”²¹ and apply that to Claussmann as well. Hervé Desarbre would agree, according to the liner notes to his recording of selected organ works, as he claims that Claussmann’s style did not change much over the years.²² Claussmann retained remarkable consistency in his technical style and tonal language beginning with the major organ works from opus 10 and continuing through the late opera.

Many of Claussmann’s works have been recently republished, some with needed editorial emendations, as the printed editions contain numerous errors (especially clef change indications).²³ As there appear to be no extant manuscripts, it is difficult to know Claussmann’s intentions. Both B-note Musikverlag and FitzJohn Publishing have reproduced many of his works. IMSLP (www.imslp.org) has a reasonable collection available, and France’s Bibliothèque Nationale Gallica site had started to digitize many other works.

Whether Claussmann would have enjoyed the success his contemporaries did had he remained in Paris is a question that can never be answered. He made his choice, apparently without regrets, and enjoyed the respect of the community he served for nearly fifty years. The music of this underestimated talent attests to the mastery of his craft and the fertility of his imagination, and deserves to be re-examined and given a place in the concert repertoire.

Notes

1. Claude Nievre, La Montagne, October 12, 1926, p. 2.

2. Th. Mourgue, “Profil d’artistes: M. Claussmann,” Le Moniteur, June 29, 1892, p. 2.
“. . .il vient s’etabilir chez nous où on ne tarde pas à reconnaitra en lui un musician de premiere ordre.”

3. J. Merklin, Le cathédrale de Clermont-Ferrand et ses orgues, Lyon: Impr. de A.-L. Perrin et Marinet (1878), p. 28. As with others, Offertoire served as a common title for works; Claussmann wrote several.

4. Joseph Desaymard, Avenir du Plateau Central, November 8, 1926, writing Claussmann’s obituary (No page citation as this comes from the Bibliothèque de la Patrimoine of Clermont-Ferrand collection MS 1654). Present research has yet to find concert announcements or programs presented. In 1885, another community orchestra was formed which enjoyed much success, directed by Jean Soulacroup.

5. Cataloguing the works of Claussmann has presented a challenge. Pierre Desaymard made an attempt at this in the 1980s but seems to have missed some pieces. Four of the works from opus 33 do not appear in any listing of his, possibly because they were published by the English firm J. Laudy and Co. See Desaymard, Bibliographie des oeuvres d’Aloys Claussman, Bulletin historique et scientifique de l’Auvergne, vol. 1.90, pp. 305–321 (1981).

6. Le Moniteur, May 16, 1895, p. 2, and May 18, 1895, p. 2. According to Louis Gémont, the work was performed again in 1925 (Le Moniteur, November 11, 1926, p. 2).

7. In a letter to Paul Dukas, Claussmann thought that he was close to death at that time (Bibliothêque Nationale, Paris, W-48).

8. Jean-Louis Jam, “Aux origins d’une succursale provinciale du Conservatoire de Paris,” Bulletin historique et artistique de l’Auvergne, vol. XCIX (1998), pp. 127–156. An excellent and somewhat entertaining chronicle of the events.

9. Le Moniteur, November 11, 1926, p. 2.

10. Joseph Desaymard, “Le Mort de Claussmann,” L’Avenir, Nov. 9, 1926, p. 2.

11. Alexandre Georges on “Aloys Claussmann,” Revue pratique de liturgie at de la musique sacrée, nos. 103–104 (1926), p. 169.

12. These sets appear to be based upon Franck’s L’Organiste, but Claussmann’s pieces are more technically advanced.

13. In one edition of Le Courrier Musical, opus 64 was listed among the pieces that an organist should play.

14. While the fugue was certainly not an uncommon form in French organ music of this period, it was used relatively infrequently. Franck composed one fugue for the organ; he relied on canon and melodic juxtapositioning as his preferred contrapuntal devices. In examining the Widor organ symphonies, with their numerous and varied movements, one finds only two fugues, and those appear in the earliest of the symphonies.

15. This work is dedicated to R. Huntington Woodman, an American organist who studied with César Franck in 1888.

16. Indianapolis Journal, March 11, 1894, p. 8, featured a review of an organ recital by
W. H. Donley. I believe this refers to the Scherzo in B Minor from the Deuxième livre de la première collection, opus 10.

17. Gigout wrote glowingly of Claussmann’s work and was pleased to be the dedicatee of one of his pieces. See Mourgue, op. cit.

18. Everett E. Truette, The Organ, vol. 1, no. 4 (August 1892), p. 95, reviewing the Fantasia in C Minor, First Meditation in B Major, and Andante in D Major.

19. See Morgue, op. cit.

20. Pierre Balme, “Aloÿs Claussmann,” L’Auvergne littéraire, artistique, et historique, January 1926 (vol. 85), p. 15–17.

21. Peter Cirka, A profound identity: evidence of homogeneity in Gabriel Fauré’s thirteen piano Nocturnes. Unpublished DMA paper, Boston University, p. 9, and p. 26 (2015).

22. Hervé Desarbre, Aloys Claussmann Organ Works, Disque Mandala MAN 4927, 1997.

23. An example of the need for good editing appears in the Sérénade for Cello and Piano, opus 49. The cello part and the piano score have completely different notes and keys in places.

Steven Young

Steven Young, DMA, serves as a professor of music at Bridgewater State University, Bridgewater, Massachusetts, where he teaches courses in music theory and conducts the choral ensembles. As an organist, he has recorded selected works of Henry M. Dunham, a Boston-based composer. He has written several articles on the lesser-known organists-composers of France including Charles Quef, Pierre Kunc, and Aloys Claussmann. Young is minister of music/cantor at First Evangelical Lutheran Church of Brockton, Massachusetts.

The name of Marthe Bracquemond is little known in the musical world, yet she was a pioneer as one of the first female organists to break with established expectations in musical training. Additionally, she was the busiest organ performer on the airwaves of France between 1931 and 1939. She appeared more regularly than any other organist, male or female, on the Transmission sans fil (TSF) broadcasts aired by Radio-Paris P. T. T. (a division of France’s Ministry of Posts, Telegraphs, and Telephones), performing numerous concerts (sometimes weekly) for several years, presenting a varied repertoire of works mainly written by French composers from every age. By her musical accomplishments and activities, she helped shatter the gender barrier for female performers, but especially female organists.

Personal history

Bracquemond’s musical career appears to have been unique among her contemporaries. While there were several well-known and established female organists during her early years, all had the benefit of a Paris Conservatoire pedigree where they garnered the première prix in organ performance, notably Marie Prestat (1862–1933), Genèvieve Mercier (1900–1934), and Joséphine Boulay (1869–1925). Bracquemond did not attend the Conservatoire or any other musical institution; all her musical training appears to have been through private study with some of the finest teachers in Paris, including composition with Charles-Marie Widor and Henri Büsser, piano with Louis Vierne, and organ under the tutelage France’s premiere organ pedagogue, Marcel Dupré.¹

While little information exists about her early or personal life, she descended from a line of artists who specialized in the fine arts, including painting and sculpting. From her birth in 1898, art and artists surely surrounded her. Her father, Pierre Bracquemond (1870–1926), was a sculptor and painter, renowned for his work throughout his life. Auguste Joseph “Felix” Bracquemond (1833–1914), her grandfather, was a renowned sculptor, painter, and lithographer, and her grandmother, Marie (1840–1916), was often considered as one of the finest women impressionist painters of her generation (alongside Mary Cassatt and Eva Gonzalès). Her grandmother may have served as an inspiration as she was one of the few successful female artists in Paris at the time whose training was equally non-traditional.

However, her musical talent and interests seem to have come from her mother’s side of the family. Renée Berbadette, about whom little information exists, was the daughter of the acclaimed musicologist and pianist Pierre Hippolyte Berbadette.² Hippolyte was an active musician in La Rochelle, where the family home remained for many years. Hippolyte was also an amateur composer. Coming of age in such an environment, it would seem that Marthe had little choice but to become an artist. Bracquemond first came to public attention as a composer, having had several works performed in various venues before she made her public performance debut; these compositions included the Trois pièces pour quatour à cordes and Trois Mélodies, her first published opus.

Bracquemond’s first documented performance mentions her as an accompanist to the aforementioned songs given at a concert of the Société Musical Indépendante, which took place in 1923. She again appeared as an accompanist in 1924 as part of a concert given by Marcel Dupré, where she played the organ. Her first solo organ performance was part of a program shared with Louis Vierne, where she performed works of Bach and Franck. The reviewer seems to have been more impressed by her gender (“ce qui plus rare . . . une organiste femme”), though he did comment on her remarkable playing.³ Early in 1925 she participated in a concert spirituel at l’Oratoire de la Louvre, where she collaborated with several other musicians.⁴

As she progressed musically, she developed an interest in early music, which in 1925 led her to become an active member of the Société Française de Musicologie. One result of her interest in musicology was the regular inclusion of early French organ compositions on her recital programs.⁵ This interest in early music was shared with the tenor Yves Tinayre, a frequent collaborator of Bracquemond’s. Their joint concerts often featured many works by Baroque composers. In 1927 Bracquemond was the only organist to appear on the cover of Le Courrier Musical, one of the leading musical periodicals of the time, as she gave her so-called “début” recital at the Salle Majestic on February 22, though she had performed previously in several other venues. Many of the musicians appearing on the cover were often new and upcoming talent. The event must have been a tour-de-force as the reviewer claimed it lasted for two hours and contained seventeen pieces. (She was scheduled to perform with tenor Yves Tinayre and some instrumentalists.)⁶ The program featured numerous Baroque works, including the first performance of a canzona by Domenico Zipoli. Additionally, the program included the premiere of three of the six pieces from the recently published Pièces de Fantaisie, Première suite, opus 51, by Louis Vierne.⁷ The reviewer described the program as “intelligently constructed” and having been presented with “a lovely artistry.”

Additionally, she was a member of an all-female orchestra under the direction of Jane Evrard that specialized in early music.⁸ In all probability, this likely contributed to her interest in and her organ performances of numerous early French and German composers.

She was twice married during her lifetime, and she did have at least one child from her first marriage. She served as organist at l’Eglise Reformée de la Passy on the rue Cortambert in Paris’s sixteenth arrondissement, one of the few Protestant churches in the city, for twenty-five years between 1937 and 1962.

She composed only two organ works, which were published by Editions musicales de la Schola Cantorum (1951) and Alphonse Leduc (1954), respectively; she was the only female composer on the Leduc organ publication roster during the 1950s. Additionally, she made two recordings, one of some noëls that she arranged for choir on which she performed as soloist and accompanist, and a second where she is part of the orchestre feminine under Evrard.⁹ She enjoyed a long career as a performer and collaborator with numerous other musicians, but it appears that most of her earliest performances were given as recitals on the radio.¹⁰

“Queen of the airwaves”

The history of these radio concerts is a rich one for the organ. As early as 1924, regularly scheduled broadcasts of organ recitals from the Salon Cavaillé-Coll were heard across France, featuring the organist Georges Jacob.¹¹ The first documentable radio broadcast given by Bracquemond took place on February 15, 1928, where she played the organ in a performance of Camille Saint-Saëns’s Third Symphony on Paris P. T. T. Nearly every worthy organist played this work, seemingly a rite of passage granting entrance into the echelon of the solo performer. She was heard again on December 6, 1928, when she accompanied Lyse de Florane, a contralto, in numerous arias by French, Italian, and German composers. Bracquemond performed solo organ works including the Toccata and Fugue in D Minor by Bach, Sonata in A Major by Mendelssohn, an etude of Schumann, and two movements from the Première Symphonie, opus 14, of Vierne.¹² The program appears to be a repeat (or rebroadcast) of one performed a few days earlier at the Salle Majestic.¹³ The organ at the Majestic was constructed by Théodore Puget, a builder from Toulouse, which featured a tubular-pneumatic action, a rarity among the organs of Paris. The program began at 8:45 p.m. and would appear to have lasted well over an hour.

The first of the solo radio recitals took place on November 22, 1930, with Bracquemond performing a varied program featuring works by Bach, Buxtehude, Couperin, Schumann, Franck, Dupré, and Widor. Four weeks later, on Christmas Eve, she played two programs. The first featured music by Mendelssohn, Franck, Dupré, and Vierne; the second featured French noëls arranged by Alexandre Guilmant, Henri Büsser, and Louis-Claude d’Aquin, as well as regional tunes from Alsace and elsewhere. The Büsser selection, Deux Noëls, was dedicated to her.¹⁴ Shortly after that, she began to perform as a regularly featured artist, sharing the responsibility with Pierre Revel, a première prix winner in the Conservatory organ class of Guilmant.

When Georges Jacob retired from the regular “on air” performances, l’Association de les Amis de l’Orgue took control of the broadcasts and decided upon a rather rigid set of requirements for choosing performers. The first criterion was that each should have garnered a première prix from the Conservatoire. One would assume that would automatically rule out Bracquemond, as she had no conservatory training. But, it did not. In fact, Bracquemond was the most active performer on the musical roster, performing eighty-seven times over the five years (1934–1939) in which she began concertizing on these broadcasts. Her first two years seem to have been the busiest, performing twenty-seven radio concerts each year, in which she played many works by Franck, Bach, Widor, and Vierne, as well as works by Dupré and the young Maurice Duruflé, notably his recently published Prélude, Adagio, et Choral varié sur le thème du ‘Veni Creator,’ opus 4, winner of the composition competition sponsored by Les Amis de l’Orgue. Also during this season, she introduced French listeners to organ works by Swedish composers Waldemar Åhlén and Otto Olsson, among others.

In this series, she rarely repeated a single piece from her vast repertoire. In 1935 she performed her radio concerts from various venues in Paris, including the Salle Cavaillé-Coll, the Schola Cantorum, l’Église Saint-Sulpice, and chez Miramon Fitz-James (one of the presidents of l’Association de les Amis de l’orgue). It is during this season we find the first mention of her Variations sur un air d’Auvergne, which may be the same as the Variations sur un Noël,¹⁵ and her first performances of works by Olivier Messiaen.

In 1936 she made fourteen radio appearances. Those performances began in January with two concerts and resumed in April upon her return from her American concert tour.¹⁶ This tour seems to have been an extension of her radio work, as only three concert listings appear in any American periodicals of the time. However, Paris-midi reported upon her return that her “recitals and her sessions with National Broadcasting have earned her the greatest success,”¹⁷ so she may have performed more than is documentable.

The performances were aired on WJZ radio out of New York. The station had a large broadcast area as newspapers in Rochester, New York, Des Moines, Iowa, Chillicothe, Ohio, Saint Louis, Missouri, and Baltimore, Maryland, all make mention of one or more of her performances.

Back in France, there were nine radio concerts in 1937, five in 1938 and 1939. The diminishing number of performances may have been a result of her position at l’Église reformée and the increasing number of concert organists. In 1939 with the onset of World War II, the series was terminated.

During World War II, Bracquemond seems to have been less active in the musical scene, possibly contributing to the war effort. There are no records of public performances, though on the rarest of occasions, some of her chamber music appeared on concert programs given during the war years (1939–1944). It appears that she rented a hall containing an organ, where she gave concerts. A newspaper announcement mentions concerts at the “salle d’orgue de Marthe Bracquemond.” She may have used this space for recitals, teaching, and/or practicing. This hall may have been used during the war, but it was certainly used following it. Two years after the war ended, she made a triumphant return to major concert venues, namely the Salle Pleyel and the Salle Gaveau. A review of a 1946 concert stated:

The return of Marthe Bracquemond into Parisian musical life must be noted. The day before yesterday, November 13, she gave a magnificent program at the Salle Pleyel, and on Wednesday November 27, at 6:30 p. m., she will continue her “Cycle of original recitals” in a magnificent program with major works of Mozart, Roger-Ducasse, Saint-Saëns, Louis Vierne,
and Widor.¹⁸

Bracquemond continued to give solo and shared recitals until 1950; she also performed regularly as part of the concerts at La Schola Cantorum, where she would play solo pieces between choral selections.¹⁹ These programs featured some of the finest pieces by French composers and others. Bracquemond, herself a composer, only performed one of her own compositions during this period; it was a work entitled La Fôret, an unpublished score that may not be extant. Marie-Louise Girod, former organist of l’Oratoire de la Louvre, considered it to be a formidable work, possibly Bracquemond’s most extensive composition for the instrument.²⁰ Her only other published organ piece, Ombres: Suite pour la Passion, has no documentable public performance by the composer.

Bracquemond’s unusual repertoire

Bracquemond’s repertoire included many of the celebrated works by Johann Sebastian Bach and Felix Mendelssohn, and a few other well-known early German composers as well as music of Scandinavia, but she focused on the music of France and Belgium. In addition to the music of Joseph Jongen, a well-respected Belgian organist/composer, Bracquemond performed the music of Père Jean-Marie Plum, a contemporary of hers (1899–1944), on at least seven different occasions. Plum’s music is little known and does not seem to have enjoyed wide acknowledgement in the organ community of France or Belgium, but it is of solid musical construction, worthy of performance. Plum’s post-Romantic aesthetic is often likened to that of Charles Tournemire and Maurice Duruflé because of his similar infusion of Gregorian themes into modern, chromatic harmony. Perhaps this style is what attracted Bracquemond to the music. In 1936 Bracquemond played Plum’s chant-based four-movement Symphonie Eucharistique, opus 115, composed in 1934.²¹

As mentioned above, Bracquemond performed some contemporary Scandinavian music, though many of the compositions are not listed. A reference to Variations sur un choral by Åhlén (1894–1982), a Swedish composer, appears in her repertoire list. In his list of works, there is one Koraalpartita; one might assume this to be the work she performed. She also performed music of Jean Sibelius and Oskar Merikanto, notably his 1918 Passacaglia.²² Other lesser-known composers featured in these concerts included Patrik Vretblad and David Wikander.

She was a fierce champion of contemporary French organ music, performing and premiering works by members of La Jeune France, formerly La Spirale, a group of composers that included Olivier Messiaen, André Jolivet, Jean-Yves Daniel-Lesur, and Georges Migot. In 1936 she performed Jolivet’s Prélude apocalyptique, a work dedicated to her, the year following its publication. The piece was reworked and later recast as Hymne a l’univers. Bracquemond also played Migot’s Le Tombeau de Nicolas de Grigny, which he dedicated to her.
Bracquemond’s affiliation with this group likely led to the performance of another unpublished work, Trois poèmes, given at a concert of La Spirale that showcased the compositions of women; the event was billed as a concert of musique féminine française in 1937.²³ Several years later, her colleague Léonce de Saint-Martin, then organist of Notre-Dame, dedicated his 1944 Toccata de la Libération to her, and she gave a performance of the work in 1946.²⁴

Bracquemond demonstrates what it truly means to be a collaborator. In addition to her “debut” concert, which she shared with a tenor, she frequently collaborated with other musicians in live performances and during her radio broadcasts. She performed with numerous singers, instrumentalists, and in 1935 with the renowned pianist Jean Doyen, performing Marcel Dupré’s Ballade pour piano et orgue, opus 30 (1932), a work Dupré himself often played with his daughter Marguerite during concert tours.

Compositional career

As a composer, Bracquemond produced several pieces, but published a very small body of her work.²⁵ The aforementioned La Fôret for organ, several mélodies, as well as a larger piece for orchestra are among those unpublished pieces. Her published works include Trois Mélodies, a string quartet, music for flute (and harp), some brief choral pieces, and two more substantial works for organ.

Her earliest published composition, Trois Mélodies, appeared in 1922 and is dedicated to Louis Vierne, her piano teacher of many years. A cursory examination of the work shows some of Vierne’s compositional influence evidenced in the use of ostinato rhythmic and harmonic patterns, frequently set in a tripartite form. Her poet choice may have reflected her upbringing in that she chose to promote the works of Judith Gauthier, French poet and historical novelist (1845–1917). The poems from Le livre de jade appeared in 1867—a volume of Chinese poetry loosely rendered into French.²⁶ One review of the premiere of these works by the Société Musicale Indépendante referred to them as delicate, possessing charm and musicality.²⁷

In the chamber and vocal music, the sparse textures and repetitive figures clearly demonstrate her affinity for the style espoused by many of her contemporaries, some of whom were members of La Spirale and La Jeune France. A published review of her Trois pièces pour quatour á cordes calls it a “unique” work and describes it as possessing both “musical and ideological continuity,”²⁸ while another reviewer commented on their freshness and amiability.²⁹

The two published organ works of Bracquemond pay homage to her teacher, Marcel Dupré. He composed his Variations sur un Noël on the well-known carol, Noël nouvelet, and a lengthy work, Le Chemin de la Croix, which began as a set of improvisations to accompany the reading of texts of Paul Claudel. As for Bracquemond’s musical style seen in her two published organ works, one finds a mixture of techniques, all set within the ever-changing musical scene of interwar France. In the Variations (1952), Bracquemond fuses an ancient tune whose origin is presently unknown with elements of whole-tone harmonies and modal scales, resulting in a style resembling a combination of her teachers’ influences as well as those of her contemporaries such as Duruflé. In contrast to those influences, one also notices the sparseness of the writing, reflecting Neo-Classical tendencies. “Variation I” is a melody accompanied by major triads mostly, recalling the chordal planing used by Debussy. “Variation II” makes use of a trio texture with the melodic line in the pedal. The third variation moves to the dark key of E-flat minor, where slowly undulating sixteenth notes accompany an altered version of the melody. “Variation IV” is a scherzo where the melodic line is rhythmically altered and placed within dissonant harmony. The final variation resembles a scaled-down French toccata associated with Vierne and Dupré, but this spare setting emphasizes Bracquemond’s simpler style drawing on Neo-Classical techniques.

In Ombres, published in 1954, one finds similarities to Dupré’s Le Chemin de la Croix, written some twenty years earlier, in her use of contrapuntal techniques and the use of the interval of the fourth, an interval featured in the Dupré composition. (Bracquemond’s work is considerably shorter than that of Dupré.) The use of Biblical quotations at the outset of each movement recalls Messiaen’s organ suites, La Nativité du Seigneur and l’Ascension. Bracquemond creates a programmatic work that attempts to rival the sincerity and emotionalism found in Messiaen’s religious cycles. She makes frequent use of ostinato patterns evidenced in the music of Vierne, solid contrapuntal writing found in the music of Widor and Dupré, with more modern harmonies. The work makes use of cyclic techniques and a unifying leitmotif that hearken back to the music of Franck, Wagner, and others.

Radio performances did not receive critical reviews, but from the numerous performances she gave, it appears she was well received and respected. The critical reviews of her live concert performances make note of her scrupulous performance, her finesse and grace with attention to every detail, sometimes despite the instrument she is playing.³⁰ Other reviews have similar praise for her expertise as both organist and accompanist. Bracquemond was truly a musical force with which to be reckoned.³¹

 

Partial funding for the research for the article came from the Clarence and Ruth Mader Memorial Scholarship Fund, the Special Projects Advisory Committee of the Boston Chapter of the American Guild of Organists, and the Center for the Advancement of Research and Scholarship at Bridgewater State University.

Notes

1. See Anne Bongrain, Le Conservatoire national de musique et déclamation 1900–1930: Documents historiques et administratifs. Librairie Philosophique J. VRIN 2012.

2. L’Echo rochelais, Nov. 27, 1929, pages 1–2. Barbedette authored numerous books on music of Classical-era composers including Beethoven, Haydn, and Schubert, though his most celebrated work is his tome on Stephen Heller. Barbedette was honored by Heller as the dedicatee of his fourth piano sonata.

3. Le Temps, Dec. 17, 1924, page 4. 

4. La Liberté, April 18, 1925, page 5.

5. “Séances De La Société Française De Musicologie.” Revue De Musicologie 6, no. 14 (1925): pages 95–96. Accessed at jstor.org.libserv-prd.bridgew.edu/stable/925700.

6. Le Monde Musical, vol. 38, no. 3 (March 1927), page 118. According to this review, Yves Tinayre was ill and was replaced by Mme. Castellazzi.

7. La Semaine de Paris, February 18, 1927, pages 38–39.

8. “Musical Notes from Abroad.” The Musical Times 78, no. 1127 (1937): pages 76–78. doi:10.2307/920305. Jane Evrard was the pseudonym of Jeanne Chevallier Poulet, a well-respected violinist. 

9. Marthe Bracquemond, Noëls Percherons—Échange et Rencontres au Pays Percheron, SDRM (3)-697. See also: 1936, Orchestre Féminin de Paris, dir. J. Evrard, Groupe vocal Yvonne Gouverné, Marcelle de Lacour clavecin, Paul Derenne (tenor), Hugues Cuénod (ténor), accessed at france-orgue.fr/disque/index.php?zpg=dsq.fra.rch&org=Marthe.

10. Elsa Barraine’s organ music was composed and published between 1928 and 1930 (Durand). Jeanne Demessieux’s Six Études was published in 1946 (Durand), so music by women was not new, yet rarely performed.

11. Le Ménestrel, October 3, 1924, page 416, announced that Jacob had been tasked by the
T. S. F. with programming regularly scheduled organ recitals.

12. Le Matin, December 6, 1928, page 5.

13. Le Gaulois, December 2, 1928, page 5. 

14. Le Matin, December 24, 1930, page 6.

15. Also entitled Variations sur un air Auvergnat.

16. Her three radio appearances in the United States are as follows: February 16, 1936, “Radio Programs Scheduled for Broadcast This Week,” The New York Times (1923-Current file): 1. February 16, 1936. ProQuest. Web. January 9, 2018. March 1, 1936—“Broadcast of an organ recital by Marthe Bracquemond,” WJZ (The New York Times, March 1, 1936, XXII) (“Radio Programs Scheduled for Broadcast This Week,” The New York Times (1923-Current file): 1. March 1, 1936. ProQuest. Web. January 9, 2018.) March 8, 1936: “Radio Programs Scheduled for Broadcast This Week.” The New York Times (1923-Current file): 1. March 8, 1936. ProQuest. Web. January 9, 2018.

17. Paris-midi, April 22, 1936, page 7.

18. E. Bleu, “Marthe Bracquemond aux grandes orgues de Pleyel,” Images Musicales, November 15, 1946, cited in Cartayrade, op. cit., pages 290–291. “La rentrée de Marthe Bracquemond dans l’activité de la vie musicale parisienne se doit d’être signalée. Avant hier 13 novembre elle donnait sur le magnifique instrument de la Salle Pleyel et le mercredi 27 novembre, à 18h30, elle poursuivra son “Cycle de récitals originaux” dans un magnifique programme où sont inscrites de grandes oeuvres caractéristiques de Mozart, Roger-Ducasse, Saint-Saëns, Louis Vierne, et Widor.”
Bracquemond performed works by Bach, Dupré, Alain, and Vierne.

19. Published interview with Georges Trouvé by Jean Claude Duval entitled “Georges Trouvé organiste et ‘grand serviteur d’eglise,’” April 23, 2001. 

20. oratoiredulouvre.fr/patrimoine/lorgue-et-le-protestantisme.

21. The earliest record of a performance comes from l’Intransegeant, February 7, 1934, page 9, announcing a concert of works by Plum given at the Royal Conservatoire de Bruxelles (performer not named).

22. Paris-midi, February 9, 1940, page 2.

23. L’Art musicale, February 19, 1937, page 490. The concert took place at the Schola Cantorum. She performed with a singer named Cernay. See: Nigel Simeone, “La Spirale and La Jeune France: Group Identities,” The Musical Times, vol. 143, no. 1880 (2002), page 29. These pieces do not appear to have been published.

24. Alain Cartayrade, “Le Concerts pour orgue au Palais de Chaillot de 1939 à 1972 et pendant la Seconde Guerre mondiale,“ Le Bulletin de l’Association Maurice et Marie-Madeleine Duruflé, vol. 14 (2015), page 290. 

25. There is record of one piece for harp and flute that appears not to have been published. The Prélude Incantatoire-Pastorale-Conclusion on a Sonnet of Ronsard was dedicated to and premiered by Françoise Kempf and Jan Merry in 1932 (see Ardal Powell, The Flute, page 220).

26. Pauline Yu, “‘Your Alabaster in This Porcelain:’ Judith Gauthier’s ‘Le Livre De Jade.’” PMLA 122, no. 2 (2007): pages 464–482. Accessed at jstor.org/stable/25501716.

27. Le Courrier Musical, vol. 24, no. 1 (Jan. 1, 1922), pages 11–12. The premiere took place on December 1, 1921. Blanche Croiza sang, accompanist not named.

28. Le Ménestrel, March 31, 1922, page 144.

29. Le Courrier Musical, vol. 24, no. 10 (May 15, 1922), page 173. 

30. Refer to a review in Le Ménestrel, December 17, 1926, page 538.

31. See Le Ménestrel, December 20, 1929, page 551. See also Ebrecht, Ronald, “Lenten Series at the American Cathedral in Paris, 1949 and 1950.” The Diapason, December 2002, pages 20–21. ProQuest. Web. February 17, 2018.