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

Jan-Piet Knijff teaches organ and chamber music and is organist-in-residence at the Aaron Copland School of Music at Queens College/CUNY. He holds the Doctor of Musical Arts degree from The City University of New York as well as the Artist’s Diploma from the Conservatory of Amsterdam and is an Associate of the American Guild of Organists. He won both first prize and the Audience Prize at the International Bach Competition Lausanne, Switzerland. His organ teachers have included Piet Kee, Ewald Kooiman, and Christoph Wolff. Visit his website at <www.jpkmusic.com&gt;.

Introduction

Although only a handful of his organ works survive, Nicolaus Bruhns was undoubtedly one of the most important organists of his generation; the famous Bach Obituary mentions him as one of the composers Johann Sebastian took “as a model” for his own work.1 Bruhns was born less than twenty years before Bach, in December 1665, to a family of musicians in Schwabstedt in North Frisia. At the age of 16 he went to Lübeck to study violin with his uncle Peter Bruhns and organ and composition with Dieterich Buxtehude. On the latter’s recommendation, Bruhns worked in Copenhagen for a few years, but in 1689 he returned to the land of his birth to become organist at the Stadtkirche in Husum. He declined an offer from the city of Kiel to become organist there, accepting a 25% raise in Husum instead. After almost exactly eight years in the position, Bruhns died on March 29, 1697, only 31 years old. He was succeeded by his brother Georg, who had succeeded their father in Schwabstedt at the time Nicolaus was appointed in Husum. Georg stayed in Husum until his death in 1742.

Nicolaus must have been an equally virtuoso organist and violinist, and the story that he sometimes accompanied himself on the organ pedals while playing the violin rings true (Harald Vogel was apparently the first to suggest that the arpeggio passage in the “Great” E-minor Preludium may reflect this practice). Although Bruhns’s organ in Husum was not particularly large, it must have been a very fine instrument, as it was built by Gottfried Fritzsche (1629–32), one of the foremost builders of the time. After various alterations, it had 24 stops on three manuals (Hauptwerk, Rückpositiv, and Brustwerk) and pedal in 1723. In addition to a number of sacred cantatas, Bruhns’s works for organ include two preludia in E minor, one in G major, the chorale fantasy on Nun komm, der Heiden Heiland, and an Adagio in D major (surely a fragment from a larger preludium in that key, the Adagio was first published by Carus Verlag in the Husumer Orgelbuch, Stuttgart 2001). The authorship of the Preludium in G Minor, first published by Martin Geck in 1967, remains uncertain: its only source mentions a “Mons: Prunth” as the composer, and even if the last name is to be read as Bruhns, it is possible that the work is Georg’s, not Nicolaus’s, as Barbara Ann Raedeke has suggested;2 the piece is definitely much less convincing than Bruhns’s other organ works.3

Editions

Three editions of Bruhns’s organ works are currently available in print:

• Doblinger (Vienna & Munich, 1993), edited by Michael Radulescu. Vol. 1 contains the preludia in G major and E minor, vol. 2 the preludium in G minor and two versions of the chorale fantasy Nun komm, der Heiden Heiland.

• Breitkopf & Härtel (Wiesbaden 1972), edited by Klaus Beckmann. Contains the four preludia and the chorale fantasy. A revision of this edition that will include the Adagio in D Major is scheduled for publication.

• C.F. Peters (Frankfurt & New York, 1967), originally edited by Fritz Stein for the series Das Erbe deutscher Musik in 1937–9, revised by Martin Geck. Contains the four preludia and the chorale fantasy.
Although no longer in print, the following edition can still be found in libraries and sometimes turns up in book sales:

• Kistner & Siegel (Organum series IV, vol. 8), edited by Max Seiffert. Contains only the preludia in E minor and G major.

Although all four editions can be considered scholarly “urtext” editions in their own right, there are vast differences among them. As welcome and “modern” as Seiffert’s editions in the Organum series were at the time of their publication, they are now mostly outdated, sometimes because new sources have turned up, sometimes because eighty years of scholarship (and performance) have led to new conclusions. Important to know is that Seiffert generally supplied tempo indications; he also generously added ties without telling you. The Peters edition, too, is now outdated.

Klaus Beckmann’s editions of the North German organ repertoire (his complete Buxtehude edition is best known, but he also did Böhm, Lübeck, Tunder, and many others) have often been criticized. Given the absence of autographs (manuscripts in the hand of the composer), Beckmann feels it is his task to establish as best a text as he can. In practice this often leads to changes that are arbitrary at best in the eyes of many scholars and performers. While Beckmann mentions everything (or most everything) in his critical commentary, the format he uses is not particularly inviting, to say the least; and if you don’t read German, the abbreviations are practically undecipherable. Although Beckmann’s Bruhns edition is certainly usable, you have to watch out, and better spend a couple of hours figuring out all the changes he made if you want to know what’s actually in the source.

The edition by Michael Radulescu stays much closer to the original: corrections are noted in an accessible commentary; editorial ties are dotted and editorial rests and ornaments put in brackets. The result is an edition that is very trustworthy but at the same time looks a little pedantic. An interesting feature is that Radulescu offers most pieces on two staves, with the pedal notes on the lower staff with the stems down. This is how an organist of Bruhns’s (and even Bach’s) time would have read virtually every organ work (assuming they used staff notation), but it is probably a little unpractical for most organists today, and there is hardly ever any doubt as to which bass notes belong in the pedal in Bruhns.

Most organists may prefer to play from the Beckmann edition after correcting the text on the basis of Radulescu’s edition. As an alternative, I have prepared an edition on three staves in which I have made suggestions for hand division by assigning right-hand notes to the top staff and left-hand notes to the middle staff. Since the source is written in German organ tablature (a kind of letter notation), any hand division is editorial anyway. The practice of indicating hand division however is widely used elsewhere in seventeenth-century keyboard music, and there are very few places open for serious discussion in the “Little” E-minor. The edition will be made available on-line, but for now, simply contact me by e-mail if you want a copy ([email protected]).

Overview

Let’s start off with getting an idea of the whole piece. Don’t start playing right away; just take a look at the score and see what’s going on. At the very beginning, you will notice the pedals rushing in with a dazzling solo, resulting in a “drum roll” (m. 5 ff.), supported by strong off-beat manual chords. This section is followed by a short Adagio (mm. 10–16). Then follows an Allegro in 12/8 with extensive use of the echo effect. Notice how at the end (mm. 33 ff.) the roles are inverted: the echo comes first this time!

Another short Adagio (mm. 39–46) leads to a fugue, marked Vivace (mm. 47–84). Take a look at the pedal and notice how the fugue can be divided in three short sections: mm. 47–67; 67–76; and 76–84. Once again a short Adagio, and we arrive at the final Allegro (mm. 90–105), a dialogue between soprano and pedal, ending in a playful series of arpeggiated chords.

The concluding Adagio begins with off-beat repeated chords in the hands (mm. 106–110), followed by a pedal point supporting expressive harmonies. A diminished-seventh chord is emphasized by a rhetorical pause before it resolves into the final cadence.

Beginning to play

Now that you have an idea of the piece as a whole, it’s time to start playing. But, unless you’re an experienced player and a good sight reader, don’t try to sight-read the whole piece at once. Why not start with the opening pedal solo, clearly conceived for alternating toes and really not very hard to play at all. Play the first four measures (finishing of with the first notes of m. 5) and notice how Bruhns already has told you a whole story! To get an even better idea of the expressive writing, try playing the pedal solo as “solid” chords, either with a hand (or both hands) or actually in the pedal (Example 1).
Now that you have the opening measures under your belt, let’s take a look at the very end of the piece: simply sight-read the last three measures—no big deal. Now, why not connect the beginning four measures and the last three: after the first note in m. 5, simply jump to m. 117. Play this combination of beginning and end a few times; it gives you a sort of “summary” of the piece, a “framework” to fill in the rest of the music. It’s a good idea to return to your little “summary” regularly when working on the piece; it helps you to bear in mind the end-goal of your journey.

For now, continue with the opening section, trying the pedal “drum roll.” This works best when played mildly staccato (as if repeating the note at the same pitch). Forget whatever you may have learned about keeping your knees together when playing the pedals: that doesn’t help very much in this kind of situation. Instead, think of your right knee moving out over your right foot when playing that high b. Once the pedal part feels comfortable, try adding those off-beat manual chords. You want them to be strong and expressive, sure, but since they come on light beats, try not to give them their exact full length (rather something like a dotted eighth note).

In m. 8, there is a mistake in the manuscript; the most logical solution may be to play quarter-note chords (as in Radulescu’s edition), but many organists have become used to hearing eighth-note chords here (as in Beckmann), which does give a little change of pace. See what you like best; it doesn’t really matter too much, and from the point of view of the source, you could argue either way.
When arriving at the Adagio in m. 11, be sure to keep (approximately) the same tempo by “thinking” sixteenths in that measure.

The 12/8 echo section

Think of the eighths in the right hand as triplets; you can maintain the same tempo for this section. It’s easiest to reserve the right hand for the “triplets” and take all the other manual notes in the left hand. Here are some fingering suggestions for the first two measures (Example 2).
Using the same finger for neighboring notes helps creating a clear, slightly detached sound. Make sure not to overdo it: you don’t want the music to sound too jumpy (at least, I don’t). If you feel really uncomfortable using this kind of fingering, you can easily change it, for example by using a thumb on the e'' before the d#'' in m. 18; just try to avoid a “Romantic” legato. For the left hand, you may find it easiest to start with the index finger on the first two notes. The pedal won’t give you much trouble; I would avoid heels, simply playing right-right-left-right in m. 27. In m. 36, simply stick with the right toe; “lean” a little into every note so that they don’t become too short, but you still want them to be clearly articulated.

Take your time for the manual changes to the “echo” manual and back (no matter which manual you use for the echo); the little bit of time it takes to get from one manual to another (and vice versa) actually helps making the echo effect clearer. In general, try to make your movements easy and pleasant; when it feels that way, there’s a good chance the music will also sound that way.

The fugue

Again, resist the temptation to sight-read the whole fugue. Instead, pick out the entries of the theme first and then play them in the appropriate hand or feet. Here’s how it works:

m. 47: theme in soprano, played in the right hand;

m. 50: theme in alto, left hand;

m. 53: theme in tenor, left;

m. 56: theme in bass, pedals.

Those four entries constitute the exposition of the fugue. After an “episode,” a kind of development of the motive from m. 48, we’re back to business:

m. 67: theme in alto, left hand;

m. 70: theme in tenor, left;

m. 73: theme in bass, pedals.

Finally, there are two incomplete entries of the theme:

m. 76: in alto, right hand (but put the left index finger on the long g' in m. 77);

m. 77: in soprano, right hand (with the thumb going under the left index finger on the first beat of m. 78).

This gives you the outline for the fugue. Here, by the way, is my fingering for the theme (Example 3). In the pedal, once again try to avoid the heels (Example 4).

While we’re at it: what is the reason for avoiding the heels in this kind of music? Well, first off, it makes you look good in historically informed organ circles, where the general assumption is that the heel was not (or very rarely) used in organ music up to (and including) Bach. Although we have no idea what virtuoso performers like Bruhns (and Bach) did in real life, most if not all of their music can be comfortably played without using the heel. More importantly, it’s usually easier to get a good sound and the “right” kind of touch that way. It is not true that it was (or is) impossible to use heels on seventeenth-century pedals, although it’s generally more difficult at the center (around c) than at the extremes. If you find it hard to imagine that an inventive virtuoso like Bruhns never ever in his lifetime hit on the idea of using the other part of his foot, you may want to support your theory by pointing out m. 60 in the G-major preludium, where the left foot plays two neighboring sixteenths (B–c) while the right foot is otherwise engaged. However, using the heel does not make this spot particularly easy to play either! In the end it’s not so much what you do in those exceptional cases that matters but your general approach.

Here are some more fingering suggestions for the fugue (Examples 5a and 5b). In mm. 59–61, reserve the right hand for the top voice only, combining alto and tenor in the left hand. In mm. 65–67, I recommend taking the three middle voices in the left hand, again reserving the right hand for the top line. It’s nice to have all of your right hand to shape this nice melodic line as well as possible, and to play a trill on the dotted quarter b¢ in m. 66 (see below).

The section ends with the same two measures three times (Bruhns did that more often, see the end of the second fugue of the “Great” E-minor). What to do? Well, unless you want to be boring, I wouldn’t play them the same three times. Here are some options:

• Change manuals, perhaps playing forte, piano, and pianissimo. On Buxtehude’s organ, the manuals would probably have been Hauptwerk, Rückpositiv, and Brustwerk, respectively. The problem with this is the pedal: you will probably need to adjust the pedal registration at least once (or even twice). It is possible, of course, to play the pedal part in the left hand (combining the three upper parts in the right) when going to a quieter manual (even though Bruhns’s writing does not seem to suggest it).

• Add a few ornaments the second time, and perhaps some more (or different ones) the third time.

• Play on the same manual throughout but “think” different dynamics: really strong the first time, milder the second, as light as you can the third time; or: loud at first, then more quietly, and loud again. Don’t worry too much about how the difference in sound happens; if you have a clear concept and communicate it to the organ the best you can, the result will be noticeable somehow to a sensitive listener.

Finally, a combination of two or all of the above may be even more effective. Whatever you do, if you use pedals, again reserve the right hand for the soprano and make sure to play the left hand pick-up chord really light (and short) in order to make place for the right-hand f#¢. Radulescu’s edition has a half-note chord at the beginning of m. 83; this certainly needs to be shortened to a quarter to make the soprano clear (you find this kind of thing frequently in chorale preludes by Buxtehude, for example).

The Allegro

Since this section is essentially a dialogue between right hand and pedals (think of it as the first violins on the one hand and the cellos and double basses on the other), why not begin with playing just that dialogue, without the supporting chords. To get an idea of how things sound, you can even start off with playing the pedal part in the left hand. However you do it, try to get a smooth dialogue going without “waiting for the bus” at every barline. The fingering is pretty obvious; the pedaling is a little more challenging, although there are really not that many options. Here is my suggestion (Example 6).


Yes, the left foot has to leap around a bit. And yes, you have to be a little careful to make the left-foot notes sound not too hacked (particularly the first g#). But using heels (and, for my part, silent substitution) doesn’t make things much easier either. In my experience, as long as the bench is at the right height and if you let go of the idea of keeping your knees together at all costs, the toe-only solution is easiest and sounds best. Here are some ways to play around with this spot in order to get the music “into your feet” (Example 7).

Make up your own variations! Much better to play around and have fun with a little tune like this than banging out the notes in the score a zillion times. While you’re playing around, try to make things feel as comfortable as possible. If things don’t feel quite right, try to adjust the height of the bench just a little or to move it back or forward a bit; small things can make a huge difference. Become sensitive to the way you move and try to find ways to make it easier for you.

One finger is crucial to keep you going: no matter what finger you’re using right before it (chances are it’s a thumb or else the index), put your little pinky on the third beat in m. 97.

When adding the chords to the soprano-bass dialogue, make sure not to make the quarter notes too long. The eighth-note pick-ups can be nice and short (without making them too jumpy, of course).
In m. 104, the manuscript has g¢¢ followed by f#¢. Clearly, the two notes must be in the same register. It’s really up to what you think sounds best and/or makes most sense here (Beckmann goes for high, Radulescu for low).

At the beginning of the last Adagio, imagine the repeated chords as played on one bow by a group of string players, and remember they’re off-beat, and therefore light (Example 8).

Ornaments

In a number of places, this music needs ornamentation to be at its best, either simple or more elaborate. The soprano d in m. 10 needs a trill which would probably best start with the main note, although starting with the upper note e is certainly a possibility (see below). In m. 39, the long d in the pedal followed by the written-out turn cries out for a virtuoso, long trill, something like Example 9, or perhaps Example 10. In mm. 66 and 75 of the fugue, the dotted quarter in the soprano sounds best with a simple trill, starting with the main note, something like this (Example 11).

The suggested fingering helps to create a nice, clear trill; the articulation before the turn actually sounds good and suggests a bit of a diminuendo. But if you don’t like putting the middle finger over the index, simply put a thumb on the last note of the trill.

Most of the trills I have suggested here start with the main note. But isn’t there some kind of rule that trills in Baroque music always start with the upper note? Well, yes, but that’s one of those gross oversimplifications of popularized historically informed performance practice. In the seventeenth century, main-note trills seem to be the rule, although upper-note trills certainly exist, and apparently became quite fashionable in France in the second half of the century. A rule of thumb: if the note with the trill is itself consonant, start with the upper note; but if the note itself is dissonant, then start with the main note. In both cases, the first note of the trill is dissonant, creating that nice little bit of friction. Also, if the note immediately before the trill is already the upper note, you may not want to repeat it as the beginning note of the trill.

If you want to add a trill on the soprano d#'' in m. 85 (which would sound very nice), consider starting with the upper note. A trill on the soprano b¢ on the second beat of m. 97 could go either way, as long is the trill is short. The soprano c'' on the last beat of m. 100 could also go either way, depending on whether you want to emphasize the c'' (start with the main note) or whether you want to incorporate the preceding sixteenths in the trill (start with the upper note).

More ornamentation: the Adagios

The four Adagio sections, with almost exclusively whole notes and half notes, may sound lovely the way they are written—they would probably be considered an opportunity for (quite) extensive ornamentation by any performer of Bruhns’s time. How much and what exactly you want to do is ultimately up to you, but here are some ideas for mm. 10–16 (Example 12).

With these ideas as a basis, try to work something out for the other sections. Bear in mind that the ornamentation is supposed to make the music more expressive, not to show off your virtuosity or to emulate the composer. Try not to write your ornaments down, but instead play around with as many different ideas as you can come up with. Ideally, your ornamentation is going to be different from performance to performance! In the final Adagio, Bruhns uses imitation: the chromatic line a–g#–g–f# appears in the soprano (m. 111), tenor (m. 113) and, sort of, in the bass (m. 115). In order to bring out the imitation, you may want to use similar ornaments for both the soprano and the tenor line.

Registration

Large-scale pieces like preludes and toccatas are played with an organo pleno registration: principals 8', 4', 2', mixtures, the Quint 22?3' if there is one, and perhaps a flue stop 16' in the manuals (Bruhns might have used his Quintadena 16¢), and the same plus reeds in the pedals (use at least a Posaune 16' if you have one). You can add an 8' flute stop in the hands to make the sound a bit fuller, but avoid throwing in tons of 8' and 4' stops; that tends to make the sound muddy. You probably want a really big pedal registration for the solo at the beginning; if the pedal is not loud enough by itself, couple to one (or more) of the manuals.


The question is to what extent you want to vary registration for the various sections of a piece like this. Obviously, you will need an echo manual for the 12/8 section. You sometimes hear this section with a “small” registration (8+4+2, or 8+4+1, or something like that) and something like flutes 8+2 for the echo. As always, much depends on the organ and the particular situation, but I like to use at least a small pleno for this section with a few stops for the echo (which could effectively be played on the Brustwerk on an organ similar to Bruhns’s).
It could be nice if the fugue is a little quieter than the first and last sections; you could use a slightly lighter pleno or even principals 8+4+2, for example; of course, you would have to lighten the pedal, probably by taking off the reed(s) and perhaps the mixture. M. 85 could be a place to go back to a bigger registration, with further opportunities for a crescendo in m. 90 (marking the beginning of the Allegro), m. 106, and m. 117.

Tempo

The tempo of any performance of any piece of music depends on many factors including the acoustics of the hall, the time of the day, and without a doubt the mood of the performer. Many compositions can sound surprisingly convincing at very different tempi; the most important thing is that the tempo feels right to you! Nonetheless, here are some metronome markings for the piece; take them for what they are: a ballpark indication.

Beginning: ~66

12/8: ~60–66

Fugue: ~60

Allegro: ~96

Discography

Finally, for CD collectors, the following recordings of Bruhns’s complete organ works may be worth considering:

• Piet Kee: Bruhns and Buxtehude. Roskilde Cathedral, Denmark. Chandos CHAN0539.

• Lorenzo Ghielmi: Bruhns, Buxtehude, and Brunckhorst. Basilica San Simpliciano, Milan, Italy. Winter & Winter 910 070-2.

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.

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.

Larry Palmer is harpsichord editor of THE DIAPASON.

Facsimiles from Fuzeau: Sources for Lifelong Learning

Alternately fascinating and frustrating, facsimiles of original manuscripts and printed editions have become increasingly available. For the harpsichordist there is little that is more rewarding than playing from an actual musical “picture” as presented by the composer. Reading from the “original” certainly does not answer all questions, but it does give an unadulterated source as basis for making one’s own musical decisions. For this reason, I heartily recommend playing from facsimiles as a challenging, and often a cleansing, exercise in musical growth.

To utilize these recent scores from publisher Jean-Marc Fuzeau of France, it will help to have an adventurous spirit, as well as a willingness to learn the occasional unfamiliar clef, frequently used in earlier music manuscripts to avoid excessive employment of ledger lines.

Alessandro Poglietti: Rossignolo  [Collection Dominantes Number 5905].

Works for harpsichord or organ by the Italian composer who died in 1683 during his flight from Vienna following the Turkish siege of that city. Three main sources for these pieces are introduced by Peter Waldner, whose notes in French, English, and German include both biographical and bibliographical information and a listing of available modern editions. Fuzeau’s publication comprises three slim paperbound volumes in a folder: an autograph manuscript from the Austrian National Library, Vienna (Cod. 19248), an early edition from the Music Library of the Benedictine Monastery of Marienberg, Burgeis (60/q 366), and another copy of an old source, now housed in the Deutsche Staatsbibliothek, Berlin (Mus.ms. 17670). All utilize the soprano clef (notes written a third higher than the customary G clef) and the familiar bass clef on F. Individual pieces include a Toccata, Canzone, Allemande Amour, Courante, Sarban, Gigue, Ayre, as well as Il Rossignolo Capricio [sic] and a Petitte Ayre gay “in imitation of the Nightingale.”

Johann Kuhnau: Neue Clavier-übung, Partie I (1689) [Collection Dominantes Number 5716], consists of seven short keyboard suites in C, D, E, F, G, A, and B-flat, prefaced by eleven pages of introductory material by Philippe Lescat. Each group of pieces begins with a Prelude (the fourth suite, a Sonatina). The volume is engraved in a large, clear format employing the first line soprano clef and the familiar bass clef on F.

For a modern performing edition of these works (and others, including the popular and appealing Biblical Sonatas) by Bach’s immediate predecessor as Cantor of Leipzig’s  Thomaskirche, consult the beautifully-presented two-volume set of Kuhnau’s Collected Works for Keyboard edited by C. David Harris, available from The Broude Trust, New York (ISBN 0-8540-7660-4).

Christoph Graupner: Monatliche Clavir Früchte (1722) [Collection Dominantes Number 5855].

Not surprisingly, this collection of “Monthly Keyboard Fruits” comprises twelve groups of keyboard pieces illustrating the months of the year. (I suppose one could create a larger work--Seasons--by playing these suites in groups of three!) Graupner, student of and assistant to Kuhnau in Leipzig, spent most of his distinguished career in Darmstadt. Soprano and bass F clefs, notes by Oswald Bill.

Louis Marchand: Pièces de clavecin (Book I, 1699; Book II, 1702), Air (La Venitienne) [La Musique Française Classique Number 5761].

Book One contains a Suite in D minor, consisting of a (measured) prelude and eight dance movements (including an elegant Chaconne with four couplets) engraved primarily in soprano and third line F clefs (with occasional deviations to G and third line C clefs). Book Two contains a Suite in G minor, the prelude of which has some unmeasured passages. Seven short dance movements follow.

Edited by Thurston Dart, Marchand’s two suites were published by Editions L’Oiseau Lyre in 1960. Dart’s edition does not contain the short Air (printed by Ballard as the character piece “La Venitienne” [in Pièces Choisies pour le clavecin]), included in the facsimile (with easy-to-read G and F clefs). Introductory notes to Fuzeau’s publication include an essay on “French Harpsichord Makers of Marchand’s Time” by Philippe Lescat. An amusing attribution in his Bibliography replaces American harpsichord maker and instrument historian FRANK Hubbard’s first name with the more Gallic spelling FRANCK.

Christian Gottlob Neefe: Zwölf Klavier-Sonaten (1773) [Collection Dominantes Number 5880].

Twelve early classic works for clavichord by Beethoven’s teacher; published in Leipzig with a dedication to “Herr Kapellmeister [C P E] Bach in Hamburg.” The original print featured a clear, clean text (soprano, bass F clefs). The inevitable printer’s errors are noted and corrected in introductory material by Pascal Duc.

Number Twelve in the Fuzeau series Méthodes & Traités  fills two volumes, each containing more than 200 pages. Clavecin presents in chronological order selections from the most important French sources concerning the harpsichord. A reading knowledge of French would be helpful, but for those who are challenged by the language, a great amount of enjoyment may be gleaned from the generous offering of harpsichord-related images, easily-deciferable information, and the many musical examples.

Beginning with tuning and building information from Mersenne’s Harmonie universelle (1636) and Denis’ Traité de l’accord de l’espinette (1650), volume one continues with ornament tables found in the keyboard volumes by Chambonnières (1670), d’Anglebert (1689), Dieupart (1701: a volume dedicated to the Countess of Sandwich), Le Roux (1705), François Couperin (Book I, 1713), Dandrieu (1724), Dagincourt (1733), Michel Corrette (1734), Louis-Claude Daquin (1735), Rameau (1736), Van Helmont (1737), Jollage (1738), and Royer (1746), plus complete facsimiles of Saint-Lambert’s Les Principes du Clavecin, (1702) and Couperin’s L’art de toucher le clavecin (1717). [Consult the original layout of Couperin’s Troisième Prélude (page 175) to substantiate a correct reading of the never-corrected faulty first bass note at the beginning of the last score: the guide (guidon) from the preceding line shows it to be a “C,”  but the engraver actually notated a “B-flat,” creating a chord unidiomatic to an 18th-century piece.]

Also included are two documents including important information for stylistic performance of French keyboard music: a letter by Le Gallois concerning the playing of the prélude non mésurée (1680) and Rameau’s two-page commentary on proper touch at the harpsichord (1724), ending with his intriguing comment that the same techniques are applicable as well to the organ.

Volume Two continues this rich treasure trove with Michel Corrette’s Les Amusemens du Parnasse, a short and easy method for the harpsichord (1749). This includes a simple Suite in C for beginners, with fingerings provided AND utilizing the familiar G and F clefs, followed by an additional twelve pages of easy pieces. At the end of the volume Marpurg’s Art de toucher le clavecin (1797) gives a fin de siècle example of keyboard instruction, concluding with another lengthy set of easier pieces by Mr. Sorge, organist and mathematician of Lobenstein (once again using “modern” clefs).

Other gems reprinted in this second volume include composer Duphly’s handwritten remarks on fingering (1769) as preserved in the copy of his Pièces de clavecin, Book I, belonging to his student, English Lord Fitzwilliam; illustrations of harpsichord construction from Diderot’s Encyclopédie (1751- 1772); Lessons and Principles of Harmony by Bemetzrieder (1771) reproduced from a copy once owned by the important 19th-century musical reformer Choron; and several more enchanting engravings of variously styled harpsichords with other instruments from the Essai sur la musique ancienne et moderne by Laborde (1780).

For more complete details, including current prices, consult the publisher’s website: <classical-music.fuzeau.com>. A recent promotional offering, a miniature volume of selected pages from facsimile publications, is offered at this address. Let your discoveries begin!

Send news items or comments about Harpsichord News to Dr. Larry Palmer, Division of Music, Southern Methodist University, Dallas, TX 75275;

<[email protected]>.

Homer Ashton Ferguson III received his bachelor of arts degree with a major in music from Illinois College in May 2000, studying organ with Rudolf Zuiderveld and piano and conducting with Garrett Allman. In May 2002, he completed his master of music degree at Arizona State University under the direction of Kimberly Marshall, where he is currently working on his doctoral degree in organ performance. He is also the organist and music associate at Central United Methodist Church in Phoenix, Arizona.

Joyce Johnson Robinson is associate editor of The Diapason.

Bach and Beyond: Bach and Bach Reception in the 19th Century

November 7-8, 2003, scholars and performers gathered for the organ symposium “Bach and Beyond--Bach and Bach Reception in the 19th Century,” sponsored by Illinois College (Jacksonville, Illinois), under the direction of Dr. Rudolf Zuiderveld, professor of music and college organist, and co-sponsored by MacMurray College (Jacksonville, Illinois), First Presbyterian Church (Springfield, Illinois), and John Brombaugh (Eugene, Oregon).

Day One: by Homer Ashton Ferguson III

Rammelkamp Chapel at Illinois College and Annie Merner Chapel at MacMurray College were the venues for the first day. Registration began at 1:00 p.m. in the foyer of Rammelkamp Chapel, and James Dawson, owner of Oberlin Music in Oberlin, Ohio, set up a sales booth for conferees to peruse various publications concerning the organ.

After a warm welcome by Dr. Zuiderveld and Dr. Axel Steuer, president of Illinois College, the symposium began with the keynote lecture given by Russell Stinson, the Josephine Emily Brown Professor of Music at Lyon College, Batesville, Arkansas. Stinson’s lecture, “Bach’s Organ Works and Mendelssohn’s Grand Tour,” revealed some new insights into the reception of Bach’s organ music during the nineteenth century, the era of the so-called Bach revival, through the examination of Felix Mendelssohn-Bartholdy. The address gave conference participants a preview of Stinson’s recent research which has been codified in his latest book, The Reception of Bach’s Organ Works from Mendelssohn to Brahms, scheduled for publication by Oxford University Press in late 2005. The book will contain four rather hefty chapters on four major figures of 19th-century music (Mendelssohn, Schumann, Liszt, and Brahms) and will investigate how they responded to Bach’s organ music, not only as composers but also as performers, critics, theorists, and teachers.

Mendelssohn was the ideal figure for the “rediscovery” of J. S. Bach’s genius. He composed over thirty works for the organ, often using the organ music of Bach as a model, his editions of Bach’s organ chorales were among the first ever published, and as a concert organist he introduced Bach’s music to the general public. Stinson dwelled on one particular time period in Mendelssohn’s career, his self-named “big trip” of 1830-32, the longest Bildungsreise ever undertaken by a musician in modern times. His travels took him through Austria, Italy, Switzerland, France, and England as well as many German cities.

Mendelssohn’s journey began as a Bach pilgrimage, with stops in Leipzig and Weimar, where he was presented with manuscript copies of two Bach works by the publisher Breitkopf and Härtel. His time was also spent with Goethe, who owned six Bach manuscripts, two of which contained organ compositions. Goethe, a long-time fan of Bach, requested that Mendelssohn visit the local organist. Upon doing so, Mendelssohn reported that he played the “D-minor Toccata.” Stinson continued at some length in establishing that the “D-minor Toccata” reference was definitely a reference to the infamous BWV 565. This conclusion stems primarily from a letter sent from Paris to his family in 1831 in which he requests to be sent copies of six different Bach organ works, including a “Prelude and Fugue in D Minor,” which he identifies by notating the first two beats of the Dorian toccata. This eliminates the Dorian as a possibility because Mendelssohn knew that piece as a prelude, not a toccata.

In late July 1831, Mendelssohn arrived in Switzerland. In need of practice, he began to work on his technique using Bach’s organ works as his pedagogical tool. A letter Mendelssohn wrote to his family while stranded in the village of Sargans revealed that even at this point in his career he still lacked, at least according to his standards, the pedal technique necessary to perform Bach’s big organ works.

Upon his arrival in Munich several weeks later, Mendelssohn continued to focus his attention on mastering his pedal technique. Again, he found himself struggling in his conquest, only this time the organ he had to practice on was partially to blame. Mendelssohn wrote in a letter to his family, “I also play the organ every day for an hour. But unfortunately I cannot practice as I wish because the pedalboard lacks the five uppermost notes.” He did marvel at the beauty of the organ, though, and commented on finding the perfect registration for the famous setting of Schmücke dich, o liebe Seele.

As Stinson continued to demonstrate the influence of Bach’s music upon Mendelssohn, he touched briefly upon Mendelssohn’s sense of profundity in sharing Bach’s organ works with his family and friends. In an account regarding BWV 740, Wir glauben all’ an einen Gott, Vater, Stinson remarked upon the popularity of playing Bach’s organ works as keyboard duets on the piano. Within a rather emotional letter dated November 14, 1831, Mendelssohn sent this chorale to his sisters Fanny and Beckchen to play as a duet, noting, “Now play this chorale with Beckchen, as long as you are together, and think of me while doing so.” Stinson further illustrated this by quoting Fanny in a letter she had written to Felix two years earlier, apropos of Bach’s organ preludes that: “Beckchen is pounding out the pedal part with virtuosity, and it does my heart good to hear her. Old Bach would laugh himself to death if he could see it.” At this point in the lecture Dr. Stinson and his student, Skye Hart, resurrected an old performance practice by playing BWV 740 on the piano, in duet form.

On April 22, 1832, Mendelssohn sojourned back to London, regularly playing the postlude at Sunday morning services at St. Paul’s Cathedral, even as he had done to great acclaim in a previous visit in 1829. The organ at St. Paul’s proved to be the ideal instrument on which to perform Bach’s music, due to its larger compass in comparison to other instruments in London. Mendelssohn’s organ playing there is well documented and Stinson went into detail to support the fact that Mendelssohn’s Bach playing was revolutionary for the English organ scene. It was in London that Mendelssohn achieved the level of mastery that he had sought in the performance of Bach’s organ works.

Within this discussion one of Stinson’s most remarked-upon assertions concerned the Prelude and Fugue in E minor, BWV 533, the so-nicknamed “Cathedral.” Stinson believes that it was Mendelssohn’s introduction and repeated performance of this work to English audiences at St. Paul’s Cathedral that led to its nickname. All of the conference participants, including Christoph Wolff, could not think of any evidence to contradict this assertion and were in agreement that this may very well be the forgotten source of this often-quoted moniker.

Stinson concluded his stimulating opening to this conference, noting, “(Mendelssohn) would continue to occupy himself with Bach’s organ works his entire life--as a performer, composer, editor, antiquarian, pedagogue, and ambassador-at-large. Without question, he was the most influential champion of this repertory during the early Romantic era.”

The conference continued with a recital by Jay Peterson, professor of music and college organist at MacMurray College. Performed in Annie Merner Chapel on the MacMurray College campus, the recital featured the historic 1952 Æolian-Skinner Organ, Opus 1150, of four manuals and 64 ranks. This organ, installed under the auspices of Professor Robert Glasgow, then a member of the music faculty, has been dutifully guarded and maintained by Peterson. He recently completed a compact disc recording of this organ featuring American organ music in celebration of the fiftieth birthday of this landmark.

Dr. Peterson readily showed off the colors of the organ through his performance of 19th-century organ music, demonstrating his ability as a commanding performer. The program: Sonata in B-flat, op. 65, no. 4, Felix Mendelssohn; O World, I Now Must Leave Thee, My Heart Abounds With Pleasure, Blessed Ye Who Live In Faith, O God, Thou Faithful God, My Heart Is Ever Yearning, op. 122, Johannes Brahms; Prelude and Fugue on B-A-C-H, Franz Liszt.

Day one of the symposium concluded with a recital by Douglas Reed, professor of music and university organist at the University of Evansville, on the Hart Sesquicentennial Organ in Illinois College’s Rammelkamp Chapel. This recital attracted a large audience from the surrounding community as it was the November event on Illinois College’s McGaw Fine Arts Series.

Building upon a theme set earlier by Jay Peterson at MacMurray College, Dr. Reed played a program dedicated solely to the masters of the 19th century. His program construction was well-conceived as he “book-ended” his recital by opening with the first movement of the Symphonie Romane by Charles-Marie Widor and then closed with the Final. Originally premiered in 1900 in Berlin, Widor received his inspiration for this symphony from plainchant. Reed continued with a performance of Robert Schumann’s Six Studies for the Pedal Piano, opus 56 (1845). The remainder of his program consisted of Brahms’ Prelude and Fugue in A Minor and Mendelssohn’s Sonata No. 5 in D Major.

The evening ended with a reception in Kirby Rotunda on the campus of Illinois College; organ scholars socialized and expounded upon ideas new and old. The inaugural kickoff of Illinois College’s biannual organ symposium was indeed a success. Events are currently being scheduled for November of 2005 and November of 2007, with focus in ‘07 on Dieterich Buxtehude in commemoration of the 300th anniversary of his death.

Day Two: by Joyce Johnson Robinson

All of Saturday’s events took place at First Presbyterian Church of Springfield, home to John Brombaugh’s 3-manual, 70-rank Opus 35.

The day began with an organ demonstration, “Music around Johann Sebastian Bach,” by Rudolf Zuiderveld, organist of First Presbyterian and professor of music at Illinois College in Jacksonville. The program comprised works by Bach’s predecessors, contemporaries, and successors, from Frescobaldi through Brahms, and included a hymn, “If You But Trust in God to Guide You” (Wer nur den lieben Gott), whose verses were preceded by organ preludes of Bach, Krebs, and Böhm. The Sonatina in d by Christian Ritter showcased the full organ, including the 16’ and 32’ pedal Posaunes. The organ is robustly voiced for a full congregation, and the room has a lively acoustic. Yet even with a sparse population in the church, the full organ was loud but not unpleasantly so. The instrument is essentially north German/Dutch, but can capably handle music of other styles as well. In Dandrieu’s variations on O Filii et Filiae, the organ’s French capabilities were highlighted, including récits de nazard, tierce, basse de trompette, flutes, larigot (siffloete), cromorne (dulcian), cornet, cimbel and Grand Jeu. The reeds offered just enough bite, the flutes were clear and full. The organ most definitely possesses gravitas, as demonstrated in Louis Marchand’s Fond d’orgue (Deuxième Suite), in which the 16’ Praestant enriched the plenum without detracting from its clarity.

Next, organists, including students of Douglas Reed (University of Evansville), Russell Stinson (Lyon College), Dana Robinson (University of Illinois), and graduates of MacMurray College and Illinois College played for the masterclass led by Robert Clark, organ professor emeritus of Arizona State University. All but one played Bach works. Dr. Clark’s suggestions reflected the concerns of making music, as well as matters of technique and registration. In order to accommodate all the students who wished to play, the masterclass continued after the lunch break. Participants in the class and in the subsequent recital were Zach Guenzel, Tim Weisman, Cecilia Bogowith, Alicie Zeilenga, Skye Hart, Jeremy House, Nicole Eyman, Luba Tkachuk, Alison Lewis, Scott Montgomery, Jin-Kyung Lim, and Kirk Rich. See Tsai Chan and Alison Lewis played in the masterclass although not in the recital; Robert Horton and Christine Smith played in the recital only.

Following the masterclass, Christoph Wolff of Harvard University delivered a lecture on the authenticity of Bach’s Toccata and Fugue in D minor. Prof. Wolff outlined the claims against Bach’s authorship, which are primarily based on interpretations of sources and on stylistic grounds. His remarks focused on a Berlin Staatsbibliothek manuscript; he considers this source, copied by Johannus Rinck, to be correct in its attribution to Bach. Wolff also discussed details of notation and stylistic traits (such as the arpeggiando figures) which would place the work early in the eighteenth century, and explained the octave doubling at the opening of the toccata as a way around the lack of a 16’ stop on a smaller organ--a way of achieving the effect of a North German plenum.1 Having been reassured that our beloved warhorse was indeed by Bach, we returned to the sanctuary to hear the masterclass participants present their pieces at a recital that capped off the afternoon.

The symposium concluded with a re-creation of Mendelssohn’s “Bach Concert” of August 6, 1840, at the Thomaskirche in Leipzig. The concert began with a full organ introductory work by A. W. Bach, followed by Johann Sebastian’s Fugue in E-flat (BWV 552b), Schmücke dich, o liebe Seele (BWV 654), Prelude and Fugue in A minor (BWV 543), Passacaglia and Thema fugatum (BWV 582), Pastorella in F (BWV 590), Toccata and Fugue in D minor (BWV 565), and closing with Mendelssohn’s Choral and Variation on Herzlich tut mich verlangen, and Allegro (Chorale and fugue) in D minor. Robert Clark, Russell Stinson, Rudolf Zuiderveld, Douglas Reed, and Jay Peterson collaborated with stirring playing; for those who had immersed themselves in details of these works’ histories, stylistic details, and performance practice, the concert was a satisfying ending to the weekend’s events.2

Earl Holt is a graduate of Elon College, the University of Michigan, and Arizona State University, where he recently completed the D.M.A. degree in organ performance with Robert Clark. Dr. Holt served on the music faculty of San Jacinto College North in Houston from 1982-90, and is currently a full-time Visiting Assistant Professor of Music Theory at ASU. His article, "Interpretive Suggestions for Four American Organ Works," appeared in the August and September 1995 issues of The Diapason; and his article, "Interpretive Suggestions for Modern Swedish Organ Works," appeared in the January and February 1996 issues of The Diapason.

Subjugated by the Soviet Union after World War II, Czechoslovakia became a socialist state in 1948; Czech arts organizations were systematically dismantled by the Communist government. Music was subject to the Doctrine of Socialist Realism, whose tenets dictated socialist content and readily comprehensible language, to achieve the ideological goals of the government. Late Romantic and folk styles were encouraged; Western avant-garde styles were deemed morally decadent. In addition, the atheistic stance of the Czech government made artistic association with the Church a liability, as summarized in The New Grove: "Along with the musical societies and their network, the function of church music in the life of society was destroyed."4

Despite the restrictions, Czech composers sought renewed international contact in the early 1960s, and were allowed to attend international music festivals. Active organ composers of this period were Petr Eben, Karel Janecek, Miloslav Kabelác, Otmar Mácha, Karel Reiner, Klement Slavicky, and Milos Sokola. The Czech government, reflecting the Soviet Union's relaxation in the enforcement of the socialist realism doctrine, began to encourage the composition of contemporary organ music by providing state subsidies, encouraging composition and interpretation competitions, and allowing international publication and dissemination of the most successful works. Nevertheless, the official atheism of the communist party government undoubtedly influenced the composition of secular organ compositions by its continuing authority to prevent publication of liturgical works. Historian Marilou Kratzenstein writes:

With the exception of Eben, none of these [composers] has written extensively for the organ, but each has written at least one or two very fine works. All of them, excepting Kabelác, have relied heavily on folk melodies and rhythms and have worked in a style which is an outgrowth of post-Romanticism. In general, Czech organ compositions are meant for concert, not liturgical, use. They are often virtuoso pieces, often symphonic, and can best be realized on an organ which is able to accommodate Romantic literature.5

Since the end of the Soviet Union's domination of eastern Europe in the late 1980s, and the Soviet Union's subsequent disintegration in 1991, Czechoslovakia has separated into two autonomous regions, the Czech Republic and Slovakia, in 1993.

An important outlet for international distribution of Czech organ works during the last two decades has been Panton's series, Nuove Composizioni per Organo, a six-volume set of contemporary organ works. The pieces included in the set were all prize-winning compositions at the annual Prague Spring International Music Festival.6 Of the four Czech works selected for this article, three are published in the sixth volume of Nuove Composizioni.

 Editors of the fourth, fifth, and sixth volumes stated Panton's editorial policy toward registration data in the respective prefaces. The editor of the fourth volume, Alena Veselá, writes:

In revising this miscellany I first of all respected the registration data of the composers. As far as an author has not written his composition with a completely real conception of sound, I thought it right to leave inventive freedom to the interpreter and not to add registration suggestions of my own.7

Otomar Kvech, the composer of Prazské Panorama, one of the selected works in this article, served as editor of the fifth volume of Nuove Composizioni. In its preface, he writes:

All these compositions require a modern instrument with rich possibilities of registration. Their scores contain only such registration data that have been mentioned in the authors' manuscripts. An interpreter may use all his creative freedom in application [of] the rich scale of colour possibilities of [the] organ.8

In volume six, editor Václav Rabas comments further on registration, and the desired instrument:

Having revised the particular works I therefore respected composers' datas [sic] of manuals and registration that however are mostly general. For this reason it is above all the task of every interpreter to register and interpret the work in a creative way, according to his possibilities and possibilities of particular instrument. As far as an indication of manuals is mentioned, the organ under discussion is a three-manual instrument, the type most common today.

I. manual--great organ

II. manual--choir organ

III. manual--swell organ9

This article surveys four selected secular organ works by modern Czech composers and compiles relevant performance information in an attempt to make the compositions more comprehensible and accessible to recitalists, teachers, and students.

Fantasia by Jozka Matej

Background

Jozka Matej, born in Brusperk, Moravia in 1922, had his first music studies with Frantisek Míta Hradil in Ostrava at the Masaryk Institute of Music and Singing. He then studied organ with J.B. Krajs and composition with Emil Hlobil and Zdenek Hula at the Prague Conservatory from 1942 to 1947. Further composition study was with Jaroslav Rídky at the Prague Academy of Musical Arts from 1947 to 1951. He taught courses in music for drama students at the academy from 1952 to 1954, but retired from teaching to become a full-time composer.10

Matej has composed two symphonies, orchestral and chamber works, a fully orchestrated cantata, and widely known educational music for winds. His composition is heavily influenced by Moravian folk music of his native Lach region. Liner notes to a recording of the Concerto for Trumpet, French Horn, and Trombone describe Matej as "experienced in all types of music, with a firm, definitely established niche in Czech music."11

Besides the work selected for this article, Fantasia (Fantasy), no other organ works of Matej were found. The premiere of Fantasia took place at the Prague Spring International Music Festival in 1984.12

Structure

Mid-twentieth-century Czech composers often used the names of traditional polyphonic forms, including the chaconne, toccata, and fantasy, as carriages for their works.13 Such titles usually bear only a superficial relation to formal structure, however, and might have been arbitrarily selected for their ability to earn government imprimaturs as secular works appropriate for publication.

Fantasia exhibits a modern harmonic idiom, as other arbitrarily titled modern Czech works do. The work is comprised of five continuous sections, delineated by rhythm, tempo, and dynamic changes. The main rhythmic figure in sections 1, 3, and 5 contains continuous, four-voice triplets. Sections 2 and 4 have simple beats, primarily, although a few supertriplets occur in section 4. Passages at the ends of sections 2 and 4 are related motivically, but the two sections begin differently: section 2 begins contrapuntally, with two rhythmically imitative voices, whereas section 4 (religioso) begins as a four-voice, atonal chorale.

Matej uses simple meter, despite the extended sections of triplets that could be more easily scored in compound meter. Sections 1, 3, and 5 are in 2/2 meter, except for a few measures of 3/2 and 4/2 in sections 1 and 5. Sections 2 and 4 are in 4/4 meter, except for two measures of 5/4 in section 4.

Tempo changes also occur between sections. Sections 1, 3, and 5 are fast, and sections 2 and 4 are comparatively slower. Within each section, however, the tempo does vary slightly. Sharp dynamic changes occur between sections, except between sections 2 and 3, where the change is from pp to p. Table 1 is a structural outline of the piece.

Registration

The score is marked for a three-manual organ, although a two-manual instrument is adequate. The manual compass is Eb to f''', and the pedal compass is C# to c', so the work is accessible on virtually any instrument. Expressive divisions are not required. The frequent dynamic changes can be made by an adjustable combination action or with the help of a console assistant. The numerous stop changes make it difficult for the performer to handle registration and maintain continuity at the same time.

The score names only one specific stop--a 16' Pedal Bombarde in m. 35. All other registration changes are indicated by numerous dynamic markings that range from ppp to fff, a practice that permits the performer considerable freedom in stop selection. Table 2 presents registration suggestions based on the dynamic markings indicated for each manual in the score.

Interpretation

The most difficult interpretive challenge in Fantasia is to accommodate the constant rhythmic change that creates the molto drammatico character of the work. Changes in tempo, for example, occur thirty-eight times. Most of the changes in tempo within each of the five main sections are small, subito adjustments of four to six beats per minute. Larger tempo changes occur between the five main sections. A note at the beginning of the score addresses tempo: "Resulting tempo will be dependent on possibilities of particular instruments. Only the quick passages can be slowed down, however by not more than 4 speeds of [the] metronome."14 Exactly what constitutes a "quick passage" is unclear, but the fastest tempos occur in the first, third, and fifth sections of the work (mm. 1-47, 94-143, and 177-235).

Besides changing tempo frequently, Matej uses arrows of varying lengths to indicate gradual accelerandos ( ----------> ) and gradual ritardandos ( <---------- ). While the use of such arrows is not unique, they occur ubiquitously, effectively eliminating the perception of a regular pulse in many passages. Besides the ritardando arrows, allargando and ritardando markings occur at the ends of many phrases. Although distorted by the various compositional techniques presented above, the rhythmic pulse should reflect the composer's choice of meter: the half note gets the beat in sections 1, 3, and 5, and the quarter note gets the beat in sections 2 and 4, as shown in Table 1.

Matej precisely marks articulation, too. Slurs indicate phrasing, and accents (agogic and dynamic) are used liberally. Staccato articulation is not marked anywhere in the score, although some passages must be played detached, either for acoustic clarity or because of fingering in dense textures. Traditional Italian terms are used at tempo changes and might also suggest the character of the articulation--sostenuto, amabile, giocoso, agitato, pesante, leggierissimo, and marcato, for example.

Optional cuts, or vide passages, occur at mm. 42, 62-93, and 218. The cuts at mm. 42 and 218 are, in each case, a single chord held for four beats. Although the long chords serve as cadences, their omission creates a heightened dramatic effect, and those two cuts are recommended. The long optional cut in mm. 62-93, however, would reduce the second section of the work from forty-six to only fourteen measures, leaving it significantly shorter than, and thus out of balance with, the other four sections. Such a large cut is recommended only if time considerations are paramount.

No commercial recordings of Fantasia were found. The performance time is nine minutes and thirty seconds, if no optional cuts are made.

Improvviso by Jirí Dvorácek

Background

Jirí Dvorácek was born in 1928 in Vamberk, eastern Bohemia. He studied organ at the Prague Conservatory from 1943 to 1947. After graduation, and two years as an organist and music teacher, he began studies in composition with Jaroslav Rídky and Václav Dobiás at the Prague Academy of Musical Arts from 1949 to 1953. In 1953 Dvorácek was appointed as a professor of composition at the academy, and he became head of the composition department in 1979. The Czech government named him an Artist of Merit in 1983. He also served as president of the Union of Czech Composers and Concert Artists from 1987 to 1989.15

Dvorácek has composed a large number of works for orchestra, chamber ensemble, piano, and voice. His vocal works often have patriotic or political themes. For example, Male Choirs, sung often at Czech public concerts, was composed in 1955 for the tenth-anniversary celebration of the World War II liberation of Czechoslovakia. Another work, From the Diary of a Prisoner (1960) for mixed choir, is set to Vietnamese poems by Ho Chi Minh.16 The chamber music and instrumental music form the largest body of Dvorácek's works. Although his compositions require modern performance techniques, most are tonally based; even his dodecaphonic compositions are constructed to avoid atonality.17

Besides the work selected for this article, Improvviso (1982), Dvorácek has composed a Sonata for Organ (1979), performed at the Prague Spring International Music Festival in 1980, and Violin and Organ Play (1984). The premiere of Improvviso took place in the Prague Rudolfinum by organist Milan Slechta on March 19, 1983.18

Structure

Improvviso (Improvisation), as the title suggests, is a free work. Dvorácek writes: "By the title Improvviso I wanted to express spontaneity of the music development and non-complicated image in accordance with the thematic material."19 The work, which lacks an identifiable formal structure, has four continuous sections that are delineated by tempo changes. Structural unity is primarily created by rhythm--the use of a constant metronomic pulse of eighty beats per minute--and by repetition of specific compositional techniques (gradually piling up notes into clusters, or the extensive use of trio texture, for example).

Compound meter occurs throughout the work--all 6/8, except for four measures of 9/8 (mm. 145 and 187-89). The basic pulse of eighty beats per minute applies to the dotted quarter note in sections 1 and 3, and to the dotted half note in sections 2 and 4. The tempo therefore doubles in sections 2 and 4, but nevertheless retains the basic pulse. There is no discernible tonal center in the work. Large chords are often based on intervals of a perfect fourth, perfect fifth, or tritone. Table 3 is a structural outline of the work.

Registration

Improvviso is written for a three-manual instrument, labeled I--Great, II--Choir, and III--Swell, although it can be played on two manuals, if quick stop changes are made. The manual compass for the work is C to bb.''' The pitches a''' and bb.''' occur only in the right-hand part in mm. 269-72, however. Those four measures could be played an octave lower, allowing the work to be performed on a 56-key instrument. The pedal compass is C to g', requiring a 32-note pedal clavier. The highest pedal note, g', only occurs in m. 315, but there does not appear to be an acceptable way to alter the pedal part to eliminate the g'.

No expression pedal markings occur in the score. The performer or a console assistant can make all stop changes; an assistant would be especially helpful if no adjustable combination action is available. The score lists no specific stops or traditional ensemble registrations. Stop changes are primarily indicated by numerous dynamic markings that range from pp to ff. Occasionally, though, an organ stop pitch designation is given. Table 4 presents registration suggestions based on organ stop pitch designations and dynamic markings in the score.

Interpretation

The chief interpretive challenge for the performer of Improvviso is to maintain rhythmic pulse and dramatic intensity throughout. During passages with long note-values, constant internal counting of eighth notes will be necessary (mm. 269-81, for example).

Sections 2 and 4 are technically challenging because of trills in the manuals, and occasional pedal trills. All trills in the work begin on the principal note, as indicated by a footnote in the score.20 The pedal solo in mm. 289-318 is marked tutti, but 32' stops should be omitted because of the fast tempo. The long trill at the end of the pedal solo (mm. 319-35) must be played by the right foot, because of the double-pedal part. If the performer cannot sustain the trill, however, the ossia--which has manual and pedal parts, but does not require the extended pedal trill--may be substituted. Pedal trills elsewhere must be played by a single foot, because the pedal part is so active and the feet are so far apart.

Not only do the bar lines in Improvviso serve as an organizational convenience but they also imply regular rhythmic accents on strong beats. Phrasing is meticulously indicated by slurs. Staccato dots (pp. 6, 8, 12, and 15) and agogic accents (pp. 5, 7, and 8) indicate articulation. The term pesante occurs in mm. 73, 288, and 385; besides emphasis on each note, Dvorácek also uses the term to imply a ritardando, since the following measures are marked a tempo.

Dynamic changes occur often and are carefully marked. The final dynamic marking in the work occurs in m. 282; because this ff dynamic lasts for 119 measures, however, the registration must not be overbearing.

Dvorácek confirms that there are no notation errors in the Panton score. He also writes that Panton produced a live recording of the first performance (stereo 8111 0357).21 The work has a performance time of six minutes.

Notes

                        1.                  Marilou Kratzenstein, Survey of Organ Literature and Editions (Ames, Iowa: Iowa State University Press, 1980), 164.

                        2.                  Corliss R. Arnold, Organ Literature: A Comprehensive Survey, 2d ed., vol. 1 (Metuchen: Scarecrow Press, 1984), 251.

                        3.                  Felix Aprahamian, brochure notes for Concert Pieces for Organ, Hyperion Records, CDA66265, 2.

                        4.                  Stanley Sadie, ed., The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians (London: Macmillan and Co., 1980), s.v. "Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, §IX, 1: Russian SFSR, Russian art music, (iv) The political background to the Soviet period," by Rita McAllister; Ibid., s.v. "Czechoslovakia, §I, 1: Art Music, Bohemia and Moravia, (v) Since 1945," by Oldrich Pukl.

                        5.                  Kratzenstein, 165.

                        6.                  Václav Rabas, ed., Nuove Composizioni per Organo, vol. 6, trans. Jana Kuhnová (Prague: Panton, 1983), preface.

                        7.                  Alena Veselá, ed., Nuove Composizioni per Organo, vol. 4, trans. Jan Machac (Prague: Panton, 1974), preface, 7.

                        8.                  Otomar Kvech, ed., Nuove Composizioni per Organo, vol. 5, trans. Jana Hanusová (Prague: Panton, 1979), preface, 6.

                        9.                  Rabas, preface.

                        10.              Sadie, s.v. "Matej, Josef;" Cenek Gardavsky, ed., Contemporary Czechoslovak Composers (Prague: Panton, 1965), s.v. "Matej, Josef," by Cenek Gardavsky; Nicolas Slonimsky, ed., Baker's Biographical Dictionary of Musicians, 8th ed. (New York: Schirmer Books, 1992), s.v. "Matej, Josef.

                        11.              Gardavsky, s.v. "Matej, Josef;" Milan Kuna, liner notes to Josef Matoj: Concerto for Trumpet, French Horn, and Trombone, Panton 110456-F.

                        12.              Rabas, preface.

                        13.              Arnold, vol. 1, 251.

                        14.              Josef Matej, Fantasia, ed. Václav Rabas, in Nuove Composizioni per Organo, vol. 6 (Prague: Panton, 1983), 2.

                        15.              Gardavsky, s.v. "Dvorácek, Jirí;" Slonimsky, s.v. "Dvorácek, Jirí."

                        16.              Gardavsky, s.v. "Dvorácek, Jirí."

                        17.              Sadie, s.v. "Dvorácek, Jirí."

                        18.              Jirí Dvorácek, Improvviso, ed. Václav Rabas, in Nuove Composizioni per Organo, vol. 6 (Prague: Panton, 1983); Id., Letter to this writer, November 9, 1993.

                        19.              Dvorácek, Letter to this writer, November 9, 1993.

                        20.              Dvorácek, Improvviso, 4.

                        21.              Dvorácek, Letter to this writer, November 9, 1993.

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