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The north German organ school of the Baroque: "diligent fantasy makers"

Paul Collins

Paul Collins lectures in music at Mary Immaculate College, University of Limerick, Ireland. He is a graduate of Trinity College, Dublin, and holds a first class honors MA degree in Performance and Musicology (Organ) from the National University of Ireland, Maynooth. He is currently pursuing doctoral research at the music department of that university, where his supervisor is Professor Gerard Gillen. His dissertation will investigate the stylus phantasticus and its expression in north German organ music of the seventeenth century. Collins studied organ and harpsichord at the Dublin Institute of Technology Conservatory of Music and Drama, where he was awarded the Actors' Church Union Prize for advanced organ playing. He also holds a Fellowship Diploma in organ from Trinity College, London. He has performed in Ireland, the US, and Italy and is director of the Marmion Recital Series at Holy Cross Church in Dundrum, Dublin, where he is resident organist. In addition to his activities as musicologist and performer, he has composed works for keyboard, voice and chamber ensemble.

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The music encyclopedist Johann Mattheson (1681-1764), in Part 1, chapter 10, of Der vollkommene Capellmeister (1739) mentions the names of  two Italian composers whom he believes to have been exquisite executants of the "fantastic" style, namely Claudio Merulo (1533-1604) and Michelangelo Rossi (1602-1656). Before offering his readers a thumbnail sketch of their work, Mattheson expresses the hope that neither of these "fleissige Fantasten," or "diligent fantasy makers" will ever have their names consigned to oblivion. In choosing this term to describe these Italians and also Johann Jakob Froberger (1616-1667), Mattheson highlights the inherent tension in the dual r?¥le of performer-composer, that of the "fantastic" spontaneous performer or improviser and the "diligent" composer who must commit structured ideas to paper.

We know, for example, that Rossi, like the later Nicolaus Bruhns (1665-1697) in northern Europe, was renowned as a virtuoso violinist in Rome, so much so that it was recorded in the register of his death in 1656. "Michelangelo il Violino," as he was referred to on occasion, even graced the performance of his single extant opera Erminia sul Giordano (1633) with his own playing, in which he took the part of Apollo in the last act. The Rome-based Jesuit polymath Athanasius Kircher (1602-1680), who first coined the term "fantasy style" or stylus phantasticus in his Musurgia Universalis (1650), was among those who witnessed Rossi's playing at first hand at a private concert given, in Kircher's own words, by "three incomparable musicians, whom I would not be wrong in describing as the Orpheuses of our age."1 The three musicians in question were Rossi, Salvator Mazzella and the lutenist Lelio Colista (1629-1680) and the concert featured music for two violins and the-orbo. Describing the experience in his Itinerarium exstaticum (1656), Kircher leaves us in no doubt that this recital, the exact date of which has been consigned to oblivion, left a deep impression on him. He writes:

. . . though I may avow that I have delved with some distinction in the field of Music I cannot recall having heard anything like it, as they mingled diatonic with chromatic harmonies, and these with enharmonic modulations: it is scarcely possible to express the degree to which the unaccustomed mixing of these styles aroused the emotions of the mind.2

This concert performed before a single auditor--Kircher himself--is significant in itself in terms of the musicians it brought together. Musicologists in recent times have regarded the perspectives of Kircher and Mattheson on the "fantastic" style as being, by and large, mutually exclusive, but it is interesting to note that Kircher chose a sinfonia for four lutes by Colista as one of his five examples of the stylus phantasticus, while Mattheson, eighty-nine years later, considered the works of Rossi--in this context the composer's fourteen toccatas--as examples of the fantastischer Styl. Of further interest is the fact that Mattheson, in his Capellmeister treatise (§92), also mentions the violin and the lute as two of the most appropriate instruments for the realization of this style.

The German theorist's biographical information is not always as accurate as one would wish, however and in the case of Rossi, he can state merely that the composer "lived around 1635, the time of [Giovanni Battista] Doni."3 If we wish to further understand Mattheson's enthusiasm for Rossi's toccatas we must consider these works in the light of the "rules" for would-be "fantasy makers" given by Mattheson in §93 and §94 of his tenth chapter "On the Style of Music." The fantastic style, according to Mattheson, is above all an improvisatory style, with the primary focus on the performer and his extemporary ability. This is underlined by the fact that Mattheson situates his discussion of the fantasy style within the broader context of the genus theatralis, or theatrical style. One is restricted in this a mente non a penna style ("improvised, not written down") only by harmonic considerations, Mattheson making the general comment that "order and constraint" are the antithesis of its aesthetic. The style is to be a vehicle for the spontaneous musical orator, who is exhorted by Mattheson to please, dazzle and astound his listeners. It is characterised by much freedom with respect to "beat and pitch," even though these, as Mattheson notes, may have previously been carefully committed to paper. The fantasist was to avoid developing a "regular" motive or melody and rather incorporate all sorts of strange musical detours and embellishments, the object of which were, to quote another of Mattheson's works, "the movement of the affections and the touching of the heart."4

How then, does a work like Rossi's Toccata prima (measures 1-8 of which are shown in Example 1) realise Mattheson's "rules"? The variety of styles encountered in this and other Rossi toccatas realise Mattheson's aesthetic of immediacy, in which a work's surface features are all-important. Rossi's multi-sectional pieces in the toccata genre constitute, in the words of Erich Valentin, a Mosaikform5, in which many musical patterns and procedures are juxtaposed to form a quasi-improvisatory whole. In the Toccata prima we can see the composer's penchant for distinct, non-interdependent sections, giving the impression of a constantly changing musical landscape in which no one idea is, to paraphrase Mattheson, properly "worked out." It is possible to divide the toccata into four main sections, namely measures 1-8, /9-22, 23-45, /46-53. After the typical chordal incipit, section one comprises an imitative-style passage based on an angular motive. Following this is a section that begins imitatively but quickly becomes much freer, with the introduction of a rising-scale figure in the left hand in measure 10 and the abrupt and almost arbitrary harmonic shift in measures 10-11 (Example 2). Such daring harmonic juxtapositions and rising-scale ideas in fast note values are most often associated with the free or "loosely pulsatile"6 sections of toccatas and in measures 15-16 the full rhetorical import of the section is most clearly captured in the dramatic drop in register from a≤ to d# (Example 3). After the cadence in measure 22 the third, fugato section begins. This is the most "clearly pulsatile"7 of the toccata's sections, there being no dissolution of the texture until measure 42. The fourth and final section, another imitative section, begins on the upbeat to measure 46 and here again there is a necessary constraint on pulse fluctuation.

Mattheson would clearly have been attracted to Rossi's work for many reasons. The division of the toccatas into discrete sections, with little recapitulation of previous material, affords the performer the opportunity to vary the pulse between and frequently even within sections, thus heightening the sense of drama. In the Toccata prima, with the exception of measures 23-42 and 46-52 where we find purely imitative writing, the term con discrezione could be used to describe the manner of playing throughout.8 The idea of not being tied to a pulse in the interest of expression had, of course, been discussed in Italian prefatory writings from the beginning of the seventeenth century, most notably in the preface to Le nuove musiche (1602) by Giulio Caccini (c1545-1618) and in Frescobaldi's preface to his first volume of toccatas (1615). Caccini's concept of sprezzatura, or "artful carelessness," despite its original association with vocal performance, can also be applied to keyboard music, while Frescobaldi's instruction to the player not to be subject to the beat ("non stare soggetto ?† battuta") has its roots in the affetti of the madrigal. To return to Mattheson, we can easily imagine the German theorist praising the Toccata prima of Rossi for its lack of "a regular principal motif and melody" as well as for its textural variety, with two-, three- and four-part writing throughout. Furthermore, he would have favored Rossi's arresting harmonic shifts in measures 7-8 and 10-11, with their potential to "astonish" the listener. Mention of the keyboard works of Rossi in the eleven-paragraph section devoted to a discussion of the fantastischer Styl in Der vollkommene Capellmeister is, therefore, wholly appropriate, given the dramatic nature of the Italian composer's toccatas. These "wordless madrigals" aptly illustrate Mattheson's concept of the stylus phantasticus, with its clear focus on histrionics.

Rossi's importance in the context of a discussion of the stylus phantasticus in the north German organ school is borne out on two main fronts. Firstly, research carried out by Alexander Silbiger and published in 1983 has suggested that we should view Rossi as a contemporary rival of Frescobaldi, rather than as a mere "emulator of the older master."9 The continued esteem in which Rossi's volume of Toccate e Correnti was held is evidenced by the fact that after its initial appearance, probably in the early 1630s, at least three further editions appeared over the next thirty years. Thus, by the beginning of the 1640s in Italy, Rossi's name as a composer of keyboard music was second only to that of Frescobaldi. It seems more than likely that if the older composer's publications were in circulation in the north German region during the seventeenth century that Rossi's keyboard music would have been known there also. Secondly, we know that one of the main bearers of Italian keyboard music to northern Europe, Froberger, was in Rome during the years 1637-1640/1 and in addition to his student-master relationship with Frescobaldi would undoubtedly have had some links with Rossi. Even more than Johann Kaspar Kerll (1627-1693) and Johann Philipp Krieger (1649-1725), two other prominent south German musicians who studied in Italy during the seventeenth century, Froberger was to influence free keyboard writing in north Germany.

As noted earlier, Mattheson praises Froberger as a "diligent fantasy maker" in his Capellmeister treatise, remarking that the Stuttgart-born composer "did much especially in this style of writing."10 He quotes what he believes to be the incipits of two works by Froberger for those of his readers who need written examples of pieces in the fantasy style. Neither of these two incipits appears, however, among Froberger's works. Mattheson's first example, the "beginning of a toccata by Froberger," has been shown by Kerala Snyder to be the opening three bars of Buxtehude's Phrygian praeludium BuxWV 152, as transmitted by the manuscript "E.B.-1688" held at Yale University.11 The second incipit, entitled "beginning of a fantasy by the same person," features a single rhapsodic melodic line as in Mattheson's first example. This, likewise, could not come from the toccatas or fantasias of Froberger, as the former always commence with a sustained chord and the latter with a line in long note values. It is possible, given the similarity of the two incipits, that the second example also originated in the north German region. Of further interest is the fact that the opening motif of the Buxtehude example also appears at the start of Froberger's Capriccio, FbWV 502, from the composer's Libro di Capricci e Ricercate of c1658.12 While it is impossible to ascertain whether or not the Phrygian praeludium of  Buxtehude was influenced by Froberger's capriccio, we have evidence to suggest that north German composers wrote parodies on Italianate works composed by south Germans. For example, Friedrich W. Riedel has pointed to the similarity between a fuga contained in Yale University New Haven manuscript LM 5056 (ascribed in that source to "P. Heidorn ?¢ Crempe") and Kerll's Canzona III.13

Apart from the existence of north German parodies on south German, Italian-influenced works, we know that one important conduit for the transmission of Italian influence to the north German region during the second half of the seventeenth century was the Thuringian-born organist and composer Matthias Weckmann (c1616-1674). Weckmann, appointed organist of the Jacobikirche in Hamburg in 1655 was an admirer of Froberger's music and gained a legendary reputation as both a composer and virtuoso performer. Educated in Dresden and Hamburg, Weckmann studied with, among others, Heinrich Sch?ºtz (1585-1672) and Jacob Praetorius II (1586-1651). While he was most probably introduced to Italian music by Sch?ºtz in Dresden, his later friendship with Froberger was undoubtedly an important factor in his becoming acquainted with Italian keyboard music. The bold and imaginative writing that characterizes Froberger's toccatas is found in Weckmann's works in the same genre, which were probably intended for harpsichord performance. These are among the most remarkable free works to come from seventeenth-century north Germany.

A brief comparison between compositional procedures in the toccatas of Froberger and Weckmann may serve to highlight their similarities. Both composers wrote pieces in each of the two toccata "formats" common in Italy during the seventeenth century, i.e., toccatas in free style throughout and those that contain distinct imitative sections in canzona style. If we examine Froberger's Toccata IV, FbWV104, from the Libro Secondo of 1649 we find an example of the latter toccata type, with free sections framing the fugal material. This work is in four sections (in Rampe's 1993 edition, measures 1-8; 9-15; 16-22; 23-29), section three being a re-working of the preceding fugal material in triple time. The opening "free" section  falls into two halves: measures 1-4 and 5-8 (Example 4). In the first subsection we hear a stepwise rising-fourth idea followed by a falling fourth and thirty-second-note figure. These together comprise the raw material from which this initial eight-measure section is fashioned. The texture of the first four bars has been aptly described by John Butt as that of "imitative homophony,"14 while in the second subsection the imitation (based on the rising fourth idea) and harmonic rhythm become more regular. The section as a whole illustrates Froberger's delight in obfuscating the listener with regard to the "free" and the fugal, in this case within the context of an "improvisatory" section. The two fugal sections that follow form the core of the toccata and each concludes with free material that alludes to the opening section (Examples 5a and 5b). From measure 23 to the end of the work further allusions, this time to material from both free and fugal sections, are heard. The resulting fusion of previously disparate elements achieves a resolution of the work's contrasting free and fugal material, culminating in a cascade of sixteenth-note motion in both hands.

Weckmann's compositional strategy in his Toccata vel praeludium Primi Toni is similar to that in Froberger's toccata. This Weckmann toccata is one of six works in the genre to appear in the 1991 Siegbert Rampe edition of the composer's free keyboard works. Here again we can break the work into four sections: an opening free section (ms.1-10); a fugal section (ms.10-20); a tripla section featuring a variant of the fugal theme (ms.21-27) and a concluding free section (ms.28-40). As in the Froberger toccata, imitation features much throughout the opening section, Weckmann also making use of an up-beat suspirans figure (Example 6). In measure 2, we again hear a stepwise rising fourth idea followed by a downward leap of a fourth, while in the tripla section  (ms. 24-25) and concluding free section, rising and falling fourths constitute much of the motivic fabric. Measures 30-33, in particular, feature figuration very similar to that heard in the second half of Froberger's opening free section (Example 7; cf. Example 4). Common to both pieces also is an unexpected twist to the minor, Froberger, for example, offering the listener what Mattheson might have considered a delightful instance of musical deception at the end of his toccata, where a flattened e# colors the final cadence in C major.

Weckmann's toccata in A minor represents one of the seventeenth-century's most "fantastic" works. It is an example of the toccata type that consisted entirely of free material. During the course of its 78 measures we encounter a kaleidoscopic variety of moods and figuration, yielding a work full of drama and contrasting Affekten. We can see from the outset that this work perfectly fulfils Mattheson's "rules" governing the fantastic style, with its "ingenious turns and embellishments . . . without close observation of the beat . . . without a regular principal motif and melody . . . sometimes fast sometimes slow . . . yet not without a view to pleasing, to dazzling and to astounding" (§92). Weckmann, in short, seeks to delight his listener throughout with the element of surprise and focuses on the toccata as a vehicle for demonstrating performance skill. Chordal passages such as those in measures 8-11, 14-20 and 34-38 alternate with passages featuring scurrying sixteenth notes that are sometimes broken off in mid-flight. These latter abruptio gestures, found in measures 4, 13 and 24, are also part of the musical and rhetorical vocabulary of the composer's toccata in D minor,15 which, again, is in free style throughout. The employment of this rhetorical device in these works was, no doubt, inspired by Froberger's use of similar dramatic gestures in his toccatas (e.g., the end of Toccata III in G, FbWV 103).

One would expect Weckmann's contemporary, Franz Tunder (1614-1667), to have been a key influence on the compositional style of Dieterich Buxtehude (1637-1707), given that Tunder was the younger composer's predecessor at L?ºbeck's Marienkirche. While Tunder's large-scale chorale fantasias are probably the better known of his fifteen surviving works for organ, his four complete praeludia constitute a significant development of the hitherto short, undemonstrative praeambula of Scheidemann. Each of these four, more extrovert Tunder praeludia begins with a monodic flourish, a new textural device in north German organ music. The concluding free sections of the same works also feature animated writing. Such beginnings and endings sparkle with the brilliance and spontaneity that Mattheson associated with the fantasy style and like similar passages in works by Buxtehude and other later north German composers, would appear to have their origin in improvisational practice. In addition to Tunder's four complete praeludia, there exists a five-and-a-half-measure fragment of a fifth praeludium by the composer, which is of particular interest (Example 8). Here we see perhaps the most striking passage in all of Tunder's praeludia, one that appears to herald a new stylistic departure. This fragment resembles very closely the energetic passages that typically open Buxtehude's works in the same genre. Equally dramatic double flourishes, for example, are heard at the outset of the praeludia in D minor, BuxWV 140 and G minor, BuxWV 148, the latter opening being perhaps the closest Buxtehudian parallel to Tunder's fragment (Example 9).

With the establishment of his "Stock Exchange" concerts around 1646, Tunder began to provide the L?ºbeck merchants with musical entertainment when they gathered at the Marienkirche before the opening of the outdoor Stock Exchange. Central to these concerts, no doubt, was Tunder's playing of his own works, probably in their nascent, improvised form. Just as a praeambulum or praeludium had been used as introductory service music, so the performance of such works at the beginning of one of these concerts would have been entirely appropriate. Tunder can be credited, therefore, with the raising of the praeludium genre to the level of art music, liberating it from its hitherto purely liturgical function.

Given the opportunity to develop Tunder's Marienkirche concert series with his Abendmusiken, it comes as no surprise that Buxtehude, more than any other composer of the period, developed the praeludium into a dramatic monolith. In so doing, he put the genre on an equal footing with chorale-based works, which had been greater in importance during the first half of the seventeenth century. Without doubt, Buxtehude was the most "diligent fantasy maker" of the north German Baroque. Both free and chorale-based organ works share in this accolade, as do the composer's sonatas, which, following the principle of contrasting sections, have formal structures similar to those of his twenty-two pedaliter praeludia. The praeludia may be commented upon from a variety of perspectives, as Kerala Snyder has shown,16 and despite its limited application, Mattheson's concept of the stylus phantasticus constitutes one "lens" through which we can view these works. The exuberance, drama and virtuosity associated with the free sections, as well as the constantly shifting textures, square perfectly with Mattheson's description of the style. Indeed those praeludia that favor free writing above fugal sections, like the F-sharp minor, BuxWV 146 and D major, BuxWV 139 exhibit Mattheson's concept most successfully. As much has been written about the "fantastic" nature of Buxtehude's F-sharp minor praeludium, a comment on the D major work as an expression of Mattheson's stylus phantasticus concept is merited. Containing only one fugue lasting 35 measures, BuxWV 139 has substantial opening and closing free sections of 20 and 41 measures respectively. Like the praeludium in F sharp minor, with its famous "recitative," the D major praeludium contains a decorated chordal interlude (measures 87-94) that introduces much harmonic color (Example 10). Other features shared by these two praeludia include the motoristic rhythms and an extended sequential passage, while the Peroratio of the D major work offers an example of the abruptio gesture (measure 103) typical of many of the praeludia which have a closing free section (Example 11).

Buxtehude's praeludia reveal both a skilled composer and an accomplished performer at work and could be said to represent a synthesis of the ideas of both Kircher and Mattheson regarding the "fantastic style." Most discussions of the concept of stylus phantasticus in relation to the composer's free organ works have nevertheless focused on Mattheson's description of the style in order to account for the inherent drama of these works. By exploring a middle way, however, a concept of "fantastic" that embraces Buxtehude the composer, skilled in learned counterpoint, and Buxtehude the accomplished performer, we can, perhaps, reconcile two concepts with very different emphases in one musical persona. Such a meeting of opposites can only do justice to the composer's multi-faceted praeludia.

It is also possible to discuss the "fantastic" elements in the free works of Buxtehude and other north German composers within the broader context of rhetorical analysis. According to the latter perspective, the late seventeenth-century north German praeludium may be regarded as a tightly organised work and an accomplished example of musical rhetoric in its fulfilment of even the minimal demands of a classical dispositio. An analytical approach to praeludia of the late seventeenth century based on one or more concepts of the stylus phantasticus need not omit a consideration of the structural sophistication and eloquent rhetoric that such works exhibit. The two approaches, that of a stylus phantasticus perspective and one based on rhetorical analysis, are complementary, if individually subjective and limited in their application. An analysis of, for example, Buxtehude's praeludia from the perspective of the stylus phantasticus is impoverished if it fails to draw on musical-rhetorical concepts and figures, using the template of rhetorical analysis to highlight the significance of each of the various sections within the context of a complete praeludium. A rhetorical analysis, on the other hand, which omits a consideration of the chameleon-like concept of stylus phantasticus is in danger of offering an assumed compositional "recipe," or to quote Mattheson, albeit out of context, "something . . . inflexible."17 Both forms of analysis focus on a work in relation to how it "speaks" to the listener, and on the composer's attempts to transform what is, in the case of a praeludium, wordless music into dramatic speech. While the alternating textures of a Buxtehude praeludium may indeed suggest a careful sequence reflecting the traditional parts of a classical oration (i.e., Exordium, Narratio, Confirmatio and Peroratio), we must be wary of assuming that the achievement of such a rhetorical sequence was foremost in the composer's mind. We are not on safe ground if, with reference only to Mattheson's concept, we try to play down the importance of the stylus phantasticus in such free works.

This article has concerned itself with following what could be termed the "fantastic thread" in the toccata genre from Italy, the origin of "diligent fantasy making" for Mattheson, through south Germany to northern Europe. We could say that the following of this thread to north Germany parallels an investigation of the progress of Italian influence in that region during the latter half of the seventeenth century.

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Musical Rhetoric in Three Praeludia of Dietrich Buxtehude

by Leon W. Couch III
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The Development of Musica Poetica

Since the rediscovery of Quintilian's texts in the early Renaissance, many humanist writers have suggested a link between oratory and musical composition. With his treatise Musica poetica, Joachim Burmeister coined the term musica poetica for study of rhetorical relationships in music. This discipline, musica poetica, rationally explained the creative process of a composer, the structure of compositions, and the mechanism through which music moved the listener. Thereby a composer's craft could prompt a predictable emotional response from the listener--a principal goal of early Baroque composers. Although writers throughout Europe attested to the affective nature of music, German theorists cultivated musica poetica.

Influenced by Lutheran theology, humanists in Germany borrowed rhetorical techniques from the classical authors including Cicero and his successor Quintilian in order to deliver the Holy Word more effectively. (See Diagram 1, left-hand column.) Philipp Melanchthon emphasized this area of the trivium in the Lateinschulen curriculum and applied the traditional pedagogical method: (1)  praeceptum or the study of rules which required exact definitions and well-articulated concepts, (2) exemplus or the study of examples which encouraged analysis of well constructed works, and (3) imitatio or the imitation of examples which emphasized craft, not genius and inspiration typically associated with the Enlightenment or Romantic periods. In this way, the rhetorical concepts became not only a way of thinking about pre-existing works but also became prescriptive.

Martin Luther emphasized the power of music to secure faith: "after theology I accord to music the highest place and the greatest honor."1  (See Diagram 1, middle column.)  As the handmaiden to the Word, music can be understood as a "sermon in sound." Influenced by Boethius's cosmological conception of music, many seventeenth- and eighteenth-century writers justified music's holy power by explaining how ratios representing God's perfection resonated in the listener's soul.

The ancient Doctrine of Ethos convinced Luther of the didactic power of music. (See Diagram 1, right column.)  With the rise of the Doctrine of Affections during the seventeenth century as codified by Descartes, writers in Germany could then explain the mechanism through which music affected  listeners' passions. (See center of Diagram 1.)  Kircher, Bernhard, and Mattheson suggested that music no longer simply reflected the meaning of texts but actually moved listeners to predicable emotional states called affections. Cantors, such as Buxtehude and Bach, drew upon elements of musica poetica which served as a code for various affections in their compositions. With the rise of the Enlightenment, however, philosophers encouraged "natural" expression in music, which reflected a composer's personal sentiment and inspiration. With this emerging viewpoint, both the Doctrine of Affections and the cosmological conception of music became less tenable, and musical rhetoric declined with them. By the end of the eighteenth century, musica poetica had become a historical curiosity cataloged in Forkel's Allgemeine Geschichte der Musik (1788).

An Overview of Musica Poetica

Consider the rhetorical model of the composer's creative process presented in Table 1. Following Cicero's ideas that directly applied to music, Bernhard prescribes three compositional stages while Mattheson retains five stages somewhat analogous to rhetoric. In his first stage, inventio, the composer determines what his/her piece will be about, the loci topici. Mattheson suggests fundamental musical elements such as meter, key, and theme. This stage could also involve the working out of invertible counterpoint and other devices.   In the second stage, dispositio, the composer places this pre-compositional material in a logical succession and in appropriate keys. Later, in the elaboratio stage,  episodes connect the contrapuntal complexes or theme entrances determined in the dispositio. The composer also adds musical-rhetorical figures intended to persuade or move the listener to particular affections. In the decoratio, the composer ornaments themes and may incorporate further figures. Embellishments reinforce the work's style and can further alter the affect. The fifth stage, executio, involves performance of the work, frequently with additional improvised ornaments.

The disposition of any artwork in the rhetorical model can be described in two ways: (1) the Aristotelian model, beginning-middle-end, or (2) the more complicated Cicerone model. (See Table 2.) Burmeister subscribes to the first and Mattheson to the later. Consider the purpose of each section in the Cicerone model. The exordium of a speech arouses the listener's attention.  (Buxtehude praeludia invariably start with an opening toccata for this purpose.) The narratio establishes the composition's subject matter, but in musical discourse, Mattheson states that one may omit the narratio. The propositio presents the actual content of a speech or musical composition, i.e., the theme. In the body of the speech, the orator can alternate between arguments supporting his proposition, the confirmatio, and those refuting possible objections to the orator's proposition, the confutatio.  In music, confutatio sections frequently contain  contrasting themes and characters, heightened by increased dissonance. At the end, compositions conclude with the peroratio. This section often recalls the opening material with a ritornello or closes with pedal points and melodic repetition.

Many scholars question whether a singular Doctrine of Affections exists. Nonetheless, Table 3 presents an overview of the various viewpoints as codified by Descartes. According to this doctrine, people can have four different temperaments or a combination thereof: Sanguine, Choleric, Melancholic, and Phlegmatic. Specific body parts and humors participate in producing a variety of distinct emotional states, called affections. These fundamental affections can blend in various ways to create other affections. This rational system explains why and how listeners of different temperaments react to music. A year following Descartes' treatise, Kircher published an influential compendium of knowledge that connected various affections to specific musical elements. (See Table 4. Amour is especially provoking.)

Composers could choose a variety of musical figures to summon listeners' affections. In classical oratory according to Quintilian, figures are simply deviations from normal speech intended to make one's oration more effective. By the seventeenth century, composers not only employed figures to express the text but also to move listeners to particular passions according to the Doctrine of Affections. To avoid problems of marking every musical event as a figure and trivializing the procedure, let us employ a working definition for our purpose: a figure is any departure from established musical syntax that arouses the affections.5 Not every dissonance is really a figure, but only those that express a particular emotion or inflect the music in a noticeable way. Now we can briefly examine three influential theorists of the musica poetica tradition and identify a few of their figures in three Buxtehude praeludia, BuxWV 142, 146, and 149.

Joachim Burmeister

And if we examine music more closely, we will surely find very little difference between its nature and that of oratory.  For just as the art of oratory derives its power not from a simple collection of simple words, or from a proper yet rather plain construction of periods, or from their meticulous yet bare and uniform connection, but rather from those elements where there is an underlying grace and elegance due to arrangement and to weighty words of wit, and where periods are rounded with emphatic words so, this art of music . . .6

Joachim Burmeister (1564-1529) served as cantor to St. Marien in Rostock and taught at the Gymnasium there. He developed a relatively systematic approach to identifying figures which aided his teaching of composition and reflected the Lutheran tradition of praeceptum, exemplus, et imitatio. He cites numerous late sixteenth-century vocal works and demonstrates how specific musical figures in the Lassus motet In me transierunt contribute to an effect much like that of successful oration. Elias Walther's dissertation of 1664 leans heavily on Burmeister's treatise and even analyzes the same Lassus motet, thereby revealing Burmeister's continuing influence in Lutheran Germany. By this point, Walther does not even define musical figures suggesting that their use had become commonplace.

For the most part, Burmeister's treatise Musica poetica (1606) transmits Zarlino's theories, and thus, Burmeister's ideas are strongly linked to late sixteenth-century styles. Burmeister's explicit development of a rhetorical theory, however, distinguishes him from his sixteenth-century predecessors.  Burmeister's figures focus on imitation and repetition. (See Diagram 2.)  Burmeister derived most figurative names from rhetorical sources. Thus, many terms maintain a strong association with the original rhetorical meanings, though some are uniquely musical. To reflect the traditional rhetorical division of figures into those applied to words and those applied to sentences, Burmeister placed musical figures in three categories: (1) Figurae harmoniae, figures involving more than one voice; (2) Figurae melodiae, figures involving one voice, and (3) Figurae tam harmoniae quam melodiae. (See Diagram 2.) Let us consider a couple examples:

Noëma--This figure strikes the listener when the texture changes to a homophonic passage. Most later writers imply that these passages are composed of consonant sonorities. Burmeister describes its effect: "When introduced at the right time, it sweetly affects and wondrously soothes the ears, or indeed the heart."7 For the performer, this suggests not only a sensitive touch but also a sweet registration and calm tempo. In the Praeludium in f#, mm. 14-27, Buxtehude places such a passage between the foreboding exordium and the brooding fugue. (See Example 1.) In this case, suspensions and chromaticism further modify the figure's effect within this dark piece.

Pathopoeia--Throughout the final fugue of the Praeludium in g, chromatic pitches contribute a heightened emotional affect; the pathopoeia is "suited to arousing the affections."8 Consider m. 126, where Buxtehude temporarily introduces Bb minor with half-steps outside the reigning mode.  (See Example 2.)

Aposiopesis--Returning to the Praeludium in f#, mm. 20-27, we find that the musical texture breaks off with a notated silence in m. 24. (See Example 3.) This figure, the aposiopesis, foreshadows motives that seem to lead only to silence throughout the praeludium. Burmeister suggests the topic of pieces employing this figure: "The aposiopesis is frequently encountered in compositions whose texts deal with death or eternity."9 Burmeister borrowed this term from rhetoric: "What is aposiopesis? It is when, because of an affection, some part of a sentence is cut off."10 Performers should consider exaggerating the stop for this effect.

Christoph Bernhard

Stylus Luxurians is the type consisting in part of rather quick notes and strange leaps--so that it is well suited for stirring the affects--and of more kinds of dissonance treatment . . . than the foregoing. Its melodies agree with the text as much as possible, unlike those of the preceding type . . . It [Stylus Theatralis] was devised to represent speech in music . . .  And since language is the absolute master of music in this genre . . . one should represent speech in the most natural way possible.11

Christoph Bernhard (1627-1692) was cantor for Johanneum in Hamburg from 1664-74 and co-director of the famous Collegium Musicum there with Matthias Weckmann. Later, Bernhard returned to Dresden where he had studied and worked with Schütz for many years. In the Tractatus (c. 1660), Bernhard describes three main seventeenth-century compositional styles: Stylus Gravis, Stylus Luxurians Communis, and Stylus Theatralis. Bernard not only distinguishes these styles by their venue, but more importantly, by their use of specific figures. These figures primarily depend upon dissonance treatment and modern styles which employ more sophisticated, implicit voice leading. While Bernhard emphasizes smaller details of dissonance treatment, the earlier Burmeister basically describes texture and a larger scope. Bernhard does emphasize proper reflection of the text in music, but he does not associate specific figures with affects nor does he explicitly show how to do this. Rather, Bernhard instructs his students to study works of respected composers in each of the styles. One may assume that composers use particular figures for different affects depending on context. In any case, Bernhard's brevity and prose suggest that the application of these figures is relatively obvious to the reader.

Please consider the following figures from Diagram 3 in Buxtehude's praeludia:

Passus duriusculus--This Latin term literarily means a "harsh passage" or "difficult passage." The subject of the second fugue in the Praeludium in e, mm. 47-49, contains a descending chromatic passage. (See Example 4.) The difficulty of this short span in the subject is heightened by on-beat chromaticism, and suggests a "difficult" touch and a slower tempo.

Saltus duriusculus--In this same passage, we also find a "harsh leap" or "difficult leap" called the saltus duriusculus between C and G-sharp, and between G and D-sharp. A more striking example can be found in the first fugue of the Praeludium in f# entitled "Grave," mm. 29-31. (See the leap down from D to E-sharp in Example 5.) Here we find a striking example of compound melody which Bernhard calls Heterolepsis, an element of the theatrical style. Buxtehude's fugues normally do not venture into this highly dissonant style, and these figures contribute to a morose affect.

Inchoatio imperfecta--Although Bernhard defines this term in strictly musical language, the figure carries not only structural value but also affective meaning to a German Baroque listener. (Remember that dissonances utilize ratios far from perfection, and thus, elicit darker affects in the listener.) The opening of the Praeludium in g begins with an inchoatio imperfecta: the first note, F#5, forms a dissonance with the  implied g minor chord of the first measure. (See Example 6.) The opening toccata also surprises the listener when he/she discovers that it is not a toccata, but instead a ground bass variation where variations precede the bass ostinato. Strangely, the ground bass continues alone at the end of the section in abbreviated form.

Abruptio--Bernhard discusses how this figure ruptures a melodic line by the unexpected insertion of a rest. Once again, returning to the homophonic noëma of the Praeludium in f#, mm. 14-23, the passage resumes after the aposiopesis (the breaking off), but quickly disperses into a brief stylus fantasticus section where the melodic lines are interrupted with rests (mm. 27-28), reflecting the distress that Buxtehude mollifies with the Noëma. (See Example 3.)

In his discussion of melodic composition within Der vollkommene Capellmeister (1739), Johann Mattheson (1681-1764) divides figures into embellishments added by the performer, Figurae cantionis, and rhetorical figures incorporated by the composer, Figurae cantus. Mattheson deemphasizes the mathematical derivations and instead encourages a natural expression concentrated on melody, not counterpoint. The rise of the Empfindsamerstil led to the decline of the musica poetica tradition because expressivity of the performer and ornamentation surpassed the concern for a rationally trained composer to evoke categorized affections.

In summary, these writers seem to address different aspects of musica poetica. Burmeister initiated serious inquiry of the rhetorical model in musical analysis and composition. He described a method of formally dividing compositions by use of figures. Most of his figures deal with musical textures. Bernhard provided a vocabulary of figures based on dissonance treatment. He also demonstrated how these small-scope figures define various seventeenth-century styles. Mattheson was concerned with the structural relationships between composition and oratory, i.e., how composers distribute musical ideas to impart the best rhetorical effect.

Dietrich Buxtehude and Musica Poetica

Now we ask: was Dietrich Buxtehude (1637-1707) aware of these theories? As I have shown, musical figures and basic knowledge of rhetoric were taken for granted. Furthermore, many cantors taught rhetoric and Latin while fulfilling their musical duties. Buxtehude served as organist at Marienkirche in Lübeck. Because only sixty kilometers separate Hamburg and Lübeck, Buxtehude traveled to Hamburg where Bernhard worked. Kerala Snyder has even demonstrated that Buxtehude modeled a piece after an obscure work by Bernhard. Furthermore, Snyder states "Buxtehude would certainly have been familiar with the system that Christoph Bernhard expounded in his treatise 'Tractatus compositionis augmentatus.'"12 Other treatises were also readily available. For instance, George Buelow states that Kircher's "Musurgia universalis, one of the really influential works of music theory, was drawn upon by almost every later German music theorist until well into the 18th century. Its popularity was greatly aided by a German translation of a major part of it in 1662."13 Early in Buxtehude's career, this compendium certainly would have been available in Hamburg and probably in Lübeck as well.

So far, we have studied a few figures that contribute to the affect of three Buxtehude praeludia in minor keys.  But how closely do his preludes follow the organizational precepts of oratory? Let us briefly examine the typical disposition of Buxtehude's praeludia.

After an opening flourish comparable to an exordium in a speech, Buxtehude's preludes generally alternate between free sections and imitative sections, analogous to confutatio and confirmatio sections. A variable number of confutatio/confirmatio sections probably would lead Burmeister to simply lump these together into the "body." The final free section, or  peroratio, provides a successful conclusion through repetition (to recapitulate an argument) and the strictly musical devices of pedal points and tonal closure.

Snyder compares the opposition of free sections and fugues to that of prelude and aria. This apt analogy captures fugal entries as an amplification technique of confirmatio sections that conveys a single affection in agreement with the pieces' mode and overall affect.14 Free sections often use stylus theatralis while fugues tend to employ less dissonant styles. Although Buxtehude's works follow a definition of stylus phantasicus somewhere between that of Mattheson and his predecessor Kircher, Mattheson's directions guide performers particularly well on the performance of the free sections: these pieces follow "all kinds of otherwise unusual progressions, hidden ornaments, ingenious turns and embellishments . . . without actual observation of the measure and the key, regardless of what is placed on the page . . . now swift, now hesitating, now in one voice, now in many voices, . . . but not without the intent to please, to overtake and to astonish."15 In other words, these free sections display an improvisatory and unpredictable character, often with the purpose to astonish the listener. Certainly opening sections fulfill Mattheson's description while interior free sections tend toward more melancholy moods, especially in the three minor key pieces this article examines.

The Disposition of the Praeludia in g, e, and f#

The fully worked-out fugues and other hallmarks of Buxtehude's mature style lead Snyder to date the Praeludium in g before 1675. (See Table 5.)  Lawrence Archbold uses these same characteristics to support a later dating.16 Despite differences among scholars here, all agree this praeludium displays Buxtehude's best work.17 The canonic voices in the manuals opening the exordium make the delayed ground bass entrance surprising. Transformations of this theme pervade the entire work, perhaps a legacy of the composer's inventio stage. This flashy start precedes a ricercar fugue that takes its theme from the previous ostinato to create a sort of textural modulation into the first confirmatio. (See Example 7.) As usual in Buxtehude's praeludia, the first fugue disintegrates after significant development. The following free section contains the only example of strict continuo style in Buxtehude's organ works.  This confutatio leads back to the tonic while subtly reintroducing the main theme, like an orator who skillfully employs opposing points-of-view to his advantage during a rebuttal. Marked Largo and with dotted rhythms, the last fugue then boldly announces yet another version of the piece's theme with a variety of stylus theatricus figures to emphasize its dark character. Even Archbold cannot resist calling the last fugue "the most stately, even elegaic of Buxtehude's fugues." The peroratio concludes with figurative repetition via a free ciacona and appropriate pedal points.

Like many other scholars, Philipp Spitta described the Praeludium in e as "one of his [Buxtehude's] greatest organ compositions. . . ."18 (See Table 6.) This work was probably composed in 1684 because of tuning considerations. According to Snyder, the heavy emphasis on counterpoint links it with early works of the 1670s when Buxtehude assimilated the writings of Bernhard, Theile, and Reinken. The Praeludium in e opens with a free, figural exordium, but three fugues dominate the work. The well-developed first fugue displays a canzona-like subject with three distinct motives, and it concludes with a brief noëma derived from the subject's eighth notes. The second fugue is "the most contrapuntally elegant, and at the same time one of the most expressive fugues in all the praeludia. Brossard . . . would undoubtedly have called it a fuga pathetica [with its leaps, chromaticism, meter, and strict contrapuntal procedures]."19 The following free section is imaginative and quite rhapsodic with highly ornamented passage-work often juxtaposed against slow, unadorned notes. Characteristic of Kircher's affection amour, the harmonies here seem to wander (between the dominant and subdominant areas). The contrapuntally "lax" but vigorous fugue that constitutes the fifth section is a gigue that quickly dissolves into a concertato texture and ends with a short flourish. The capricious character of the Lombard rhythms at the very end may harken back to the canzona-like first fugue.

Probably written in the 1690s, the Preludium in f#  emphasizes free sections. (See Table 7.) After a brief flourish, the exordium presents an unadorned passus duriusculus in quarter notes accompanied by right hand arpeggios. This figure and the dissonant key of f# minor in unequal temperaments present a particularly gloomy and somewhat inward character.20 The following noëma provides brief but limited relief because of dissonances and an aposiopesis. The first fugue, marked Grave, continues the dissonant discourse with its figures and dotted rhythms. When the fugal texture dissolves, a second fugue marked vivace interjects into the final cadence with a variant of the subject from the first fugue. Although of a livelier nature, the saltus duriusculus in the second fugue subject still reminds the listener of the principal affect. This faster fugue quickly dissolves into motivic interplay, temporarily escaping to the parallel major. The following free section is the most adventuresome harmonically of Buxtehude's praeludia: it explores g-sharp minor--an especially remote and dissonant key; the melodic material seems to trail off, rhapsodically speeding up and then slowing unpredictably; and melodies suggest thoughts that lead nowhere. But Buxtehude fuses this final confutatio to the succeeding peroratio with a pedal note. The peroratio repeats an extremely loose ostinato, presenting motives from previous sections, in a virtuosic display of stylus phantasticus.

 

Summary

 

 We must conclude that Buxtehude must have been familiar with Bernhard's ideas. He may have also known Burmeister's groundbreaking treatise Musica poetica. Especially in Buxtehude's praeludia, the rhetorical figures of Burmeister suggest various touches and large-scale effects while the small rhetorical figures identified by Bernhard accumulate, fashioning affects with various types of dissonances. Buxtehude cast the three praeludia above into minor keys to project darker affects than his rhetorical figures suggest. The contrast of thematic material and figures seems to divide internal sections into alternations similar to supporting arguments and rebuttals found in rhetoric. Outer sections introduce and conclude pieces magnificently. The strong correlation between so-called Toccata Form and rhetorical organization may even explain why this form flourished in the Lutheran stronghold of northern Germany during the seventeenth century.  n

 

Stylistic Features of Frescobaldi and Froberger in Buxtehude’s Ciacona in C minor, BuxWV 159

Marijim Thoene

Marijim Thoene is a native Californian. She received a B.M. degree in Liturgical Music from Peabody Conservatory, an M.M. in Organ Performance from the University of Southern California, and an M.M and D.M.A. in Church Music/Organ Performance from the University of Michigan. She has also studied at the Queen’s College and University College in Oxford, the Organ Academy in Pistoia, Italy, and at the University of Salamanca. She has been director of music at churches in Baltimore, Oxfordshire, San Diego, Ann Arbor and New Orleans, and has been on the faculty at the University of New Orleans, and Our Lady of Holy Cross College in New Orleans. Her CD, Mystics and Spirits, was recorded on the Dobson organ at St. Joseph Abbey in St. Benedict, Louisiana. Her second CD, Wind Song: Music for Organ and Flute, has just been released and was also recorded at St. Joseph Abbey. Among her favorite topics is “Fierce Beasts and Gentle Creatures Who Play the Organ in Medieval Manuscripts.”

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Sublimity flashing forth at the right moment scatters everything before it like a thunderbolt…
—Longinus

As scholars and musicians celebrate the music of Buxtehude three hundred years after his death, I ask myself, as an organist, how would I describe the drawing power of his organ music? What is it that speaks to me and draws me to his music? To be perfectly candid, I ask a lot from the music I choose to learn. I want high drama. Give me Longinus’s aesthetic of great art: “It must have something of the sublime in it.” Great music must have epic qualities like Virgil’s Aeneid or Homer’s Odyssey; in short, it must describe the human condition with tragedy and comedy, tension and release, despair and hope, and it must have the essence of a dance. I chose Buxtehude’s Ciacona in C minor because it contains all of the qualities mentioned above, and all of them occur within the structure of a dance form that Buxtehude calls a “ciacona.”
I think that the greatness of Buxtehude’s writing is based in part on his ability to borrow from the techniques of Frescobaldi and Froberger, and to incorporate them into his own work. Using imitation, Buxtehude follows what Longinus deemed a natural process to attain greatness: “Greatness of soul must be fed and developed by an enthusiastic imitation and emulation of previous great poets and writers.” The similarities in form and motifs of Buxtehude’s Ciacona in C minor and in works by Frescobaldi and Froberger are compelling. The most dramatic “borrowing” apparent in Buxtehude’s Ciacona in C minor is his use of the ostinato ground, as found in Frescobaldi’s Cento Partite sopra Passacagli. By extension, Buxtehude’s use of repetition of a melodic motif as the structural basis of his composition is found in Froberger’s Canzona VII. Frescobaldi’s use of the ostinato ground, and Froberger’s use of a melodic motif, repetition of a harmonic pattern and melodic pattern are fused in Buxtehude’s Ciacona in C minor. His ciacona’s basso ostinato (ground), which occurs sometimes in succession, sometimes intermittently, is the unifying element within the composition. (See Example 1.) As in J. S. Bach’s Passacaglia in C minor, the ostinato pattern is the foundation of the composition. Frescobaldi’s use of ostinato and Froberger’s use of a repeated motif are transformed in Buxtehude’s Ciacona in C minor.

The significance of the Ciacona in C minor, BuxWV 159
Philipp Spitta placed Buxtehude’s Passacaglia in D minor and the two ciaconas in C minor and E minor at the beginning of the first volume of his edition of Buxtehude’s organ works, which was published in 1875. Spitta, in his letter to Brahms, says of these three works: “For beauty and importance [they] take the precedence of all the works of this kind at the time, and are in the first rank of Buxtehude’s compositions.”1 After seeing the D-minor passacaglia, Brahms wrote to Spitta: “ . . . when I become acquainted with such a beautiful piece as the Ciacona in D minor by Buxtehude, I can hardly resist sharing it with a publisher, simply for the purpose of creating joy for others . . . ”2
Kerala Snyder, in her book, Dieterich Buxtehude: Organist in Lübeck, notes that Brahms referred to Buxtehude’s Passacaglia in D minor as the Ciacona in D minor. She makes the observation that in Brahms’s time as well as Buxtehude’s, the terms ciacona or chaconne and passacaglia were interchangeable. Buxtehude himself titles his works ciacona and passacaglia.3
The Ciacona in C minor contains a microcosm of Buxtehude’s compositional devices, which can be found in Frescobaldi and Froberger. In addition to mirroring their form, he quotes rhythmic motifs. The dotted eighth-note followed by a sixteenth and vice versa are prominent motifs in Frescobaldi. See Example 2 from his Toccatas Terza (Per l’Organo da sonarsi all levatione), Quarta, and Sesta from Book II of his Toccatas and Canzonas, etc. of 1637. While Frescobaldi uses these rhythmic patterns sparingly, Buxtehude repeats them throughout a section. (See Example 3, measures 17–20, 21–24, 25–28, 114–117, and 118–121.) Frescobaldi’s dramatic use of suspensions, which dominate the Toccata per Elevatione from Messa delli Apostoli in his Fiori Musicali, is mirrored briefly in Buxtehude’s Ciacona in C in measures 3 and 7. Buxtehude’s mercurial shift in mood from sorrow to joy, the latter characterized by triplet figures, can also be found in the abrupt shifts in mood in Frescobaldi’s Toccata Prima (Book II of Toccatas and Partitas), as well as in Froberger’s Toccata I, II, IV, XII, XIII, XVI XIX, XXV, XXVI; Froberger’s Fantasia I; Froberger’s Canzona III, IV, V, VI; and Froberger’s Capriccio I, II, IV, VII,VIII, X, XII, XIV, and XVIII. Froberger’s burst of joy, a dance section, contrasting with more somber sections, appears in Buxtehude’s Ciacona in C minor in the 9/8 section, measures 122–137.
Using Buxtehude’s Ciacona in C minor as a focus, the following topics will be addressed:
(1) What is the structure of his Ciacona in C minor? (2) How did this Italian ostinato form and the overall persistence of repeated motifs that characterize the canzonas of Froberger reach Buxtehude? The ostinato form is Italian in origin and its first appearance in North German repertoire (with the exception of Martin Radeck, active 1623–83) is in Buxtehude’s ostinato organ works. (3) What elements of form of Frescobaldi’s Cento Partite sopra Passacagli and Froberger’s Canzona VI in A minor are found in Buxtehude? (4) What clues in performance practices can be applied to Buxtehude’s Ciacona in C minor from Italian sources? (5) What elements of Buxtehude’s Ciacona can be seen in J. S. Bach’s Passacaglia in C Minor? (6) What is the significance of repetition in this work?

1. The structure of Buxtehude’s Ciacona in C minor
The structure is succinctly analyzed in Willi Apel’s The History of Keyboard Music to 1700:

The Ciacona in C minor consists of 38 variations on the ostinato subject which is heard in the bass unchanged for the first seven variations and then freely varied in other voices. Sometimes the transformation of the subject goes so far that its contour is entirely lost and only the harmonic scheme remains, as, for example, in variations VIII, IX, and X. . . . Variation XX is also very free, as Buxtehude modulates to G minor. In order to return to C minor, he inserts a fifth measure. Beginning with variation XXI each variation is literally or almost literally repeated (XXI=XXII, XXIII=XXIV, etc). Thus the chaconne falls into three main sections of seven, thirteen, and eighteen variations, respectively, the first marked by a strict ostinato, the second by a particularly free treatment of the subject, and the third by paired variations.4

The Ciacona is mercurial in its moods, beginning in a somber, serious mood and altering to a light, dance-like mood. Then in variations XVII through XXII a dotted eighth and sixteenth note motif dominates, and in variation XXIX through XXX the reverse of that rhythmic figure is heard: the sixteenth note followed by the eighth note. Buxtehude’s meter is in 3/4 throughout, with the exception of variations XXXI–XXXIV, which are in 9/8.
It is this juxtaposition of contrasting moods, i.e., dark versus light, a sort of exaggerated formality with the dotted rhythms versus a rather unbridled exuberance, which makes for high drama in the work. Buxtehude was no stranger to drama. So popular were Buxtehude’s Abendmusiken, an annual concert series of musical drama, sponsored by business men of Lübeck and open to the public free of charge, that in 1682 police were hired to ensure the peace.5 The dramatic flavor of his Abendmusiken is seen in the summary of the libretto of 1684:

Heavenly Joy of the Spirit on Earth over the Incarnation and Birth of Our Dearest Savior Jesus Christ, in separate acts, in opera style, with many arias and ritornelli, brought into a musical harmony for six concerted voices, various instruments and cappella voices.
The Most Frightful and Most Joyful; Namely, the End of Time and Beginning of Eternity, in dialogue style, also shown in five scenes, for five concerted voices, instruments, etc.6

His sense of the dramatic as well as his gift for comedy is seen in a work dated 1688, Wacht! Euch zum Streit, a work originally thought to be by Buxtehude but now in question. Its text is made up of biblical quotations, chorale verses, and new poetry, with the main emphasis on the new strophic poetry. It is scored for five or six vocal soloists, two violins, two violas, and continuo, with a brief and optional appearance for trombones. The characters are all allegorical. In the prologue, Avarice, Wantonness, and Pride (three sopranos) argue among themselves as to who is the most powerful, and the Divine Voice (bass) denounces them all with biblical words.7

2. How was the music of Frescobaldi and Froberger transmitted to Buxtehude?
As mentioned previously, Buxtehude was, with the exception of Martin Radeck, the only north German composer to write keyboard ostinato pieces. They were composed primarily in Italy and South Germany. Although Buxtehude never visited Italy, Italian musicians were engaged at the Marienkirche in Lübeck during Buxtehude’s tenure as organist—an Italian castrato in 1672, the singer ‘Longlio’ in 1687 and another unnamed Italian in 1693.8 It is thought that Buxtehude was introduced to Frescobaldi and Froberger through Matthias Weckmann (1619–1674), organist at the St. Jacobi Church in Hamburg from 1655 who met Froberger in the Dresden court about 1653.9 Weckmann was married in Lübeck and Tunder was his best man. It is important to note that Matthias Weckmann founded a collegium musicum in 1660 in Hamburg. They performed “pieces from Venice, Rome, Vienna, Munich, Dresden, etc. indeed, this collegium attained such fame, that the greatest composers tried to attach their names to it.”10
Buxtehude may have had access to Frescobaldi’s music through the music library of Tunder’s in the Marienkirche in Lübeck, which had the largest collection of Italian publications of church music in Germany. Granted, there are many motives and styles of figuration of Frescobaldi that appear in Buxtehude as mentioned previously.

3. What formal elements of Frescobaldi and Froberger are found in Buxtehude?
Frescobaldi’s monumental harpsichord work, Cento Partite sopra Passacagli, published in 1637, the year of Buxtehude’s birth, contains compositional techniques that are mirrored in some degree in Buxtehude’s C-minor Ciacona. The work is analyzed in detail in Frederick Hammond’s book, Girolamo Frescobaldi: His Life and Music. Hammond summarizes the tonal centers, mensuration and form of each section.11 Both works, for the most part, are based on a repeated harmonic structure.
Frescobaldi’s Cento begins with a Passacaglia that is constructed on a descending tetrachord (D to A). Frescobaldi immediately sets up, within the large construct of a repeated harmonic framework, a series of short melodic motives that add cohesion to the Passacaglia. Following the Passacaglia is a Corrente, then a Ciacona in F major built on this harmonic progression: I-V-vi-I6, IV, VI. (See Example 4.) Here one sees Frescobaldi’s use of an ostinato ground, which forms the foundation for his Ciacona in F within the Cento. In this section, measures 133–140, the harmonic progression is repeated four times.
Compare Example 4 with Example 1 to note the differences between Frescobaldi’s ostinato bass with Buxtehude’s. Here one sees a technique that undergoes transformation in Buxtehude. The rhythm of Buxtehude’s bass-line remains constant, Frescobaldi’s does not, Buxtehude’s is memorable and Frescobaldi’s is not! For Buxtehude the ostinato harmonic structure is inviolable; he may depart from it briefly, but always returns to it. Unlike Frescobaldi’s Cento, the entire composition rests on this hauntingly beautiful bass line while above it soar contrapuntal dialogues, spirited dances, and flights of fantasy.
Yet, no matter how different Frescobaldi is from Buxtehude the compositional technique is the same. Returning to the structure of Cento, following the Ciacona in F major is a Passacaglia in C major characterized by dotted rhythms as in Buxtehude’s C-minor Ciacona; then a C-major Ciacona, a Passacaglia in A minor, another Ciacona in A minor. The Cento ends with a Passacaglia in D minor. In Frescobaldi there are dramatic shifts in mood within sections as in Buxtehude, but in a more diffuse way.
Elements of the remarkable ostinato C-minor Ciacona may also be found in the canzonas of Froberger, which no doubt were influenced, in part, by Frescobaldi. In 1637 Froberger was court organist for Emperor Ferdinand III in Vienna and he was granted leave to study with Frescobaldi in Rome. He studied there until 1640.12 The documents are scant regarding the life of Froberger; however, it is known that he returned to Italy some time before 1649 and may have studied with Carissimi. In a letter to Kircher he mentioned performing in the courts of Florence and Mantua.13 The year 1637 also marks the year of the publication of Frescobaldi’s Second Book of Toccatas, Canzoni, etc. The imitative counterpoint ever present in Frescobaldi’s canzonas is at the heart of Froberger’s canzonas. In Froberger’s Canzona in A minor, a single motif is the basis of the whole composition. See Example 5 showing the opening theme of Froberger’s Canzona VI and its rhythmical transformation. The motif undergoes rhythmical transformation, but is ever present, much like Buxtehude’s ostinato bass line. At the core of Froberger’s Canzona VI is a theme that undergoes transformation but remains singable and memorable.

4. Performance practices
Buxtehude’s Ciacona in C minor is sectional and moves from darkness to light. Is it appropriate to change tempi? In answering that question it may be appropriate to take Frescobaldi’s words to heart. Under the title of “Cento Partite sopra Passacagli” Frescobaldi offers these words: “The Passacaglias may be played separately, like the chaconnes, according to the performer’s wishes, whilst adjusting the movement from one variation to the next.”14 Certainly, one should consider the suspensions at the beginning of Buxtehude's Ciacona and choose a tempo that would not obscure the suspensions. If one must play Buxtehude on a tracker organ with a heavy action, one can look to Girolamo Diruta, who addressed how to approach the sometimes formidable task of playing on such an instrument. Diruta says: Let the arm guide the hand. In other words, use the weight of the arm to depress the keys. He also says that one must press and not strike the keys, one must caress the keys as though one were caressing a child.15

5. Buxtehude’s influence on Bach’s Passacaglia
All of Buxtehude’s ostinato works are found in the Andreas Bach Book,16 an anthology compiled before 1700 by Johann Christoph Bach of Ohrdruf, Johann Sebastian Bach’s older brother and teacher.17 In all probability Bach knew Buxtehude’s Ciacona in C minor in 1705, when at age 20 he received permission to leave his post as organist at the New Church at Arnstadt to travel on foot 250 miles to Lübeck to hear Dieterich Buxtehude. He was there for almost a quarter of a year, staying three times longer than his four weeks of granted leave time. As Christoph Wolff comments, “From Bach’s vantage point in 1705, there was simply no other musician who could offer him so much.”18
Bach’s monumental Passacaglia in C minor, BWV 582, with its twenty variations over its eight measure ground, is reminiscent of Buxtehude’s Ciacona in C minor. As Peter Williams points out, “a series of conventional figurae are used (one after the other) in a texture varying from one to five parts.”19
No autograph of BWV 582 survives; however, an early copy exists and Williams comments that “the earlier the Passacaglia was composed, the more it can be seen as a deliberate essay in genre-composition, very likely under the influence of Buxtehude.”20 Bach emancipates the form, but always, as in Buxtehude, the theme of the Passacaglia is ever present, singable and memorable. Unlike Buxtehude, Bach presents the ostinato bass line first as a solo voice in the pedal, giving emphasis to its importance as the foundation of the entire work.

6. The significance of repetition
Repetition occurs on many levels. In Buxtehude’s Ciacona in C minor, first the ostinato theme in the pedal recurs, unchanging in pitch, sometimes slightly altered rhythmically; variations are repeated, and on a detailed level, motives are repeated within a variation. All of this serves the purpose of creating a unified, organic whole. In repeating a variation he allows the listener to savor music for the second time. At the core of fine art is “artful” repetition . . . it promotes symmetry and patterns that give pleasure to the eye and ear. Buxtehude’s Ciacona in C minor is like a stage on which the characters experience sorrow, joy, conflict and resolution and the conclusion seems to be an affirmation of cosmic harmony.
One has only to look in Corliss Arnold’s Organ Literature: A Comprehensive Survey to see that the ciacona/passacaglia is alive and well. On May 16, 2007, I was in the Duomo in Florence and heard Jean Guillou play a brilliant, memorized recital. He concluded his recital with his transcription of Modest Moussorgsky’s Pictures at an Exhibition, with no fewer than five movements entitled Promenade (“Passeggiata”). How refreshing to hear this majestic and joyous theme recur over and over again. See Example 6 for the opening of the passacaglia. This recurring theme is an “artful” repetition, giving the listener a talisman for his journey, like a stone worn smooth by his touch, something that brings comfort because it is always there. ■

This paper was presented on June 26, 2007 at the 28th International Organ and Church Music Institute, celebrating “Buxtehude and Liturgical Music,” at the University of Michigan.

 

Review feature: Dietrich Buxtehude: Sämtliche Orgelwerke. Vol. 1 &

Wiesbaden, Leipzig, Paris: Breitkopf & Härtel, rev.

Leon W. Couch III

Dr. Leon W. Couch III, D.M.A., Ph.D., coordinates and teaches the music theory curriculum at Texas A&M University. Earlier as a graduate student, Couch maintained an organ studio and taught theory courses at the University of Cincinnati's College-Conservatory of Music. Later he served as an Adjunct Professor of Mathematics at the university. Dr. Couch's research interests are in historical music theory, Schenkerian analysis, and analysis of electronic music. He is currently investigating the role of musical rhetoric in late seventeenth- and early eighteenth-century German music. For three years, Couch also served as music director at Concordia Lutheran Church, Cincinnati, Ohio. He is currently music director and organist for Our Saviour's Lutheran Church in College Station, Texas.

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Introduction and Purpose

The lack of autograph manuscripts and the haphazard transmission of Buxtehude's organ works through generations of questionable copyists has plagued Buxtehude scholarship since its inception. In many cases, the poor text found in surviving sources of Buxtehude's music makes it difficult for editors to produce successful Urtext editions for performance. In the late 1960s, Klaus Beckmann bravely diverged from orthodox editorial practice and asserted that he would attempt to recover Buxtehude's lost voice through inference and, occasionally, pure conjecture.1 Despite this controversial but necessary methodology, his 1971 edition of Buxtehude's organ works was rightly lauded by many as being thoroughly musical.  (See Table 1 for the list of common editions cited in this article.) Consequently, not only did his edition become the most popular edition for recent generations of organists, but his method was successfully employed by his competitor Christoph Albrecht in the recent Bärenreiter edition. With the performer in mind, the present article evaluates the first two volumes of Beckmann's 1997 edition of Buxtehude's complete organ works by comparing them to his earlier edition and to competing editions.

Brief Survey of Editions and Primary Sources

Beckmann attempted to remove the degradation of the musical text resulting from copyists who not only used a different musical notation than Buxtehude but were also removed from Buxtehude by region and one generation. In some cases, the scribe was simply inept or the surviving manuscripts clearly do not reflect Buxtehude's intentions. The eighteenth-century scribe of the Toccata in D Minor, BuxWV 155, for instance, not only misunderstood the meter and where to place barlines, he was also clearly confused by the North German organ tablature he was transcribing. This magnificent work exists only in this one corrupt manuscript. In examples such as Praeludium in A Major, BuxWV 151, multiple corrupt sources contradict each other or even provide extra passages.2

Under an Urtext model for editing, most editors in the past attempted to reliably transmit extant sources with an emphasis on the most recently discovered manuscripts.3 In 1876-78, Philipp Spitta drew primarily from two sources available to him, the Berlin Manuscript and the Andreas Bach Book. In 1939, Max Seiffert augmented Spitta's work with the recently discovered Lowell Mason Codex of 1684 ("Codex E. B. 1688") and the Schmahl Tablature. Still using Spitta's work as a basis, Joseph Hedar depended heavily upon the Lindemann and Engelhart Tablatures recently found in the Lund University library for his 1950 and 1952 edition.

More recent editions (after 1970) have attempted to approach all the available sources with more circumspection. But in his 1971 edition, Beckmann not only reevaluated the extant primary sources and conflated musical passages from multiple sources further than his predecessors, he took the revolutionary step of examining the musical context ("internal textual criticism") to figure out what Buxtehude might have meant to say (his "ipsissima vox").4    Albrecht's 1994-95 edition embraces Beckmann's methods, but often with different musical results. In contrast to these recent approaches aimed towards a performable score, Michael Belotti chose the least corrupt source (in his opinion) and essentially marked all other sources as variants in his recent 1998 edition. Unlike Albrecht's and Beckmann's editions, Belotti's does not present an amalgamation of sources that attempts to find Buxtehude's real voice.

In summary, nearly every edition emphasizes different sources, and the recent editions present opposing but equally legitimate approaches: Belotti's volumes allow a scholar to reconstruct any of the sources with the help of his extensive (and easy to read!) critical notes; in contrast, Albrecht and Beckmann both present convincing interpretations that a performer can simply play without being forced into score study. Because the older and the newer editions represent different sources or approaches, I must say that they all still deserve consideration when seriously studying particular works.

Beckmann's First Edition (1971): The Criticisms

Several criticisms of Beckmann's 1971 edition motivated the publication of his 1997 revision. The primary objection to the original edition was that the critical notes were only located in the scholarly volumes (EB 6621-22) intended for scholars and libraries, whereas performers generally elected to buy the relatively inexpensive performance edition (EB 6661-62). Because few bought the expensive scholarly edition, it quickly fell out of print and became essentially inaccessible. Thus, performers who used Beckmann's scores were entirely dependent upon his good musical judgement.

Furthermore, the conveniently "clean" appearance of 1971 scores gives the performer a false sense of security over the notes and musical issues. Alternative readings, suggestive indications in the primary sources, and labels marking Beckmann's inferences were not on the scores, and thus the performer is kept in the dark concerning these issues. One could not know, for instance, whether ties on repeated notes were authentic or editorial. One had to guess whether directions in manuscripts or the editor's preference determined the assignment of bass lines to the pedal or manuals. Without editorial marks, even a determined organist might not be able to discover what was original to relevant manuscripts and what was purely Beckmann's.

Although most organ scholars now agree that Beckmann's methods are necessary for the performance of many late seventeenth-century organ works, any attempt to reconstruct Buxtehude's desires obviously invites disagreements over particular interpretations. The use of pedal can be contested throughout the repertory. The most frequent criticism is Beckmann's handling of the opening keyboard figuration in the Praeludium in G Minor, BuxWV 149, in which Beckmann's groupings do not resemble those found in any source.5 (And, one of the sources suggests a more exhilarating effect.) The Toccata in D Minor, BuxWV 155, provides another common point of disagreement, because the manuscript source requires extensive editorial reconstruction--or "resurrection" as one reviewer put it. For this reason, reviewers often use this toccata to test an editor's merit.6 In the case of the Praeludium in E Minor, BuxWV 142, two sources dramatically disagree at the juncture between the last two sections.7 The quirky countersubject of the first fugue in the Praeludium in C Major, BuxWV 136, seemingly defies a consistent solution.8 When comparing the two editions, one need only spend a little effort to find many shorter instances of some import, such as striking chords and registers being normalized or inferred.9 Although alternatives to Beckmann's solutions may be better in several cases, Beckmann's 1971 interpretations are, for the most part, justifiable, musical, and convincing.10 (Alternative solutions found in other editions and in recordings can often be justified as well.) For this reason, I believe Beckmann preserved the spirit of most interpretations from 1971 in his 1997 edition.

Beckmann's Revised Edition (1997): The Preface, Critical Notes, Bibliography, and Sources

The revised edition features a more in-depth preface, a bibliography, and critical notes in addition to the scores of Buxtehude's free organ works. Beckmann's serviceable preface, despite its awkward translation, defends his goals and several of his editorial choices (more on this later)--its language and content seem aimed more towards scholars than performers using his edition. The bibliography is a wonderful addition: in one concise page, Beckmann compiles a list of recent seminal articles, along with significant editions and books. Beckmann corrected the most prominent flaw of the 1971 edition by appending the critical notes. As usual, critical notes will be a dense list of cryptic abbreviations and German phrases to the uninitiated. Although musicologists immediately feel at home, I suspect only determined, scholarly minded organists will use them. (Other editions, incidentally, do provide more accessible prefaces and critical notes.11) With the addition of these three features (preface, bibliography, and critical notes), Beckmann has responded to scholars' chief criticisms.

In addition to discussing some noticeable changes in editorial procedures (more on this later), Beckmann reiterates the modern issue over genre names in his preface: titles such as "Toccata" or "Praeludium" that can be found in the manuscript sources are preferred over the misleading anachronistic labels such as "Prelude and Fugue" found in older editions. Beckmann presses this point further than most by avoiding the inclusion of key centers in titles. The well-known Praeludium in E Major is simply "Praeludium" and indistinguishable by title from any others. Fortunately, this is not a major inconvenience, because key signatures can be read quickly, and the table of contents does list the modern keys (carefully separated from the titles). The order of pieces by BuxWV number (i.e., by key center!) in the first volume also makes the pedaliter praeludia easy to locate. The second volume, which contains the non-pedaliter and a few pedaliter free works, preserves the seemingly haphazard ordering of works in the BuxWV. One would need to memorize the BuxWV numbers to avoid constantly referring to the table of contents. Worse yet, the rough division of pedaliter and manualiter works found in the BuxWV and reflected in distribution of works in the two volumes may make Beckmann's edition potentially misleading.12 Except for BuxWV 162, in which an early eighteenth-century scribe indicated manuals only in the title, organists today may often choose whether to use pedals.

According to Beckmann, the 1997 revision reportedly benefits from recent scholarship (after 1971). Beckmann also points out that Albrecht's 1995 edition does not incorporate this scholarship, but in an addendum to his second edition (1997), Albrecht discounts the importance to his edition.13 (Three articles from the mid-1980s and the 1990s only argue that one manuscript source is derived from another one.)

Several new entries were added to the list of sources consulted by both Albrecht and Beckmann since

Beckmann's 1971 edition;14 however, the interpretation of only four works was affected. The Praeludium in F-sharp Minor, BuxWV 146, experiences the largest change--all modern editions have switched to the recently discovered Werndt manuscript as a primary source. Beckmann 1997 also adds a late eighteenth-century secondary source beyond Albrecht's list of sources, but from what I can tell, its content of three pieces makes little difference to Beckmann's  interpretations. Belotti's edition, incidentally, surveys all these currently available sources. The additional sources discovered since 1971 affect only a handful of pieces.

Beckmann's Revised Edition (1997): The Scores

Although the layout of the 1997 edition is exactly the same as the 1971 one--measures and musical notes are placed in exactly the same physical location along with the convenient page turns that we remember--the scores now distinguish some types of editorial license. In the 1997 edition, for instance, Beckmann clarifies which ties are editorial (dotted bowed lines) and which are original to the sources (solid tie). Although I find the dotted lines focus my attention too heavily on Beckmann's consistently good judgement on this issue, other reviewers apparently feel this is a major improvement. The locations of ties, incidentally, rarely change between the old and new Beckmann editions. (An example can be found in mm. 96-100 of BuxWV 149, where the tenor now rearticulates notes.)

Critical performance directions found in the sources now appear in the score. In particular, performers can easily tell whether a source specifies pedals. Thereby organists can identify ambiguous situations and choose to adopt Beckmann's educated guesses or to play alternative solutions instead. In several instances, a different choice might not only be more effective, but also be much easier to execute.15 The danger of Beckmann's (and Albrecht's) continued use of a separate staff for the pedal part, however, is that players may forget to consider these alternatives.16

Although Beckmann directly warns that "the decision about how much of the bass part is to be attributed to the manual and the pedal must be taken even when the work is notated in three staves,"17 one wonders how many organ students really read and heed his caution. Even though a skilled organist should be able to rearrange the parts at sight, too many organists may be seduced into relying too heavily on Beckmann's choices, however reasonable, to justify the ease that three-staff notation provides to the editor. Beginners will undoubtedly play what is on the page. In the preface, Beckmann also defends himself against those who claim that two-staff notation is better on historical grounds: Most sources of Buxtehude's music, admittedly, use two-staff notation, but Buxtehude himself certainly used organ tablature and did not need to make this notational decision at all.

A number of editorial changes between the 1971 and 1997 publications involve subtle changes in musical notation: (1) In the old edition, Beckmann beams four eighth notes together in 4/4 meter. According to Beckmann, the new edition uses duplets instead in order to encourage a Baroque performance practice "microarticulation." Although this change makes little difference to me when I use the scores, at least one reviewer found this subtle difference objectionably dogmatic, especially in the case of the three-eighth-note upbeat.18 (See Examples 1a and 1b.) In faster tempos, the more prominent layer of articulation probably lies on strong beats as quadruplets of the older edition would suggest. (2) Beckmann chooses to emphasize the use of dots over ties to lengthen notes. He believes that Buxtehude preferred this notation, perhaps because it reflects the act of playing more closely: If a note is struck once, one note head (with a dot) is used, rather than two note heads (with a tie). Perhaps Beckmann's scores resemble the Baroque sources a little more closely, but, as a modern player, I find this archaic notation simply irritating in some passages--it has little, if any, effect upon performance. (See Examples 2a, 2b, 3a, and 3b.) (3) Like most sources, Beckmann's edition no longer supplies rests in empty bars, leaving numerous staves entirely empty. (If he omitted these empty staves, would he be able to decrease the number of page turns?) The 1971 edition, incidentally, used a small font size for editorially supplied rests, but most users probably didn't regard the difference. (4) Less significant details exhibit more consistency in notation, such as the addition of "6" above all the (controversial) sextuplets in BuxWV 149 and the breaking of a sixteenth-note beam in m. 152 of BuxWV 142. (Note that some notational changes do reflect significant changes, such as the changed incipit to BuxWV 142, which reflects the emphasis of an alternative source in the later edition.) In summary, the improved scores, once again, better approximate the original sources, but several notational improvements have little effect on the performer.

Although most players may generally find Beckmann's improvements somewhat subtle, the addition of pedal indications from the sources, altered stemming, or even ties in particular cases can make a great difference. Beckmann, for instance, works hard to reflect the voice-leading through stemming, and, in mm. 36-39 of BuxWV 143, the revised edition uses an additional change of register to untangle the confusion of counterpoint found in his 1971 edition. (See Examples 4a and 4b.) In a case where the reviewer Lawrence Archbold praises Albrecht's choice of a striking dominant seventh sonority in m. 8 of BuxWV 155 over Beckmann's 1971 "correction" to a major triad, Beckmann does revert to the dominant seventh that Spitta, Hedar, and Albrecht all read directly from the primary source.19 Such small but important differences are evident in numerous works, and, if one is familiar with the 1971 edition, one will notice a myriad of subtle changes in nearly every work.  (See Examples 5a and 5b.) The publication of a revision is justified.

Recommendations

For organists buying Buxtehude's works for the first time, both

Beckmann's and Albrecht's editions serve the purpose of a ready-made and relatively affordable interpretation excellently. Both are highly recommended. While I personally prefer Beckmann's familiar renditions, Albrecht's edition provides enough information both on the scores and in the critical notes to involve "the user whenever possible in the decision-making process [of what to play]."20 (For this reason, Albrecht's edition might not be the best for beginners, but for more scholarly oriented players.)

From the above discussion, it is obvious that most Buxtehude enthusiasts will want to own several different editions. I should also mention that Dover has reissued Spitta/Seiffert's work (originally published by Breitkopf & Härtel in 1939). The publication is so inexpensive that it may be worthwhile to have it on one's shelves to consult occasionally, because their fine editing clearly reflects the sources that were available in 1939. In my opinion, upgrading from Beckmann's 1971 to his 1997 edition is simply too expensive, despite the countless small improvements justifying the revision's printing--Beckmann's 1971 edition suffices for those who already own it (with the caveat that performers reference another score or access the separate critical notes). I would avoid the Hedar edition as a sole performing score--as in the case of Spitta's edition, organists would need to consult other editions too often. Yet, for those without financial constraints, the Hedar edition provides another interpretation worthy of consideration and is a useful reference tool on the Lund sources. This older edition, after all, marked an important milestone in Buxtehude scholarship. Because both the Spitta and Hedar editions derive so clearly from the sources, a comparison with modern performing editions will show how much Beckmann's procedures have changed our view of Buxtehude's music.

Avid fans of Buxtehude's music should own Belotti's fine reference edition to supplement their performing editions. It is the best companion for study of this music. The scholarly edition, however, is out of the price range of most students, and, if used as a sole source for performing, it requires organists to study pieces and sources before learning pieces--something that isn't appealing to everyone.21 Libraries should obviously own Belotti's reference edition, because performers and scholars will want to examine the easy-to-read details of all the "variants" in the extant sources. A good music library will want to offer several, if not all, the currently available editions, because each displays different merits. Such resources would truly allow organists to intelligently tailor their own convincing versions.

Without Buxtehude's autograph manuscripts, no definitive edition can exist. Whatever edition of Buxtehude's music one is using, one should consult the preface and critical notes. Albrecht's preface is particularly good in this regard, along with the alternative readings in the score itself. Belotti's provides for fascinating reading and surprising accessibility in a scholarly edition. I hope that, with this article, organists will be able to choose the editions that best fit their needs and that they will feel inspired to consult multiple editions when enjoying and performing Buxtehude's music.     n

Common Editions of Buxtehude Free Organ Works

Albrecht, Christoph, ed. Neue Ausgabe sämtlicher Orgelwerke. Kassel: Bärenreiter, 1994-98. (Edition BA 8221-23)

Beckmann, Klaus, ed. Sämtliche Orgelwerke. Wiesbaden: Breitkopf & Härtel, 1971-72. (Performer's edition EB 6661-62)

________. Sämtliche Orgelwerke. Wiesbaden: Breitkopf & Härtel, 1971-72. ("Scholarly" edition EB 6621-22)

________. Sämtliche Orgelwerke. Revised New Edition. Wiesbaden: Breitkopf & Härtel, 1997. (Edition 6661-62)

Belotti, Michael, ed. Dieterich Buxtehude:  The Collected Works, Volume 15 (Part 1 A & B Preludes, Toccatas and Ciaconas for Organ (pedaliter)). Kerala J. Snyder and Christoph Wolff, general editors. Williamstown, MA: The Broude Trust, 1998. (ISBN 0-8540-7515-2)

Hedar, Josef, ed. Sämtliche Orgelwerke. Kobenhavn: W. Hansen, 1952. (Edition 3921-22)

Spitta, Philipp. Organ Works (1875/1939). Revised by Max Seiffert. Leipzig: Breitkopf & Härtel, 1952. Reprint edition. New York: Dover, 1988. (ISBN 0-486-25682-0)

On Teaching

Gavin Black

Gavin Black is Director of the Princeton Early Keyboard Center in Princeton, New Jersey. He can be reached by e-mail at [email protected].

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Buxtehude BuxWV 141—Part 4:
Free writing and trillo longo—mm. 51–59

This month’s column is about just a little bit of music—the third overall section of the Praeludium, nine measures long, mm. 51–59. I will provide some analysis of the passage, and offer some thoughts and suggestions about fingering and pedaling.

The Praeludium that we are studying is, as I discussed in the column from June 2010, a one-movement work in several sections. There is both contrast and continuity amongst the sections. Sources of contrast are clear. Some sections are contrapuntal, some are not; some are regular in pulse and rhythm, some are free or essentially unmeasured; some use striking dissonance, some avoid it. Sources of continuity can be more elusive, but can include the use of similar motivic material, or recurring rhythms or harmonies. This is the classic form of the toccata or praeludium as practiced by Frescobaldi and Froberger, among others, and adopted and adapted by Buxtehude as the form of his organ praeludia. It was also used by Bach for organ and harpsichord pieces that we know or believe to come from early in his career: most of the harpsichord toccatas, the famous D-minor organ toccata, BWV 565, and some of the preludes and fugues such as BWV 551.
The section that we are looking at here is essentially non-contrapuntal, in that the writing is not in a set number of voices, although, as we will see, there are recurrent motives. There are fairly quick changes of texture, from one voice in m. 51 and elsewhere to four and five later. Chords are built up out of passagework. There are abrupt changes in the prevailing note values, as in m. 52, which starts with 32nd notes and then somewhat surprisingly sits on the third quarter-note beat with no motion. The lowest notes make up a true pedal part (always a question with Buxtehude, since the sources don’t make it clear, and also since the relationship between the sources and Buxtehude’s original intentions is not always known), since there are stretches that cannot be executed by two hands alone.

Four-note motive
In the following example, some of the notes have been highlighted with either rectangular or oval outlines (see Example 1). The rectangular outlines indicate either an exact form—nine instances, including inversions—or a plausible variant—six instances—of the four-note motive that begins the entire praeludium (see Example 2). This motive is found in crucial spots throughout the praeludium, sometimes as a marker of transitions or important moments, sometimes as part of “officially” motivic material, such as the second half of the fugue subject of the final section of the piece. The section that we are looking at here is clearly chock full of this short motive—it is present almost exactly half the time. This is one of the sources of continuity between this section and the rest of the praeludium.
It could well be argued that this motive is too simple, too ordinary, to count as a real, identifiable motive, or to serve as a source of continuity or unity within a piece. After all, every piece has plenty of short scale passages, and this one in particular is introduced in the most casual possible way. However, it seems to me that if the composer had not intended it to be heard, perhaps subliminally, as a significant motive, then we would not be able to find it quite so consistently through the whole piece. In any case, we do find it, and each teacher and each student—having initially noticed it—can muse about how significant it really is, and decide for him- or herself.

Connections
The second element of this short section that ties it to the rest of the piece is the cluster of notes in the first half of m. 57, highlighted with an oval box. This is a foreshadowing of the fugue subject of the last section of the praeludium (see Example 3), especially as that subject appears when it is in parallel with itself. This happens in several places, such as m. 104, for example (see Example 4).
This section is also clearly related to the rest of the piece by its similarities to the transitional passage that constitutes the end of the second overall section of the piece and that therefore comes just before this section. This transition occupies mm. 47–50. It arises out of the fugue that precedes it without break or interruption. The fugal texture just gives way to non-contrapuntal writing with passagework and built-up quasi-arpeggio chords. This texture resembles that of mm. 51–59, although it has the feeling of both a cadence and coda to the long fugue that has preceded it. The flourish that ends the transitional passage and the pedal solo that begins the third section are more or less versions of each other (see Examples 5 and 6).
(A similar way of linking the end of one section to the beginning of the next was employed by Bach in, for example, the Toccata in C Major, at the transition between the opening manual solo and the ensuing pedal solo, where the first four pedal notes seem to answer the last four manual notes [see Example 7], and in the F-major Toccata and Fugue, where the very last notes of the toccata are echoed in the mordent that begins the fugue subject.)

Trillo longo
One interesting feature of this passage is the use of the term trillo longo, placed over two spots in the pedal part, as seen in Example 1. Of course it seems obvious, on one level, what this term means: long trill. And in both instances it is written above notes that are in the shape of a trill, one that begins on the lower of its two notes. One surprising discovery about this term—trillo longo—is that there is no evidence that it was ever in common use as a technical musical term or as a piece of accepted musical jargon. A bit of research reveals that it is not listed as a musical term in any music dictionary or encyclopedia, and there are no papers or articles that discuss it as a term or that mention any piece in the entire history of music that uses it as a term, other than this piece. (A Google search on the term “trillo longo” returns seven results, one of them about a piece that does not in fact use the term, and all of the other six about this passage. Included in these search results is one prior column in this series.)
So if this term was not in particularly common use—even if its basic meaning is clear—why did Buxtehude (or his copyist: we can’t be sure) use it here? Was he simply observing that the printed notes constitute a “long trill”? Or was he instructing the player to execute a long trill beyond what the notes indicate? If so, is this to be accomplished by adding notes and time, or by adding notes and making them faster? Does the designation of a group of 32nd notes as a “long trill” suggest that they can or should be played freely, or given some particular grouping or shape? (For example, the 16th-note B that falls on “the ‘and’ of three” in m. 51 could be thought of as the beginning of a trill, and the 16th-note/32nd-note rhythm rendered freely, as the gradual beginning of the trill.) Or was he just reminding the player to resist the temptation to shorten or omit or simplify the trill due to its being in the pedal, and therefore tricky to execute? Here’s another possibility: perhaps Buxtehude wanted to employ some Italian language at this point to signify that the trills in question were Italian-style trills, that is, trills beginning on the main note.
I don’t know the answers to these questions, or whether any of these thoughts really apply. I throw them out there for the student—or teacher—to muse about. Meanwhile, the “long trill” continues to be important as the section goes along, especially as manifested by the (very long) trill in one of the inner voices in m. 56. In this spot, unlike in mm. 51, 53, 55, and 57, the trill is accompanied throughout by motion in other voices. This is also the measure in this passage that is in five voices—and five notes are actually sounding throughout the measure—therefore it is literally the loudest measure within this section. It has the largest number of total notes played of any measure at 32. (The following measure is second at 29.) All of this suggests that this measure might be the rhetorical climax or high point of the section. The major interpretive or performance issue in this measure concerns the trill. Should the notes that follow the pattern of a trill on E and D-sharp be played “as written,” that is, as more or less measured 32nd notes, or should they be untethered from that timing and played as a fairly free trill? The latter is, to put it plainly, harder. It requires that the trill pattern be learned and practiced so well that the fingers can execute it while the mind of the player is, in a sense, ignoring it. The player must let those notes go their own way rhythmically and concentrate on playing the other—right hand—notes in the desired rhythm, regardless of how those notes do or don’t line up with the notes of the trill. In any case, the student or player should initially practice the notes of this trill in the “as written” rhythm, learning them more and more securely while thinking about whether to try to set them free from the printed rhythm.

Pedaling
Pedalings in this passage are mostly straightforward. That is, there are easy pedaling solutions involving toes—mostly alternate toes—as would have been the norm in Buxtehude’s time. A possible pedaling—along with some fingering—is suggested in Example 8. The pedal notes marked with asterisks are (some of?) those that could very easily be played with heel if a player is so inclined, either because that happens to be more comfortable for the particular player or to avoid a disjunct articulation at those spots. (Just for the record, I believe that I have usually used the left heel on the asterisked note in m. 51, where my particular posture makes it extremely comfortable and natural to do so, but not on the one in m. 53.) The transaction that takes place between the second and third pedal notes of m. 51 (G# and F#) is interesting. The articulation created by simply using the right toe for both notes, as I have indicated it, is natural and “musical” in that it precedes a note that is on a beat, and confers a slight accent on that note.
However, if in a particular player’s conception of the passage that articulation seems jarring, then it is difficult (but probably not impossible) to figure out a way to avoid it that works. Players with very wide feet can play the G# with the extreme outside of the right toe and rotate the foot in order to play the F# with the inside of the foot—the big toe. Some players might be comfortable initially catching the F# with the left toe and quickly substituting the right toe, in order to free the left toe up to aim for the following note. It is hard to picture getting the heel involved since we are dealing with black notes. It is very possible to turn the logic of this around and say that since it is so much more natural to use a pedaling here that creates an articulation, perhaps that is how the passage was meant to be played.

Fingering
As always, the first step in creating a fingering is to figure out, where there is any possible doubt, which notes belong in which hand. I have indicated some “handing” choices in the example above, using curved lines. There are several other options. For example, it would be possible to take the 16th notes on the second beat of m. 52 in the left hand, or the B# and C# in the second beat of m. 54 in the right hand. In the third beat of m. 57, I have suggested taking the G# in the left hand. This is because I would find it extremely awkward to play the remaining upper-voice notes of that measure while holding the G#, all in the right hand. However, reaching the E/G# dyad with the left hand is indeed also tricky. It certainly involves a break immediately before those notes, and must be practiced carefully to avoid making that break sound jarring or abrupt.
I have included only a few fingerings as examples. Any of them can also be done a number of other ways. For example, changing the numerals printed above the upper staff in m. 52 from 2-3-4-5-4 to 2-3-1-4-5 would result in an also very good fingering (leaving the other fingers the same). In the right hand in m. 53 the fingering could be (instead of 4-3-1-2-1-4-3) 5-4-3-2-3-4-3 or 4-3-1-3-4-5-2 or a number of other possibilities. For that matter either or both D#’s could be taken in the left hand. Comfortable hand position is the main guiding principle, and this is something that varies from player to player, based on posture and the size and shape of the hands.
Notice, however, that in all of these (m. 53) examples I am carefully preserving the use of a different finger to repeat the D# from the one that is already holding it. The suggested fingering for the right hand in m. 56 is also designed to use different fingers on repeated notes. By and large, it is a good idea to keep the thumb off of black keys. In fact, the most physiologically comfortable use of the thumb at the keyboard is for playing white notes just before or just after another finger has played a black note. Much of my approach to fingering a passage like this—in a heavily “black note” key—is derived from this concept of the use of the thumb. This can be seen in essentially all of the fingerings that I have written in here.
The student and teacher can try some of my fingerings, but should primarily work fingerings out from scratch, bearing in mind the ideas discussed above. Then, of course, the next step is what it always is: careful and patient practice, starting with separate hands and feet—doing as much of that as turns out to be needed, better too much then too little—then putting things together at a comfortably slow tempo, speeding up gradually, keeping the hands and feet relaxed.
Next month we will return to Boëllmann, looking at the charismatic and popular Menuet Gothique.

 

Baroque in Boston: The 13th Biennial Early Music Festival

Larry Palmer

Larry Palmer is harpsichord editor of THE DIAPASON.

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Anticipation was high as the hour drew near for the first staged performance
of Johann Mattheson's Boris Goudenow.
Composed in 1710 for the Hamburg Opera, but never performed (probably for
political reasons), the opera slept the long sleep of libraries, narrowly
surviving destruction in the World War II bombing of northern Germany. Moved
secretly for safekeeping, the score remained in Armenia, was returned to
Hamburg in 1998, and now, on June 14, 2005, after almost 300 years, this ink on
paper was about to become living sound for an audience.

Just as I joined the capacity crowd entering the Cutler Majestic Theatre, a
celebratory fanfare sounded forth. I was one of the lucky ones who made it to
my mezzanine spot in the 1200-seat Beaux Arts hall before the overture began.
Those who were not so fortunate created a fair amount of chaos during the
opening scene of the opera, possibly adding some 18th-century-style realism to
the occasion!

Brilliant ceremonial rites at the Russian court, colorful dancing
(especially a divertissement of the disabled that closed the second act, and
the final chaconne), some striking stage pictures (sunrise over the Kremlin at
the beginning of Act III was particularly effective), and the luminously
stylistic, homogeneous playing of the BEMF Orchestra made this a memorable
evening at the opera. Mattheson's music was nothing out of the ordinary, and
gripping, engaging singing, especially from the women, was in short supply. A
bawdy, comic role--the servant Bogda (sung by William Hite)--stood out, as did
some touches such as the percussive clatter of thrown coins (in the Coronation
scene: a foretaste of Britten's slung mugs from Noyes Fludde
style='font-style:normal'>?), and the festive addition of handbells and
castanets for the final tableau.

One strange facet of Mattheson's work is its macaronic text: Italian arias
inserted freely into a primarily German libretto. An added oddity of this particular
performance in 18th-century style was the decision to keep the house lights
dark, although, with a (21st-century) projected text, it might be considered
unnecessary for the audience to refer to the printed texts that had been
provided. 

Festival Concerts

Just how important a mesmerizing singer can be to an opera was borne home
the following evening at Jordan Hall when the Festival offered Nights at the
Opera: Highlights from Beloved BEMF Productions. Opening with a superb reading
of orchestral excerpts from Lully's Thésée
style='font-style:normal'> (staged in 2001), continuing with ravishing and
riveting arias from Conradi's
Ariadne (2003), delivered with dramatic intensity by Canadian soprano Karina
Gauvin, this was voluptuous music presented with authoritative diction and gorgeous
sound, to boot.

It was especially enlightening to have the orchestra front and center, on
stage rather than in the pit, allowing one to observe the close interaction
among the players, and the ways in which they were led by Festival musical
co-directors, lutenists Paul O'Dette and Stephen Stubbs, and concertmaster
Robert Mealy. These leaders, along with the two continuo
harpsichordists--Kristian Bezuidenhout and Jörg Jacobi (who had produced
the printed score and parts used for the Boris premiere)--kept the music moving
with gut-wrenching inflections, infectious dance-based rhythmic nuance, and
some of the most satisfying cadential resolutions to be enjoyed on the planet.
For those not in attendance, these musical splendors may be heard at home in BEMF's
first commercial recording. Their performance of Conradi's Ariadne
style='font-style:normal'> has just been released as a three compact disc set
on the German CPO label (777 073-2).

Excerpts from Luigi Rossi's L'Orfeo,
a back-to-back demonstration of Handel's wholesale borrowing from Mattheson
(nearly-identical arias from the latter's
Porsenna
style='font-style:normal'>, 1702, as used by the former in his
Agrippina
style='font-style:normal'>, 1709), and Mattheson's undistinguished, lengthy
serenata concerning the virtues of chastity,
Die Keusche Liebe
style='font-style:normal'>, failed to achieve the musical excitement generated
in the first half of the program.

Sequentia, ensemble for medieval music, presented the 8 o'clock Jordan Hall
concert on Thursday evening. This was not the ticket I had requested (thinking
that I should at least try to hear one of the 11 o'clock late-night concerts),
but I decided to accept providence and attend Lost Songs of a Rhineland Harper,
a program that proved to be a stunner! Framing two large parts of the program
with songs to texts by the learned medieval musician Boethius, the four-member
ensemble was heard in a variety of voicings, from unaccompanied monophony to
settings with harp, lyre and several flutes, including one made from a delicate
swan's bone. With translations projected on a large central screen hung from
the organ case, it was not difficult to follow the lengthy Latin texts.
style="mso-spacerun: yes"> 

After intermission the dramatic impact was ratcheted up several notches,
especially in the  gripping
Icelandic saga, Atlakvida (Lay of Attila
the Hun), the earliest known retelling of the Rhinegold story later the basis
for Richard Wagner's four-opera
Ring of the Nibelungs
style='font-style:normal'>. In considerably less time, Sequentia founder
Benjamin Bagby related the violent tale, becoming the embodiment of an
Icelandic harper, concentrated and severe in expression, and with such incisive
diction that the old Scandinavian text was chillingly clear. We listeners
experienced grim history as our ancestors might have done. Bagby's performance
was a startling, unforgettable theatrical tour-de-force.

Drama of another sort--that of program changes--informed the Friday evening
program Five Concerti and a Magnificat. An Overture (to the opera Porsenna
style='font-style:normal'>) and the double chorus
Magnificat
style='font-style:normal'> were by Mattheson. The Overture, featuring BEMF's
principal oboist Washington McClain, was followed by the first program
substitution: the Bach
Concerto in D minor for Two Violins
style='font-style:normal'> (with soloists Andrey Reshetin and Maria
Krestinskaya) replacing the scheduled Vivaldi Concerto to have been played by
Giuliano Carmignola, indisposed in Italy. Matthias Maute romped through two
Recorder Concerti (in F Major by Telemann and the G Major, RV 443, by Vivaldi)
with musical insight and astonishing virtuosity. Like soprano Gauvin, he was
unafraid to make the occasional ugly sound for dramatic effect. Replacing
Carmignola's second star turn was Johann Wilhelm Hertel's
Cello
Concerto in A minor
, featuring BEMF's
superb principal cellist, Phoebe Carrai, a satisfying and expressively kinetic
player.

Announcing the program changes, Paul O'Dette quipped that it was probably
the first time, at least in North America, that a program would feature two
Hertel Concerti. A native of J. S. Bach's hometown, Eisenach, the unfamiliar
Hertel (1727-1789), proved his worth in the works heard on this program, with
the Concerto in F minor for Fortepiano and Strings
style='font-style:normal'> a stronger composition. It was lovingly played by
Kristian Bezuidenhout, who achieved hushed, nearly inaudible pianissimi in the
poignant Largo, and also improvised an extended cadenza at the end of this
movement.

A Plethora of Offerings: Fringe and Beyond

The large number of concerts during Festival Week forced would-be listeners
to make difficult choices. For example, two further sets of daily concerts at 5
and 11 included duos for bass violas da gamba; choral music for the Holy Roman
Emperor Maximilian I and his daughter Marguerite of Austria; violin and
harpsichord music for the 18th-century Russian manor house; Gypsy Primadonna
music of 1820s Moscow; "Waild and Krejzy: secular music in 1730s
Slovakia"; and baroque lute music played by the indomitable duo of Stubbs
and O'Dette, who seemed to be everywhere--opera orchestra (Boris was played
four times during the week) as well as all other appearances of the BEMF
Orchestra, master classes, solo recitals, administrative matters--an amazing
musical (and physical) expenditure of energy. Every involvement I noted was at
a very high level, as well.

There were at least 57 scheduled "fringe" concerts in various
nearby venues, plus the concurrent Early Music Exhibition (Wednesday through
Saturday) at the Radisson Hotel, where dozens of demonstration recitals were
sponsored by instrument makers and dealers. As harpsichordist for the Texas
Camerata concert on Thursday (Lindsay Chapel of Emmanuel Church), I experienced
a sold-out house of involved and appreciative auditors. It was not possible to
attend many of these added events (all by groups that had been screened before
receiving an invitation from the Festival management), but I heard enthusiastic
reports about many programs. Of the Exhibition concerts I heard two: the first
a morning program with Team Mattheson (Matilda Butkas and William Carragan),
duo harpsichordists, performing works by the featured composer of the week.
They played fine harpsichords by David Werbeloff [Boston] after Zell and Robert
Hicks [Vermont] after Stehlin for an overflowing complement of listeners, many
seated on the floor or leaning against any available wall space.

In the afternoon Duo d'amore (Geoffrey Burgess, baroque oboes; Elaine
Funaro, harpsichord) again played to a capacity audience in the ample
exhibition space occupied by The Harpsichord Clearing House. Perhaps, like me,
these auditors were eager to escape "the din of antiquity" (to borrow
Daniel Pinkham's apt phrase) and to experience old instruments in some new
music. Both players made cogent cases for their commissioned repertory; the
program included two world premieres (works by Chris Lastovicka and Edwin
McLean, whose contribution Incantations gave opportunity to hear the darker,
smoky timbre of the baroque oboe d'amore)! Funaro programmed two short
harpsichord solos by Tom Robin Harris and Stephen Yates. Additional duets were
by John Mayrose, and Andrew Ford, plus Yates's hauntingly beautiful Canto
style='font-style:normal'> (2004), a lyric fantasia well suited to both wind
and keyboard. For contrast one piece of earlier music could have benefited this
program, although all of the new works were of interest. The only other
insertion of "later music" into the Festival program was a Zuckermann
Harpsichords-sponsored program by California harpsichordist/composer Shelli
Nan.

Events with a particular educational focus included a morning clavichord
symposium at the Boston Museum of Fine Arts; "Performing Baroque Music
According to Mattheson" at the Goethe Institute; "Rediscovering Boris
Goudenow
: Performance and Production Issues
in German Baroque Opera"; a wide variety of instrumental and vocal
masterclasses; and organizational discussions on audience building and other
practicalities sponsored by Early Music America and a panel of early music
concert promoters. 

Friday's day-long celebration of the North German organ featured a recent,
refined Richards and Fowkes organ (opus 10, 2000) at First Lutheran Church,
with organists Edoardo Bellotti, Hans Davidsson, and William Porter playing
literature that demonstrated the organist-composer as contrapuntist, as
preacher, and as orator. In the first of the afternoon sessions, Porter used
the rich plenum and full, singing principals of this modest-sized two-manual
instrument in Buxtehude's monumental Praeludium in E minor
style='font-style:normal'> (BuxWV 142), followed by Krebs's
Fantasia
on Herr Jesus Christ, dich zu uns wend

(idiomatic reed solo) and trio on
Herzlich Lieb hab' ich dich, o Herr
style='font-style:normal'> (piquant, lively flutes). C. P. E. Bach's
Fantasia
con Fuga in C minor
served up the gravitas
of a satisfying 16-foot plenum, complete with Sesquialtera.

This provided the perfect musical segue to my other choice of fringe
program, heard in a religious edifice just across the street. First and Second
Church, destroyed by fire in 1968, was replaced, behind its damaged
façade, with a striking, contemporary building, including a second-story
high-ceilinged, freely-angled chapel. In this sky-lit quiet space Iowa's Carol
lei Breckenridge played all six of C. P. E. Bach's Sonaten für Kenner
und Liebhaber
[Sonatas for Connoisseurs and
Amateurs] (Volume I, 1779) in a musical salon concert, with period poetry read
in German by Michael Herrick. 

Breckenridge, heard several years ago in memorable Mozart performances,
maintained her reputation as a master of the clavichord. Playing a large
unfretted instrument by Paul Irvin [Chicago], she limned the rapidly shifting
emotions of these Sturm und Drang compositions with unflappable technical ease.
The six sonatas, each comprising three movements, are not of equal length, nor,
frankly, of equal interest. Among all 18 movements, the very first (a dazzling
Prestissimo) was breathtaking, as was the complete (and shorter) Fifth Sonata
(F Major). Sonata Three, the only one in a minor key, required a brief retuning
(B-flat becoming A-sharp)--as did the amazing chromatics introducing the middle
movement of the final sonata.

Mid-afternoon on Friday was not a fortuitous time to attract a crowd: about
20 listeners shared this perfect pendant to the organ symposia.

At the Exhibition: An Abundance of Fine
Keyboard Instruments

At least 22 makers and distributors of keyboard instruments were listed in
the 276-page Festival program book (itself a work of art). Fine harpsichords
were much in evidence. In addition to those by builders already mentioned, some
that attracted  attention
style="mso-spacerun: yes"> 
were made by Adam Decker (the
Harpsichord Gallery, Atlanta); Marc Ducornet (the Paris Workshop); and by
consistently satisfying makers Richard Kingston (North Carolina)--whose Flemish
single harpsichord with colorful abstract lid painting by June Zinn Hobby was a
visual and sonic feast, Allan Winkler (Boston), and Douglas Maple
(Pennsylvania). (Harpsichords by Kingston, David Sutherland [Ann Arbor],
Winkler and Dowd were used in the opera performances and for the BEMF
orchestral programs.)

Gut-strung Lautenwerks from Steven Sorli (Amherst, MA) were beautifully
crafted, exciting instruments, as was a portable high-pitched clavichord by
Gary Blaise (San Francisco). I could not resist the 1939 John Challis
clavichord displayed by Glenn Giutarri and The Harpsichord Clearing House among
their many fine instruments, including 
chamber organs. Another triple-transposing continuo organ from Les
Ateliers Guilbault Bellavance Carignan (Quebec) had a pleasingly gentle wooden
4-foot Principal among its four stops.

Also tempting were displays on tables laden with musical facsimiles and
other scores, eye-catching recordings (among the most enticing were the 18
unorthodox and brilliant covers for the Vivaldi Edition CDs issued thus far by
the Italian label Naïve) and opulent publications such as Goldberg Early
Music Magazine, now publishing collectible single-composer issues. It was
necessary to keep checkbook and credit cards firmly under control, although
failing to do so also had its rewards (until the bills arrived).

Boston: Convenient and Memorable

Nearly all the concert venues were within walking distance or accessible by
inexpensive public transport. Food of all varieties and prices was available,
ranging from pre-packaged sandwiches to elegant restaurant menus (Legal
Seafoods was just across from the exhibition space).

And central Boston itself held so many musical associations and personal
memories. For instance it was not possible to be in Jordan Hall without
remembering Ralph Kirkpatrick's 50th anniversary harpsichord recital (in 1981,
during the very first Early Music Festival); or to walk into King's Chapel
without recalling composer Daniel Pinkham, who graced the organist/ choirmaster
position there for so many years. Lovely, now historic, harpsichords built by
William Dowd were in evidence and in use. A photograph of early music pioneer
Arnold Dolmetsch, once employed to direct the making of early instruments at
the Chickering Piano Factory across the river in Cambridge, graced the front
cover of a Boston Clavichord Society brochure.

Inexpensive dormitory housing, available in a building now owned by Emerson
College, was only steps away from Steinert Hall, endowed by one of America's
first early instrument collectors, piano dealer Morris Steinert. Directly
across the street, in the old burying ground on Boston Common, the remains of
composer William Billings are thought to be buried, and he is commemorated by a
plaque placed there during the 1976 American Guild of Organists national
convention (a conference memorable for E. Power Biggs's late-career performance
of Rheinberger Organ Concertos with the Boston Pops, despite EPB's
stress-fractured arm!).

Wagnerian swanboats long have been a feature on the pond of the Public
Garden (founded in 1839). Recent, however, is the reverent, nostalgic addition
to this venerable and well-utilized park: a Garden of Remembrance for the
victims of the 9/11 attack. Many people pause at the simple stone memorial to
meditate, and to read these touching words from Boston and Sea Poems by
Lawrence Homer, poet-laureate of Faneuil Hall:

Time touches all more gently here,

Here where man has said, No:

Trees and grass, and flowers will remain:

. . . watching swanboats glide in season.

It was a pleasure to attend this Boston Early Music Festival and Exhibition,
after a 20-year-long interval of not being there, and to observe the breadth
and vitality of the current early music scene. If Johann Mattheson's music did
not prove him to have been a composer of extraordinary genius, the event was,
nevertheless, a welcome opportunity to learn more about this 18th-century
musician and writer, to assess more knowledgeably his place among his
well-known contemporaries, and to experience yet another from the
ever-lengthening list of forgotten or unknown operas, transformed from dusty
scores to living stage productions through the inspired efforts of America's
premier early music festival. More, please.

Further Information

Stephen Stubbs: "Johann Mattheson--the Russian connection: the
rediscovery of Boris Goudenow and his other lost operas," Early Music
style='font-style:normal'> XXXIII/2 (May 2005), 283-292.
style="mso-spacerun: yes"> 

Previous BEMF reports by Larry Palmer

The Diapason, August 1981, 1, 3 [the
first Early Music Festival].

The Diapason, April 1985, 9 [the 1983
Festival].

The Diapason, October 1985, 10-11
[the 1985 Festival].

Trio Sonatas of Dieterich Buxtehude—Stylistic Traits

Olga Savitskaya

Olga Savitskaya was born in Minsk (Belarus) and earned a Ph.D. with a specialty in musicology at the Belarusian State Conservatory, where she is now assistant professor and music theory chair. A member of the Belarusian Union of Composers, she lectures on harmony, form and analysis, and polyphony. Her research interests include instrumental music of baroque period, Belarusian symphonic music, and modern composition techniques. Her publications include many books and articles.

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The end of the 17th century through the beginning of the 18th century was a period of development for the trio sonata and its two varieties: sonata da chiesa and sonata da camera. Being formed in the works of Corelli, “the typical form of a church sonata of four contrasting parts: Grave (homophonic or imitative, C), Allegro (treated fugally, C), Adagio (homophonic, 3/2), Allegro or Presto (treated fugally or homophonic, C or 3/2)”1 appeared to be one of the most universal and flexible formulas of musical-logical development of the large instrumental concept in the baroque period. Influenced by the principles of the cyclic organization of the church sonata, the structure of the violin solo sonata and the concerto grosso evolved. Thus, the musical-historical phenomenon of the church sonata appears in the combination of two aspects: 1) as a genre during the 17th and early 18th centuries, moving from the bounds of church music into the sphere of secular concert music; 2) as a type of the baroque large instrumental form whose organizational principles (primarily crystallized in the genre of a church trio sonata) were adapted and developed at the end of the 17th century through the first half of the 18th century.
The highest achievements in this sonata form are connected to the prominent masters—Corelli, Purcell, Couperin, Biber, Buxtehude, Bach, and Handel, etc.—whose works in many aspects have defined both the character of the baroque era as a whole, and the national and regional schools that developed in this period. The Italian sonata, embodied in the sonatas of Corelli, undoubtedly had a great influence on composers throughout Europe. But much more notable is finding the “national appearance” of the sonata in England, France, and Germany.
One of the high points in the history of this genre is seen in the 14 trio sonatas for violin, viola da gamba and harpsichord of Dieterich Buxtehude, which were quite original when they were published in 1696.
The main features of Buxtehude’s sonatas are their general structure and non-specific number of movements, from three to seven. The sonata movements are mainly differentiated by tempo, style and degree of independence. The fantasy style of composition abounds in unexpected changes of rhythm, contrasted with strict fugues, improvisational interludes, and juxtapositions of different manners of writing. And though the contrast of polyphony and homophony as one of the basic traits of the sonata da chiesa retains its significance, fugues do not always take the central place. All this testifies to the fact that trio sonatas by Buxtehude are oriented not so much to the Corelli pattern, but to the German tradition of violin writing, where the principle of free thematic development and improvisational character of performing fuses with compositional techniques.
The fugues included in each of Buxtehude’s 14 sonatas are very different, ingenious, and exhibit the individual style of the composer, as well as a definite stage of evolution of this polyphonic form prior to the art of Bach.
The instrumental ensemble fugues reveal one of the bright sides of the complex, many-sided Buxtehude fugal style, which includes also his organ and vocal compositions. As V. Protopopov noted, their typical features are “vividness of themes, ease of motion, and a lack of concentrated philosophical musical images . . .”2 As a rule, the fugal subjects of trio sonatas are rather extensive, intonationally expressive, and based on the structure of core-development. The elements of dance music and style-intonation figures representing performing technique of stringed instruments give a special shape to them.
Two-voice fugues predominate, where the theme is expressed by solo instruments; the basso continuo functions as accompaniment (op. 1: no. 1 Presto, no. 3 Allegro, no. 5 Vivace, no. 6 Allegro; op. 2: no. 2 Allegro, no. 4 Allegro I, no. 5 Allegro I). However, three-voice fugues in which the harpsichord participates in concertante alongside the two soloists (op. 1: no. 1 Allegro; op. 2: no. 2 Vivace, no. 6 Vivace, Poco Presto, no. 7 Allegro) are also frequently used. In some cases three-voice fugues are used only in the exposition, subsequently replaced by two-voice fugues with accompaniment (op. 2: no. 1 Allegro).
According to the tradition of pre-Bach fugues, in Buxtehude’s trio sonatas the tonic-dominant alternation of subjects is mainly a result of the interchange of expositions and counter-expositions that becomes the basic structural characteristic. However, even in rather small and “simple” fugues, expansion of the texture and attention to the architectonical aspect of composition is obvious. An essential role belongs to episodes.
As an example we shall give the scheme of the three-voice fugue of the Sonata in F Major, op. 2, no. 7, Allegro I (Example 1). At the same time in trio sonatas of Buxtehude, fugues having two or three parts are also frequent. Such are the two-voice fugues of sonatas in C Major (op. 1, no. 5), E Minor (op. 1, no. 7), and A Minor (op. 1, no. 3).
All these examples show a definite development: from a fugue as the combination of expositions and counter-expositions by means of episodes to three-part fugue with functional differentiation of sections and exceeding the limits of tonic-dominant relations through modulation. Such development, which looks forward toward Bach’s fugues (especially chamber-instrumental), is not, however, the single one for Buxtehude.
The unrestrained imagination of the baroque artist and the aspiration to the new and unusual are manifested also in the interpretation of a fugue, resulting in expansion and complication of its structure and assimilation of the elements of other genres and forms. The structure and organizational logic of these Buxtehude fugues are not repeated, but as a whole one can see a similarity to his organ works, the successive line from which leads to grandiose Bach organ fugues. Let us examine specific examples.

Sonata in G Major (op. 1, no. 2)
Its structure emphasizes a cyclic three-part form, while the weakened role of polyphony and significant role of dance themes testify to the effect of an instrumental concerto. The principle of composition “in mixto genere” (in a mixed form) is in part I, the result of synthesis of two forms: a complex double fugue with a joint exposition and the concerto form.
Lively dance themes do not contrast but supplement each other in free development when complementary rhythms underline the linear independence of the voices, with homophonic duplication of the melodic motives in tenths and thirds. Development of themes in exposition and counter-exposition, which constitute a fugue itself, is divided by the episodes based on the new material in the manner of the homophonic ritornellos of the violin concerto. (Example 2)
In essence, in this work, and in the entire cycle, not only interaction of various musical forms takes place but also the more complicated synthesis of “the old” and “the new” genres: the church sonata, which has reached its full maturity, and the young instrumental concerto, which rapidly developed in Europe at the end of the 17th century.

Sonata in B Major (op. 1, no. 4)
Another combination features the interaction of a fugue and basso ostinato. In the Sonata in B Major (op. 1, no. 4) the element of ostinato seems “to be splashed out” outside of 32 variations of part I by subordinating a final fugue. In its middle section Buxtehude, being the master of musical rhetoric, specially combines two principles of organization—fugue and ostinato. At first the brief fugal subject is stated by the solo instruments. Then it dissolves in figurations, and its function in the thematic process temporarily transfers to the basso ostinato. The final section again affirms the fugue, but a reminiscence of the basso ostinato returns in the last bars of the coda.
The ostinato principle takes a special place in Buxtehude’s compositional technique. The German master’s adherence to ostinato seems to be consistent even against the background of its pervasive occurrence in music of the 17th century (perhaps only Purcell can be compared with him in this respect). Buxtehude makes use of basso ostinato in organ compositions: Chaconnes in C Minor (BuxWV 159), E Minor (BuxWV 160), Passacaglia in D Minor (BuxWV 161), Preludes in C Major (BuxWV 137) and G Minor (BuxWV 149); and in the cantatas Jesu dulcis memoria (BuxWV 57), Laudate pueri (BuxWV 69), Liebster, meine Seele saget (BuxWV 70), etc.
In the 14 trio sonatas, basso ostinato is almost as necessary as fugue (the ostinato is absent only in two sonatas). Its various forms can be divided into two groups—the less numerous so-called arias for basso-ostinato (Strophenbas arie), and the basic group, consisting of basso-ostinato forms of passacaglia type.
Basso ostinato is employed in lively (op. 2, no. 3 Vivace) and slow (op. 2, no. 3 Andante), outside (op. 2, no. 6 Allegro) and middle (op. 1, no. 1 Andante) movements. In some sonatas (op. 1, no. 4; op. 2, no. 5), the basso ostinato principle appears to be the predominant compositional idea and is implemented under different tempo and texture conditions.
A variety of basso ostinato uses derives from the character and structure of ostinato themes and the whole ostinato layer of basso continuo, thematic peculiarities of the high voices, structural-semantic interaction of the ostinato and upper voices, and, lastly, inclination to this or that type of composition—closed, precisely structured or free, and contrasting-compound.
At the same time all of these serve as the concentrated expression of the musical thinking of the composer. Thus, a fugue and a basso ostinato are the dominant constants of Buxtehude’s trio sonatas. The presence of a fugue is proof of observance of the major genre standards of sonata da chiesa, whereas the constancy and skilfulness of use of basso ostinato in the greater extent reflect the individual principles typical of Buxtehude’s style, which was based on the North-German tradition.

Other elements in Buxtehude’s trio sonatas
Other movements illustrate an extremely wide spectrum of genre, composition, and textural-timbral combinations. It is difficult and hardly reasonable to generalize the principles of cyclic organization in Buxtehude’s sonatas. The architectonics of any of them do not repeat exactly in any other, and each composition demands analysis of its individual logic. Besides a fugue and ostinato variations, these are small, without reprise, strophic, general and mixed forms. Among genre prototypes and patterns one finds the jig, chaconne, “echo,” chorale prelude, dialogue, toccata, “signal trumpet,” etc. The “formulas of imagination” acquire special significance, these indispensable attributes of improvisational style—passages, recitatives, arpeggio—creating, according to M. Lobanova, the “illusory, imaginary disorder” or the “intense pathetic development.”3 The sonatas combine genres, styles, affects and rhetorical figures.
In this “game of senses” the important role belongs to the thematic ties within the cycle. Strictly speaking, such ties characterize the sonata da chiesa, with its origins in the mono-thematic, multi-part canzona. But that sequence and ingenuity with which the thematic unity is realized in the sonatas of Buxtehude testifies that its role by no means is restricted to ensuring formal compositional integrity but acquires a distinct symbolic sense. Here it is reasonable to appeal to one of the central concepts of the baroque poetics being defined as the “witty conception.” The delicate, veiled differentiation of the themes in different parts of the cycle acts as a manifestation of baroque “wit,” whose purpose seems to display the obvious or hidden similarity, in what seemed to be on the surface, completely unrelated.

Sonata in C Major (op. 1, no. 5)
One of the instances is the Sonata in C Major, op. 1, no. 5. In this four-part cycle the first and the final fugues symmetrically frame the contrasting middle parts—an aria of a solo violin with a bass, and an ensemble jig (Vivace–Violino Solo; Allegro–Largo; Allegro–Adagio; Allegro).
Fugues are connected tonally. The source of their common material is the initial subject. Their motives and submotives, like the elements of a mosaic, are easily combined and rearranged to form new thematic configurations. The initial sections and the end of the final fugue are especially distinguished, serving to express a rhetorical idea of “connection,” the “concatenation” known under the name of symploce, or repetition (see Example 3).
The middle parts are also connected thematically: the motive of the second strophe of the aria with bass is unexpectedly “recalled” in the theme Allegro (Example 4). Finally, all thematic material of the sonata reveals as its basis a uniform intonational pulse, active, exclamatory (exclamatio) fourth (fifth) interval motion, a sort of the “intonational monad” as an indivisible core encompassing the whole world in it.

Sonata in A Minor (op. 1, no. 3)
The other example of thematic ties is found in the Sonata in A minor, op. 1, no. 3. The general idea is disclosed gradually, from movement to movement, revealing a semantic potential concealed within it.
In the melodic lines of the Adagio gradual downward motion (f-e-d-c-b-a-g#-a) covering a diatonic hexachord with adjoining introductory material is “summarized” by compact expressive formula saltus duriusculus (f-g#-a) (see Example 5a). Both elements are marked also in the themes of the Allegro: in the capacity of one of the motives of the fugue subject (hexachord by parallel sixths) and as the hidden voice of counter-subject (f-e-d-c-g#-a) (Example 5b). Further, the diatonic hexachord (including that which has been expressed by parallel sixths) becomes the thematic basis of the Vivace. Supplemented up to heptatonic, it is continuously exhibited in different voices, like a migrating cantus firmus in a chorale prelude (similar to its textual coincidence with the final phrase of Buxtehude’s organ chorale variations Wie schön leuchtet der Morgenstern, BuxWV 223) (Example 5c). Descending scale-like motion is retained in the finale (Presto), but already against a background, not in the parts of melodic instruments but in the basso continuo. The most characteristic baroque style figure—passus duriusculus, appearing in slow modulation binding sections (Lento, Largo) as ascending and descending pieces of a chromatic scale—is brought to the forefront. Only in the final Lento is the semantic orientation of the general thematic process “explained.” The descending chromatic motion, trebled by imitations that embrace all verticals of the ensemble compass and saturated with rhetorical figures of grief (catabasis, passus duriusculus, catachresis, parrhesia), closes the sonata. (Example 5d)

Conclusion
Dieterich Buxtehude’s trio sonatas are among the high points in the history of the genre. Standing out against the background of the rich tradition of ensemble music at the end of the 17th–beginning of the 18th century, they testify to the exclusive originality of the North German model of the baroque sonata. Created in the period of, probably, the greatest “purity” of the style, the sonatas of Buxtehude embody the baroque world image itself—which has lost its Renaissance integrity, being woven of “incongruous combinations” of contrasts opening into infinity by the kaleidoscopic unsteadiness of existence and at the same time blessed by the supreme harmony of all-reconciling unanimity. ■

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