The Oboe and the Titan: Two Chorale Settings by Dame Ethel Smyth and Johannes Brahms

The Technical and Aesthetic Legacy of Carl Weinrich

by Ray M. Keck

In 1960, in an article about Glenn Gould for The New Yorker
magazine, Joseph Roddy harnesses Nietzsche's terms to describe a dichotomy he
perceives in the composition and the playing of piano music. Eighteenth-century
keyboard compositions "are Apollonian, adhering to classical formality and
reserve; those of the nineteenth century are Dionysiac, being notable for
poetic mood and emotional thunder." Keyboard compositions of the twentieth
century, "for all their involutions, have shown a tendency to return to
the Apollonian ideal."2 Rather than providing a clear example of either
Apollonian or Dionysiac tendencies, Glenn Gould's life and art enclose a
mesmeric opposition of both classical and romantic components: Dionysiac
frenzies during performance, behavior for which he became legend, and
Apollonian compositions and interpretations which are "essentially
dispassionate." It was Gould's interpretation of Bach's "highly Apollonian"
Goldberg Variations which established the young Canadian as a top-ranking
pianist. Playing the Variations, Gould accomplishes his technically flawless
performance, "lean, aloof and fleet," in ten minutes and twenty-one
seconds less than it took Wanda Landowska to complete her highly Dionysiac
performance of the same work.3

Joseph Roddy's description of Glenn Gould and his music
suggests a startling similarity to the Apollonian style and taste of Carl
Weinrich, organist and choirmaster of Princeton University from 1943 to his
retirement in 1973. There are, of course, many significant differences between
the two men.  Gould the pianist was
famous for his histrionics, swaying and singing and conducting himself as he
played. Weinrich the organist was just as known for a calm, classical manner,
an almost unnerving physical control which he exercised even during the music's
most intense passages.4 But, as we shall see, when Carl Weinrich compiled his
own canon of organ music, his choices were very like what the younger Gould
came to champion:  the music of
Sweelinck, of Bach, of Hindemith, of Krenek. In addition, few words could
better describe Carl Weinrich's playing than those applied to Glenn Gould:
"lean, aloof, fleet." And if Gould had his Van Cliburn, so, too,
Weinrich had his artistic antipodes. From his own era sprang the Dionysiac
Virgil Fox, whose preconcert foreplay, cavalier treatment of the printed score,
and wild technical high jinks asserted a violent contrast to Weinrich's
Apollonian creed. Most often compared with Weinrich was his exact contemporary,
E. Power Biggs, whose playing, though technically less precise than Weinrich's,
could hardly be called Dionysiac. Biggs's dedication to popularizing the organ,
however, eventually bred in him a Dionysian's taste, music of uneven artistic
merit from all periods, chosen because it appealed to the untrained listener.
In our own era, Anthony Newman, Simon Preston and Diane Bish are only a few of
the many outstanding Dionysiac recitalists.

Carl Weinrich's importance in American organ music, however,
reached far beyond the university where he made his home. Weinrich was both a
traditionalist and a revolutionary, the former because he chose to concentrate
his energies on the works of Bach, the latter because he was one of a group of
American organists who in this century thoroughly altered American practices of
organ playing and building.5 But what was Weinrich's method and how did he
acquire it?

Lynnwood Farnam: Beauty with Discipline

When Carl Weinrich began in earnest his study of organ in
the 1920s, instruments, the technique of playing, and attitudes toward organ
literature differed greatly from today's prevailing notions. Mechanically
sluggish consoles and the romantic organ's preponderance of 8¢ diapasons
and strings made intricate passages, particularly in the music of J.S. Bach,
difficult to hear and hence not rewarding to master.  Indeed, Bach's famous remark, "you need only to hit the
right notes at the right moment and the instrument does the rest"6
alleged, when Carl Weinrich began his career, not irony and understatement, but
impossibility. Lists of organ stops from those years read like a romantic
orchestral fantasy: flauto amabile, tuba mirabile, philomela. Weinrich was one
of a group of energetic, musically dissatisfied young organists who gathered
about the great teacher and player, Lynnwood Farnam, organist at the Church of
the Holy Communion in New York City until his death in 1930. Together they
reformed and refashioned American organ playing.7

As the first step toward unlocking music's subjective
components or its effect upon the soul, Lynnwood Farnam directed his students'
physical dexterity to the technical components or skeleton of organ music.8 To
approach music's aesthetic ends, Farnam first insisted upon absolute mastery of
the score, careful planning of fingering, endless practice of difficult
passages. Moreover, Farnam demanded an end to the physical pyrotechnics and
theatrical body thrusts which organists often affected at the console. Clear,
clean, precise playing soon brought a predictable dissatisfaction with the
sluggish, muddy sounds of romantic organs and led to an interest in Baroque
techniques of organ building, a return to the principles of construction,
design and stop selection practiced in Bach's era. Farnam's followers, then,
embarked upon a dual quest: more responsive instruments and clearer sounds to
convey more precise playing. Their vision for organ study proclaimed forcefully
the link between technical and aesthetic dimensions of music, the objective and
subjective components of art. And in his own practice, Lynnwood Farnam left
little to chance; before playing a recital, he insisted upon a minimum of
fifteen hours to prepare himself at the instrument he was to play.

In addition to his insistence upon technical perfection,
Farnam's notions of repertoire were built around the music of Bach. He
especially condemned the nineteenth-century custom of including transcriptions
or arrangements of piano music in organ recitals: études of Chopin or
Schumann, pieces such as Debussy's Clair de lune, Rachmaninoff's Prelude in
C-sharp Minor, and overtures and arias from opera. In a series of twenty
recitals, Farnam performed the complete organ works of Bach, a monumental
statement of his musical vision and a feat which his student, Carl Weinrich,
was to repeat many times. Weinrich's appointment as Farnam's successor at the
Church of the Holy Communion, following the latter's death in 1930, indicates
the high regard which Weinrich's playing enjoyed in Farnam's circle.

Weinrich's legacy to his students, and hence to all
musicians who followed him, is three-fold. First, he adopted, practiced, and
passed on Lynnwood Farnam's uncompromising standard of technical excellence as
the foundation of aesthetic satisfaction. Second, having at his disposal the
whole of organ literature, he offered to his students his own special views
concerning repertoire and its use. Third, Weinrich fostered in those about him
an artistic awakening, a refined musical judgment, the unerring aesthetic
sensibility which Plato attributes in the Republic, Book III, to a proper
education in music. Throughout his life, Carl Weinrich stubbornly refused to
practice or to perform any but the very best music composed for the organ.
style="mso-spacerun: yes"> 

Legacy 1: Technique, Organ Design and Artistry

It is the first of these three legacies, Weinrich's efforts
to rescue organ playing from technical lassitude, which remains his most
difficult, his most heroic and his most far-reaching musical gift to us. To
begin with, Weinrich's Apollonian style rested upon an intense scrutiny of the
notes. His scores included extensive notations of fingering, and much of his
time with students was given over to searching carefully and slowly for the
best possible execution of difficult passages. Impatient with older theories of
fingering, Weinrich was an outspoken proponent of employing, whenever possible,
"the strong fingers," the thumb, index and middle finger of each
hand. He insisted that, especially in the works of Bach, one could always
devise a comfortable fingering for even the most difficult passages. He often
commented that "if the fingering of a particular passage isn't comfortable
when you practice it, the tension of a public performance will probably cause
you to stumble at that spot. A musical composition is like a string of
pearls--one weak knot, and the necklace breaks; one flubbed measure can destroy
the beauty and perfection which you achieve in all the others."

To be sure, a difficult measure or passage, properly fingered,
might require scores of repeated attempts to master. One should know a work
well enough to play each part separately, he insisted, and should practice a
piece for at least one year before performing it in public.
style="mso-spacerun: yes">  As if to follow Bach's famous attribution
of his own success to hard work,9 Weinrich the student practiced at least eight
hours per day. At the time of his retirement, he still considered five hours
per day a minimum practice schedule for an active organist.

Weinrich's concern for precision even extended to noting
pedal passages with a "P.N." to remind himself which was the
"pivot note," the moment at which the body should shift its angle to
execute comfortably the pedal lines. 
And then, like Farnam, he allowed himself no other movement at the
console.  He was willing to discuss
diverse possibilities for phrasing, and hence for interpretation, only after a
student had demonstrated undisputed mastery of the work's skeleton. He liked to
say that his first concern was to help a student get the notes firmly in hand,
into the "strong fingers." "After that," he once said,
"we can discuss phrasing at our leisure.  My first job is to see that you can play these notes
correctly and with the same good fingering each time you approach this
piece."

It is natural that, following Lynnwood Farnam's first steps,
Carl Weinrich's tireless zeal to perfect the technique of organ playing led
him, as it had led Bach before him, to a careful evaluation of the instrument
itself, to the impact of organ design upon technical and aesthetic
considerations. Determined that musical lines must be clear to the ear,
Weinrich was an early proponent of spare use of the 8' registers, of eliminating
the heavy Diapason stops and of developing a full Rückpositiv division for
proper registration of the music of Bach. Together with G. Donald Harrison of
the Skinner Organ Company, Weinrich toured the organ lofts of Europe in the
summer of 1936 and studied carefully the instruments whose design and sound he
admired. While head of the organ department at Westminster Choir College
style="mso-spacerun: yes">  (1934-1940), he designed a Baroque
instrument for his studio, the celebrated "Praetorius Organ"
installed in 1939, one of the first instruments in this country built to
recover the clear tonal capacity and clean sounds necessary to the technical
perfection Weinrich sought.

After taking up his post at Princeton in 1943, Weinrich
began with Harrison a rebuilding of the University's enormous Chapel organ,
disconnecting many of the old, useless stops and adding the bright sounds of a
Baroque instrument.10 In later years, Weinrich collaborated with Walter
Holtkamp, Sr. in pioneering efforts to design organs following Baroque models.
The thirty-four stop, three-manual Holtkamp organ at General Theological
Seminary in New York, completed in October, 1958, is a monument to their
labors.11  Weinrich proudly used
this instrument for all of his later recordings with RCA Victor.

Improved technical articulation and improved organ sound
generated new possibilities for interpretation. Both inspired and enabled by
new instruments, Carl Weinrich began to play Bach's works at a far greater
speed than had been the custom. One need only compare Weinrich's early
recordings of Bach with those of Albert Schweitzer, a formidable Bach scholar
but a technically mediocre performer, to understand the very pleasing aesthetic
implications of superior technique, clear sounds and brisk tempi. Throughout
his life, Weinrich remained keenly interested in the relationship between tempo
and music's aesthetic effect. He checked himself regularly with a metronome to
ensure an accurate rhythmic rendering of each passage. He was forever warning
of the danger of rushing the sixteenth notes, even when playing with the
metronome. The margins of Weinrich's music, particularly his Bach scores,
contained a fascinating record of the diverse organs upon which he had
performed and recorded, and the tempi appropriate to each.
style="mso-spacerun: yes">  But the happy marriage of superior
technique and intelligent organ design gave birth to unexpected musical
problems, unanticipated artistic discoveries.

In 1959, Carl Weinrich dedicated a new Holtkamp organ for
the First Presbyterian Church, now Nassau Presbyterian, in Princeton. Conceived
as an instrument similar to the organ at General Theological Seminary in New
York, the Princeton Holkamp included a complete Rückpositiv division,
three manuals and twenty-nine stops.12 Organist of the church for forty years,
Mary Krimmel was also Weinrich's brilliant student from his earliest days of
teaching, and she was determined that her congregation should enjoy the fruits
of Weinrich's research into organ design. But upon completion of the organ, a
problem which neither Weinrich nor Mrs. Krimmel foresaw quickly began to
manifest itself. Unlike the New York organ, First Presbyterian's instrument is
housed in an acoustically challenged space. Because First Presbyterian stands
approximately 150 yards from the Princeton Chapel, with its immense Aeolian
Skinner and endless echoes, the several organists who often performed on both
instruments experienced a technical, then aesthetic dichotomy. Detached, crisp
playing necessary for musical clarity in the cavernous chapel produced a
crumbly, thin, and altogether uninteresting effect in the church; stately tempi
suited to the chapel's great masses of sound became tediously slow in the
church. Each setting was an exaggerated circumstance: few rooms could be as
acoustically alive as the Princeton Chapel or as tonally unresponsive as the
First Presbyterian Church.

Efforts to find a technical solution to the aesthetic
dilemma surrounding these two fine organs led Carl Weinrich and Mary Krimmel to
undertake a search for improved articulation, an approach which would finally
produce aesthetically pleasing music in both the chapel and church. For
Weinrich, the subject was not a new one. Questions of how to achieve the best
articulation of a musical line began during his days under Farnam. Carl
Weinrich the student marvelled at his teacher's ability to play a legato line
as though there were tiny spaces of air between each note.13 In later years,
Weinrich often commented to his own students that he learned from Farnam the
secret of how to execute a singing legato without loss of definition and
clarity. Under no circumstances was the listener to sense a staccato touch.

The problem of fitting articulation to the instrument and to
its environment remained a matter of great interest to both Carl Weinrich and
Mary Krimmel to the end of their professional lives. It was my great good fortune
to be the student of both Weinrich and Krimmel and to prepare for many years a
weekly lesson on each instrument. What they learned and I absorbed from this
experience proved the most exciting and complete instruction possible in organ
articulation. Their endless discussions of articulation, of technical
exactitude, of how to execute the notes, would not have been novel in piano
pedagogy. For organ study, it was revolutionary. The following principles
slowly emerged.

First, neither strict legato nor detached, non-legato
playing satisfied the listener in either setting.  On both organs, a sensible alternation between detaching and
connecting notes produced the best effect.  Second, step-motion generally required a legato line, while
skips could be detached.  In the
church, the slightest change from a legato to a detached line produced an
immediate effect; in the chapel, only very pronounced, exaggerated articulation
reached the listener's ear. What in the chapel seemed to the performer a
slightly detached articulation became a singing legato as the sound moved out
to fill the nave. Finally, and most important, the same piece had to be
executed very differently on each organ. In the chapel, Bach's heroic Toccata
in F major had to be played at a tempo deliberate enough to allow an
appreciation of the work's massive chords punctuated by octave leaps and
cadenzas in the pedal. In the church, the Toccata had to move at much brisker
pace; sections following the second pedal cadenza unfolded most effectively if
the organist conceived of one beat, not three, to a measure.

Handel concerti proved to be the most difficult works of all
to tackle. In the chapel, a clearly detached line in all parts produced an
exciting interpretation; in the church, one had to cultivate a very slight
detachment, an articulation midway between staccato and legato, one which
obliged the organist to remain precariously perched on the edge of the keys.
Carl Weinrich, having thoroughly adjusted to the very live acoustics of the
Princeton Chapel, continued to employ a crisp, detached articulation; Mary
Krimmel, confronted with the dry environment, moved to a firm, legato style
made vital by a careful detaching of skips. The lesson is a clear one:
organists must approach each instrument, able to make even radical adjustments
in articulation to suit the organ's setting.

Legacy 2: Components and Uses of Repertoire

As he carried forward Lynnwood Farnam's technical legacy,
Carl Weinrich, like Farnam before him, exercised a formidable influence upon an
entire generation's notion of worthy repertoire for a superior organist.
Weinrich's clearest statement concerning organ literature came in 1950-51, when
Harvard University named him the Lamb Visiting Lecturer in Music, an honor
previously accorded Gustav Holst, Béla Bartók, and Aaron Copland.
For the first time, this prestigious post went to a performer, and the
compositions Weinrich chose for his series of eight recitals form what might be
called the Great Works for the organ.14 Weinrich's Apollonian tastes are never
more apparent: not one single work chosen for the eight recitals comes from the
nineteenth century.

It is here that the history of organ playing records an
accident, an irony, and an amusing juxtaposition. At the same time the
Apollonian Carl Weinrich was playing the eight Lamb recitals in Harvard's
Memorial Church, E. Power Biggs was continuing his custom, begun in the 1940s,
of broadcasting organ recitals from Boston's Symphony hall and Harvard's
Busch-Reisinger Museum. It would be an exaggeration to assert that these two
famous pioneers in organ study and building shared no common ground. As is
well-known, Biggs, like Weinrich, collaborated in the 1930s with his fellow
English ex-patriot, G. Donald Harrison, in the design and building of tonally
improved organs.  Biggs supervised,
in 1937, the construction of one of Harrison's early instruments, an organ for
Busch Reisinger Museum much like the "Praetorius Organ" Harrison
installed at Westminster Choir College for Weinrich. It is this instrument
which Biggs used for his famous broadcasts which began in 1942.15

Operating independent of both church and school, however,
Biggs's turf lay in the concert hall. Sensitive to that environment, he
cultivated a Dionysiac's taste and repertoire unlike Carl Weinrich's chosen
restraint. His programs, which contended with Weinrich's for announcement space
in the Harvard University Gazette of 1950-51, did include Bach, but also a
heavy offering of nineteenth-century music: Franck, Strauss, Schumann, and the
twentieth-century warhorse, Alain's Litanies. Biggs's Dionysiac programming was
conceived to make organ music accessible to untrained listeners, and to widen
organ repertoire to include all manner of popular and classical works.
Weinrich's Apollonian attitude gave no thought to popular taste or preference.
He was delighted with the environment which Princeton's chapel provided for his
recitals: absolute silence before the music began, and no applause at its
conclusion.

Among those Bach chorale preludes Weinrich played most often
were, from the Eighteen Organ Chorales, "O Lamm Gottes"; the
celebrated, double pedal composition on "An Wasserflüssen
Babylon"; and from the third part of the Klavierübung, a spectacular
little fugue, "Dies sind die heilgen zehn Gebot," and Bach's only
six-voice composition which has come down to us for the organ, "Aus tiefer
Not."

Perhaps the double pedal lines of "Aus tiefer Not"
and "An Wasserflüssen Babylon" appealed to Weinrich.
style="mso-spacerun: yes">  Only an organist of superlative
technical accomplishment can handle these complex pedal parts, and at the same
time convey the sadness and deep feelings which pervade each piece. And his
playing of much smaller works reliably captured the same mystical quality of
more extended compositions; from the Orgelbüchlein, he often chose for a
recital's encore "In dir ist Freude," "In dulci jubilo" and
"Herr Gott, nun schleuss den Himmel auf"; each in his hands became a
small, flawless jewel.

Of Bach's great preludes and fugues, Weinrich played often
the Fugue in E-flat major ("St. Anne"), the Toccata and Fugue in F
major, the extremely popular Toccata and Fugue in D minor, the Prelude and
Fugue in A minor, the Fantasie and Fugue in G minor, the Toccata, Adagio and
Fugue in C major, the Passacaglia and Fugue in C minor, the Toccata and Fugue
in D minor (the "Dorian"), the Fantasie in G major, the Prelude and
Fugue in B minor, the Prelude and Fugue in G major and, curiously, the
strangely hybrid Pastorale in F. His playing of both the pedal and manual
ornaments in Bach's Toccata in F, the piece which for Mendelssohn "brought
down the roof of the church,"16 and his introduction of complex
ornamentation in Bach's subject for the Fugue in F major, perfectly executed
each time the subject appears, were spectacular examples of his technical
prowess.

Another of his favorites was the Concerto in A minor, Bach's
arrangement for organ of Vivaldi's double concerto for two violins.
style="mso-spacerun: yes">  Weinrich performed the spare,
ravishingly beautiful middle movement at a very gentle, meditative pace,
employing a mournful reed for the solo passages, and then fell suddenly,
unexpectedly, with piercingly bright sounds upon the descending scale passages
which open the last movement. His breathlessly exciting tempo of this final
movement, notes spectacularly detached and perfectly articulated, formed a
thrilling contrast to the middle movement's careful legato touch and languid
mood. In addition, for the last movement of the concerto, Weinrich exploited
his talent for innovative registrations and the Princeton organ's resources,
employing two divisions located on opposite sides of the chancel; the result
accentuated the dazzling series of echoes and imitations for which Vivaldi's
music is famous, all played at a speed which no organist could match.

Weinrich regularly included movements from Bach's Trio
Sonatas in chapel services and on recital programs, and described playing these
most difficult of all pieces for the organ as "walking on eggs for twenty
minutes." He was, moreover, wonderfully inventive in selecting music for
the special needs of a university community. For the long academic processions
at all official university functions in the chapel, Weinrich chose, rather than
insipid voluntaries or marches, Bach's elaborately extended chorales and
chorale preludes on "Komm, heiliger Geist," from the Eighteen Organ
Chorales, and "Kyrie, Gott Vater in Ewigkeit" and "Kyrie, Gott
heiliger Geist," from the third part of the Klavierübung. Weinrich's
choice of Bach's most ornate four-part chorales for processionals at university
functions meant filling the chapel's nave with what are perhaps music's most
majestic chords, most ordered voices. It is hard to imagine a more perfect
blend of reason, sensual splendor, and art: the four musical lines moving
flawlessly toward their cadences as scholars of all ages and academic colors
process ponderously by.

While his primary interest and preference always lay with
the music of J.S. Bach, Carl Weinrich often commented that his favorite piece,
one which he played in public at least once each year, was Buxtehude's chorale
prelude on Wie schön leuchtet der Morgenstern!  And Weinrich's unbending fidelity to the score did not imply
monochromatic or uninteresting choices of registration. His daring, unexpected
use of reeds in Buxtehude's Wie schön leuchtet, preserved in a recording
made on the Holtkamp at General Theological Seminary, is a truly ingenious
interpretation of a masterpiece. He frequently performed Sweelinck's echo
fantasies and variations on Mein junges Leben hat ein End', Cabezón's
Diferencias sobre el canto del caballero, the preludes and fugues of Buxtehude
and Bruhns, Lübeck's Prelude and Fugue in E major, Noël #10 from
Daquin's book of twelve noëls. He recorded the Handel organ concertos,
Mozart church sonatas, and the Haydn organ concerto with Arthur Fiedler and the
Boston Pops orchestra. In addition, Weinrich released recordings of Baroque
Christmas music and organ music of the Bach family.

Although not as a group his favorite works, a few pieces
from Romantic composers appeared each year on his programs and among his
recordings; reviewers and concert goers frequently commented that it was
surprising to hear the organist famous for definitive renditions of Bach bring
such precision and sensitivity to later works.17 He played Mendelssohn's Sonata
I, Franck's Pièce Héroïque, and Brahms's chorale preludes
and Fugue in A-flat minor. The modern period received his enthusiastic study,
especially Hindemith's First Sonata for organ, Messiaen's Dieu Parmi Nous, and
Marcel Dupré's Cortège et Litanie, copied down when Weinrich was
a student of the great Frenchman. And Weinrich was very proud to have offered
the first public performance of Schoenberg's "Variations on a Recitativ,"
op. 40, a work which he edited for publication.

Weinrich's improvisations, or, rather, what we might call
Weinrich's theory of improvisation, deserve special mention. No Princeton
student interested in music could ever forget Carl Weinrich's spectacular
modulations and improvisations spun out between the organ's offertory and the
congregation's singing of the Doxology which followed.
style="mso-spacerun: yes">  Retaining the theme from his offertory
piece, Weinrich slipped adroitly through a succession of keys, adding ranks of
pipes with each phrase. Three special pieces reveal how he planned his
modulations or "improvisations," for in truth, Carl Weinrich was too
much a student of the classical principles of form, too Apollonian, to attempt
an unplanned or uncharted improvisation. 

The last movement of Mendelssohn's first organ sonata and
Bach's "St. Anne" fugue, two master works he especially favored for
offertories at Princeton, possess unmistakable, famous musical tropes which he
used to begin the improvisation and to establish its structure. The thundering
arpeggios of Mendelssohn's finale to his first sonata, the "St. Anne"
theme and the subject of the third movement's fugue--each became the germ for
an improvisation.  If the offertory
happened to include an anthem or composition by Mozart, Weinrich quoted the
great chords, dissonances, and dotted rhythms of Mozart's Fantasie in F minor,
K. 608.   Listeners awaited
the inevitable, climactic arrival of the dominant seventh chord, and then the
resolution in G major on which note the singing began. Because Weinrich never
played a preparatory phrase from the Doxology, one was obliged to listen
intently as the downbeat of an emerging tonic chord drew nearer and nearer.
Organists who must provide an improvisational bridge between an anthem and
doxology would do well to remember Weinrich's secret.  One should choose a theme or motif of the piece just
completed, and make that theme or motif the unifying idea of improvisation.

Legacy 3: Aesthetic Sensibility and a Life in Music

Carl Weinrich's third great legacy to organ study and
performance evolved from his decision, taken early in his career, to invest his
energy and effort in only those works he considered the very best compositions
for the organ. Having little patience with Romantic warhorses which merely
exploit the organ's capacity to sustain loud, rushing noise, Weinrich
withstood, in Apollonian fashion like Bach before him, many years of censure
from mediocre musicians and critics who felt him excessively inflexible,
narrow, and rigid in his adherence to Bach.

But Carl Weinrich's early recognition of those compositions
of greatest artistic value, and his fidelity to their study and performance,
widened his place in musical history from that of master performer to master
teacher. His dual authority, first over organ music's technical, then its
aesthetic, dimensions pointed students' interest and organists' labors toward
those composers and compositions capable of capturing one's imagination
forever. His life's work answers not only the question of how to realize the
full beauty of organ literature, but which portions of that literature merit
first, our endless technical effort to play accurately, and then, a lifetime of
sensitivity and reflection to interpret.

Perhaps because as a weekly performer for the Princeton
community, Carl Weinrich had to reclaim and defend his mastery of the organ
each time he sat down at the console, he retained throughout his professional
life both a student's wonder at the act of playing and a student's uneasiness
before the demands of the art. One could say without fear of overstatement that
Carl Weinrich remained, forever, frightfully respectful of the perils of
performance. It is not possible to over-practice great music or to arrive at a
definitive interpretation of its beauty, he liked to observe, nor does one ever
tire of returning "to polish once again an exquisite diamond."

As a teacher, 
Weinrich set before his students a three-pronged challenge which he
himself had answered: to identify within one's self a passionate devotion to
one field of inquiry and to remain forever its restless student; to train
discriminating eyes and ears to direct the efforts of imperfect hands and feet;
to recognize that mastery of a discipline is achieved only when one understands
that it is in the details of construction, in the skeleton, that all great art
is made. The process of intense scrutiny required to master a work's skeleton
teaches us that all art is not equal, all compositions not of a quality to
command one's study for life.

It is not surprise, finally, to discover that in his thirty
years at Princeton University's center, Weinrich's approach to the study of
music practiced the fundamental principles of a liberal arts college.
Princeton's president Robert F. Goheen, in his address to the Freshman Class at
Opening Exercises in the fall of 1965, insisted that a liberal education is not
merely to prepare one to earn a living, but also to open the mind to a field of
inquiry, a body of knowledge or learning capable of engaging the spirit and
intellect throughout life. In order to realize any of the great ends of
education, students must give themselves to a discipline, an intellectual and
artistic task which will command their life's attention, effort, and passion.

In music, a regrettable emphasis, often encouraged by
teachers, upon pursuing "what hasn't been done" occasionally leads
students to invest their time and talent in works or ideas too shallow for
repeated scrutiny, too jejune to sustain a mature spirit. By stating
unequivocally that organists should look to Bach, that the Master's greatest
works require a lifetime to execute and to interpret, that a life spent with
J.S. Bach is a life well spent, Weinrich's legacy can still spare all who will
listen from the sa

Gary Verkade

Gary Verkade is an influential and sought after interpreter of new music throughout Europe and the United States in addition to his established reputation as an analyst and performer of the traditional literature. His extensive experience with music of past eras has led to the publication of essays and articles on a variety of subjects relating to organ performance, early music performance practice, and composition. An organist, composer, and co-founder of the Essen, Germany-based improvisation ensemble SYNTHESE, he has been a leader in bringing forth serious new music for the organ, commissioning new works and working in a collaborative capacity with several well-known composers. He has a particular interest in performing music for organ and electronics. Verkade’s own compositions range among music for organ, electronics, chamber and improvisation ensembles. As a player of improvised music, he has worked together with dancers, photographers and painters, on projects that bring the arts together in a complementary and fructuous manner. Dr. Verkade has been on the faculty of the Musikögskolan i Piteå, Sweden since 2000 as Professor of Organ. He has recorded with the Innova and Mode labels, most recently Winded, an album of works for organ and electronics, and Luciano Berio’s “Fa-Si” on Berio: The Complete Sequenzas, Alternate Sequenzas & Works for Solo Instruments, a collection of performances by the premier contemporary interpreters of new music.

Motto

The noblest desire, the desire to know, imposes on us the duty to investigate.
--Arnold Schoenberg, Harmonielehre (Vienna, 1922)

Beginnings
Composition is the science of putting together consonance and dissonance in such a way that good counterpoint occurs.
Form consists in the artful variety and combination of such consonance and dissonance, in other words in the observation of the general and special rules of counterpoint, so that according to different usage and natural effect it happens that one composition is good, whereas another is better, pleasing the listener more and making its author famous.
--Christoph Bernhard, Tractatus compositionis augmentatus (Dresden, after 1657)

Yes, I readily admit that the rules are to some extent useless and unnecessary. However one sees how carefully they have been used in building harmony. And therefore the ignoramus should not fancy that it makes no difference and one can compose what his fantasy dictates. Oh, no!
--Andreas Werckmeister, Cribrum Musicum (Quedlinburg, 1700)

In sum: the work must be so rich that one must wonder in the extreme, and would have to be an idiot or an atheist (o, the poor, stubborn hearts), who would not be therefore moved to praise the creator.
--Andreas Werckmeister, Harmonologia Musica (Frankfurt and Leipzig, 1702)

Music is a heavenly-philosophical science, especially grounded in mathematics, which deals with sonority insofar as it produces concurrence and good and artful harmony.
--Johann Gottfried Walther, Praecepta der Musicalischen Composition (1708)

It must be looked into what art in music actually is. In my opinion it is as follows: through the use of harmony to awaken in the minds (Gemütern) of man a variety of emotions and, at the same time, through such orderly and sensible harmony to delight the understanding of connoisseurs.
--Georg Philipp Telemann

My goal has been to remind those who want to study music that they cannot get very far in this inexhaustible science without great effort.
--Georg Philipp Telemann, Letter to Johann Mattheson (1718)

All sciences and arts are bound together into a circle by a linked chain. Whoever understands only his own craft, understands nothing; rather, he is a pedant . . . .
--Johann Mattheson, Der vollkommene Capellmeister (Hamburg, 1739)

Introduction
In the Introduction of the new critical edition of Dieterich Buxtehude’s keyboard music, Christoph Wolff writes: “To a considerable extent, Buxtehude’s position in the history of music has been defined by his extraordinary reputation as an organist and by the widespread and continued popularity of his organ compositions.” Wolff continues to explain that Buxtehude’s reputation is based primarily on the free works, the Praeludia, especially those which are pedaliter. I, on the other hand, wish to spend some time with chorale-based works, in particular the chorale prelude Vater unser im Himmelreich, and I will endeavor to demonstrate that Buxtehude’s reputation as a master of organ music could rest on the chorale-based repertoire equally well. I will take as my starting point an historical perspective. I will attempt to listen to this composition with the ears of Buxtehude; in other words, I will keep in mind Baroque, especially German Baroque musical theory and practice.
Peter Reichert, in his article “Musikalische Rhetorik in den Choralvorspielen von Dietrich Buxtehude,” makes the point that our understanding of the chorale-based works by Buxtehude is colored by how much we do not understand about the musical tradition out of which these works arise. He states: “Our pleasure in listening to this music has become, so to speak, a purely culinary one in that we find delight in the beautiful appearance, the surface of the music . . . To the extent that real understanding of the inner content of this music has disappeared, we have devoted ourselves to the sonority of the music, the outer clothing as it were, taking care of the façade of a deserted building.” All those who believe along with the musicians of the Baroque that music is a discipline from which one can both learn and derive pleasure, must ask, along with me: What is there to hear in this composition? In other words: What is there to learn here, what is present here to enrich my experience?
The answers to these questions are, and to a certain extent can only be, personal. However, there is no doubt that some of what I hope to convey here has relevance to others. I would like to concentrate on two specific aspects of the composition, especially: 1) the harmonic and contrapuntal aspect and 2) the relationship of the music to the text and the chorale. It is clear that a composition based on a particular melody and a particular text concerns itself with both that melody and that text. So therefore the two aspects just mentioned are really one. The composition as a whole, the form and the details, will indeed be Buxtehude’s interpretation of that melody and text, expressed harmonically and contrapuntally, musically, which we, in turn, as players, perform at the organ. In order to adequately and appropriately perform we need to hear our way into music which is so far removed from us in time. The fact that this music may in some sense be familiar to us doesn’t necessarily mean that we automatically know what is going on. Familiarity does not necessarily breed understanding. What is it about familiar music, and what is it about unfamiliar music that is unique, unusual? Is there anything in Buxtehude’s composition which awakens our curiosity, strikes us as unexpected? These are the things from which we can learn. What is unusual about Vater unser im Himmelreich, both in the detail and in the form?
The following notes on Vater unser im Himmelreich do not intend to be exhaustive. I have chosen to consider what I deem to be essential to an understanding of the piece as a performer. Many interesting details regarding counterpoint, the handling of dissonance, rhythmic matters, variety in the composition of diminutions and ornaments, etc. have been consciously omitted.
In order to begin, we must attempt to review some history. For learning how to listen to Buxtehude by coming from today and moving back in time to Buxtehude’s day will not reveal to us the interesting and unusual aspects of his compositions. We must start before Buxtehude and move towards him chronologically.

Style
First, let us look at a simple, four-voiced arrangement of the chorale. The harmonization is taken from the chorale prelude itself, distilled out of the richer composition, reduced to the bare essentials. (Example 1) This is one possible harmonization of the chorale, written in a style reminiscent of the chorales found in Samuel Scheidt’s Görlitzer Tabulaturbuch of 1650, though still simpler, in fact positively boring. Yet, it might be suitable as a simple accompaniment to congregational singing.
Buxtehude’s chorale prelude is much more complicated. For example, it has interludes between the chorale phrases that employ imitation. The second example I would like to present consists of the previous simple setting enriched with interludes. However, these interludes are not given as found in Buxtehude, but are likewise distilled out of what is found there. It is again a simplified version—much simplified, though more complex than the preceding example. The harmony is basically the same, but now employs some passing tones and some suspensions in keeping with the simple style. None of the interesting figures, the daring voice leading, or the liberal dissonances of the original are used. In other words, there is no art here. (Example 2)
Playing and listening to these simplified versions of Buxtehude’s work serves to sensitize our ears to hear the art in Vater unser im Himmelreich and to make clear to us why these pieces are so worthy of study. Let us now turn to the chorale prelude itself.

Phrase One (Example 3)
The first thing to notice is that the piece begins with one single voice, a1. The other voices are heard throughout the rest of measure one, but again in the second measure the a1 is heard alone again. This accents those two notes which, significantly, belong to the word Vater, thus accenting that word. We must remember that anyone listening to works of this type in the Baroque knew the chorales they were based upon, not only the melodies, but also the texts. In fact, in chorales such as Vater unser im Himmelreich, i.e., chorales associated with only one particular melody, I think we can be reasonably sure that the melody was 1) recognizable if not too heavily ornamented and 2) the recognized melody automatically called to mind the associated text. That a single note begins this piece is significant for another reason. The single note, the unison, is the unitas, or “one.” In the Baroque, one was not considered to be a number, but was rather the beginning, the source of all number. The unitas was, of course, God, the Father.
The rest in the manuals and pedal is known as an aposiopesis, or abruptio, signifying the more or less abrupt cessation of a musical thought. This is most clearly seen in the pedal, where the typical cadential motive is missing its final note, namely a d on the first beat of measure 2. The motive and the harmony break off suddenly, leaving the a1 in the soprano to carry all of the weight of what is missing on beat one of measure two. In addition, the pedal, when it reenters, late, on beat two, in measure two, still does not bring the expected d, but rather enters on c-sharp. We hear, not the expected d-minor, but an A-major chord in first inversion, a chord that in the Baroque was considered to be particularly expressive.
The pedal continues with a figure known as passus duriusculus, or “a difficult step,” the chromatic sequence of notes: c-sharp, d, c-natural, B-flat. Shortly after the end of the passus duriusculus the alto voice has a quarter note a, which is tied over to the longer half note a in the following measure. This tying of a shorter note to a longer one goes against the rules of counterpoint and is known as a prolongatio. If one hears this note as occurring too soon and sounding too long, it has the effect of slowing down the music. Coupled with the word “Himmelreich” it could be a reference to the concept of eternity, which lasts a longer time than the imagination can fathom.
This happens just before the climax of the first phrase, the second half of measure four. There we find a parrhesia, “liberty of speech,” “candidness,” also known as licentia, “licence.” Traditional theory tells us that the e1 in the soprano is a dissonant note over a g-minor chord. In fact, however, the e1 is definitely consonant: it is the cantus firmus, which is the measure of all things consonant and dissonant. And, indeed, the A-major chord on beat four of that measure acts as a resolution of the preceding dissonance, the c-sharp (tenor) and e1 (soprano) of which, in turn, conclude the cadence on the first beat of the following measure. Before that happens, the tenor note, d, is repeated, emphasized, a reduplicatio: the repetition of a dissonant note. The entire first phrase, beginning with the emphasis on the word Vater, moves towards this goal: the great tension found in measure four and its resolution in measure five. It is indeed a whole phrase and must be played as such.

Phrase Two (Example 4)
With the upbeat to measure six an interlude or, more properly, a prelude to the second phrase of the chorale begins. It is a short fugal introduction, using strict imitation of a motive directly derived from the second chorale phrase, called a fuga realis, of which there are countless examples in Baroque organ literature. This kind of fugal writing is, in other words, the usual case, the norm. The chorale enters with the upbeat to measure eight. With the movement to g1 in measure eight, the chorale leaps up an entire octave to g2. This figure is the hyperbaton, the ascent of a voice out of its normal range. First and foremost, g1 is the chorale tone, not g2. Second, and as important, the leap up of an octave causes a second figure to occur, that of the longinqua distancia, in traditional counterpoint the forbidden separation of upper voices beyond that of an octave, here: d1–g2. Third, the g2 is found outside the staff of the soprano clef, middle c on the bottom line, very often used at this time. J. S. Bach still used the soprano clef for the notation of the Orgelbüchlein. Whether or not Buxtehude used this form of notation in his original manuscript does not change the fact that composers much before him and after him used those clefs in the notation of polyphonic music in Germany and elsewhere. One way or another Buxtehude knew that g2 was out of the traditional range of the soprano voice, which went from b-flat to e2, the range of the soprano clef without the use of ledger lines above or below the staff.
From the high g2 the line descends through the rest of that measure and the next, a catabasis. The pedal line descends also, from the beginning of measure nine through the end of the phrase, a catabasis spanning exactly the interval of an octave. The soprano descends just over the span of the octave. The tenor descends also, beginning in the middle of measure nine to the middle of measure ten. This explains the ellipsis, the lack of something necessary, found in those measures: the alto voice drops out. It is at this point more important for the alto voice to rest than for the polyphony to continue in four voices. Descending music in four voices is awkward to write. It is much more elegant to do it in three voices—which Buxtehude chooses to do here. He draws attention to this fact by allowing the alto to re-enter in measure ten with a dissonance, a cercar della nota, the entrance of a voice one step below the one that is consonant and meant. The soprano and bass voices, descending together in tenths in measure 9, form the figure of the gradatio. Although not defined identically by many authors, the gradatio is understood here to be the parallel movement between two voices.
The hyperbaton in connection with the longinqua distancia and the catabasis in the pedal are the principal carriers of musical meaning in this phrase. The hyperbaton / longinqua distancia, right at the words du and uns, meaning “you” (God) and “us” (mankind), with the emphasis on the great separation (an eleventh), points out with poignancy the space, both spiritual and physical, separating the Godhead from humankind. After the octave leap up, the soprano must descend. The situation is different in the pedal: there is no musical reason for the pedal to descend the octave a to A here. A different pedal line is certainly conceivable just as there is no necessity dictating that the soprano must leap up to g2. These are choices Buxtehude made, recognizable ones. The octave represents the entire gamut of music (the hyperbaton belongs here also): there are no notes that exist that are not found within its confines. The pedal catabasis begins at the word alle, “all,” a fitting representation of that important word. Or better: it is the word Buxtehude has interpreted as important in this phrase, that and the contrast of du and uns.

Phrase Three (Example 5)
Phrase three of the chorale is also introduced by a fuga realis based on the first part of that phrase. The motive is reworked to form a passus duriusculus, which is used throughout the entire chorale phrase. One observes it, somewhat modified in the alto voice in measure 15 and 16 as well as in the pedal in measure 16. The alto in the first part of measure 17 brings the related figure, like an intensification, of the saltus duriusculus, or difficult leap. Interestingly, the chorale itself, in the soprano, appears as a changed version of the fugal theme, as it takes over the chromaticism of the fuga realis motive with the c-sharp2 in measure 14. This is a polyptoton, a changed repetition of a theme, though compositionally the theme or motive has its origin in the chorale melody. Significantly, the chromaticism occurs just at the point the text speaks of being brothers (Brüder sein)—according to the musical interpretation of this (according to Buxtehude, if you will), evidently a difficult undertaking. However, it could also refer to the difficulty of “dich rufen an,” or in general be understood as a reference to prayer as lamentation.
The chorale melody has an extensio, the extension of a note beyond its expected length, on the word dich, “you,” referring to God, giving that word emphasis. Dich ru-fen an now has the rhythm: half note tied to quarter note–quarter note–eighth note–whole note, a syncopatio, or syncopation. The tenor voice is silent throughout most of the phrase, a very long ellipsis. And when the pedal is silent on the third beat of measure 15, the word dich receives an additional accent through the unusual texture, which is suddenly reduced to only two voices. The ellipsis in the tenor allows Buxtehude to make the three remaining voices as like each other as possible while still retaining the melody/accompaniment texture. The phrase ends with a pathopoeia, another chromatically altered note (f-sharp instead of f-natural).

Phrase Four (Example 6)
The prelude to the fourth chorale phrase is not a fuga realis although it utilizes imitation (each entrance an imitatio). The motive, drawn from the last few notes of the chorale phrase, is thrown from voice to voice: bass (m. 17), alto (m. 18), tenor (m. 19), alto (m. 20), tenor (m. 21), soprano (m. 22). However, the organization of this chorale phrase is the strictest yet. The text, und willst das Beten von uns han (literally: and wants prayer from us), expresses the will of God through the word “want,” which in German comes from the same word as “will.” It is God’s will that we pray to him. God’s will is, of course, a command, the law.
This will, this law of God, is expressed, not atypically for the era, through a fuga imaginaria, a specious, fictitious, or imaginary fugue: here, a canon. There is a strict canon between the pedal, which enters first, with the upbeat to measure 19, and the soprano, on the third beat of measure 20. The last notes of the soprano are ornamented using the motive first heard in measure 17. However, there is also a third voice to the canon hidden in the tenor which is unable to quite finish before the end of the chorale phrase. If the imitative motive is reduced to its principal notes, the three-part canon can be clearly seen. (Example 7)
The attention of the listener is drawn particularly to the strong cadence at the end of this phrase. It is the phrase in which the naming of God, through the use of attributes, comes to an end. The actual petition has yet to come. The b-natural1, tied into measure 22, is not properly resolved. Only through licence, catachresis, the leap first to e1, does the dissonance reach a1. The other voices are silent for a moment, aposiopesis, before the cadence on A follows in four voices.

Phrase Five (Example 8)
The next chorale phrase is introduced again by a fuga realis, though here not immediately recognizable due to the mistakenly printed e1 instead of the g1, which is demanded by the conception of the piece. (This realization I owe to Gerd Zacher.) Such mistakes of a third were often made; one needs only to consult the critical apparatus of any number of publications of Baroque keyboard music. The g1 is a dissonance, in fact a saltus duriusculus (a difficult leap, coming from c-sharp1) and a heterolepsis (a note that could come from another voice as passing tone, i.e., coming from the soprano a1). This phrase deals with the petition of the verse, “grant that the mouth not pray alone, help that it come from the depths of the heart.” It begins in this serious manner, the alto voice leaping up close to and sounding a dissonant g1 against the a1 of the cantus firmus in the soprano.
These measures are ruled by the syncopatio in the pedal (mm. 25–26), the ellipsis in the tenor (mm. 27–29), and the catachresis (m. 28). The syncopatio, with its attendant dissonances, encumbers the phrase somewhat, keeping it from getting underway, perhaps pointing out the difficulty of both the petition and the act of petitioning. The first point of relative rest and first real accent after the melody enters is the downbeat of measure 27, on the word bet’ (pray). The words allein der Mund are set in relief in two ways. First the catachresis occurs in conjunction with the passus duriusculus in the pedal: the licence used in handling the dissonances, a1 in the soprano against B-flat in the pedal resolving to the dissonant chord B-natural, e1, g1 on beat two. Second, the ellipsis in the tenor allows Buxtehude to make the cadence on F in three voices, all of which sound the tone F to the exclusion of all else: a musical picture of allein der Mund, “the mouth alone.”

Phrase Six (Example 9)
The prelude to the last chorale phrase is marked by imitation at the fifth between tenor and bass, the normal case in the fuga realis. The alto voice, however, does not participate in the imitation. It begins in parallel thirds (a gradatio) with the tenor and then goes parallel to the bass voice. It is a voice that helps out in the texture. What better picture could there be for the first word of the phrase: hilf’.
The use of musical-rhetorical figures in the music of the North Germans during the Baroque has been established without a doubt, as well as the use of specific forms and compositional techniques based on the expression of text. Connecting specific contrapuntal devices to expression is certainly not unprecedented in Buxtehude. As one example, in Komm, heiliger Geist, Herre Gott, BuxWV 200, Buxtehude employs no vorimitation at all, except preceding the sixth phrase: zu dem Glauben versammelt hast (gathered to the faith). Here Buxtehude composes a fuga realis, which, though it is the normal, preferred method of contrapuntal composition in general, plays the role of the unusual at this point, the exceptional, because it is the only case of such imitation in the entire chorale prelude, and thus receives expressive significance. Here, the gathering of the voices in the fuga realis, first one voice, then a second voice, then the third, is a musical picture of the gathering of the believers (German: versammeln).
This sixth phrase has the most ornamented melody of the piece and is governed by the hyperbole (descending into the range of a lower voice) in the soprano, the abruptio in alto, tenor and bass, the parrhesia on beat four of measure 33, and the circulatio (circular figure) in the soprano in measure 34. The word geh’ (go) is expressed by fast notes including the fastest of the piece (32nds) which descend into the alto and tenor range of the voice: Herzensgrund, depths of the heart. The entrance of the unprepared dissonant chord on beat four (parrhesia) underscores the difficulty of the entire procedure. The circulatio is an unambiguous depiction of the heart, the center of the circulatory system, described by William Harvey in 1628 in his famous book “On the Motion of the Heart and Blood in Animals,” a book about which Buxtehude must have known. The phrase ends with a pathopoeia: f-sharp instead of f-natural, a tone filled with passion “which cannot fail to move the listener” (Burmeister, 1599).

Cadences
It is important for the interpretation of this work to note the various ways Buxtehude deals with the cadences. The cadence in four voices at the end of phrase one is marked by the soprano and tenor: e1 makes tenor d dissonant, which moves to c-sharp, then d1 (soprano) and d (tenor). At the end of phrase two we find the a-mi cadence in four voices, i.e., a Phrygian cadence on a1—A is treated as E would be in modes 3 and 4—formed between the soprano and the bass. Phrase three ends with a cadence in three voices on d2 (soprano) with f-sharp instead of f-natural (pathopoeia), by which the bass note d is missing during the first moment. At the end of phrase four the soprano and the tenor again make the cadence in four voices, this time on A: tenor b making soprano a1 dissonant, which moves to g-sharp1, then a1 (soprano) and a (tenor). Phrase five ends with a cadence in three voices on F, supplying the third scale degree in the cadence scheme: d, a, and now f of the d-minor triad. Phrase six ends in four voices with a cadence formed again by soprano and tenor using the same basic scheme as the cadence at the end of phrase one, but this time utilizing more ornamentation. Here, as opposed to phrase one, the pedal has the root of the chord from the beginning and, different from phrase one, the alto voice has f-sharp instead of f-natural (pathopoeia). Each cadence is audibly different and the performance of each demands of the player a sensibility that takes this into account.

Coda (Example 10)
The work ends with one of Buxtehude’s characteristic codas: a florid melody line over a pedal point. This coda is, in effect, an ornamentation of the final chord. It has, however, its own expression not unrelated to the chorale text. In my opinion it is not the leap of an octave in the soprano voice at the beginning of measure 35 that symbolizes the rising of prayer to heaven. Nor is it the rising scale passage in the second half of measure 36, for both figures are followed by descents. One needs to see, and to hear, that the passage as a whole rises (anabasis): in the soprano first from d1 to d2, followed by a descent to f-sharp1, followed by another rise to a2, and followed again by a descent to d2. The ascending passages win over the descending passages: it ends higher than it began. This is, in fact, true of all of the voices except for the pedal. Both alto and tenor voices ascend farther than they descend over the space of those three measures. A number of the musical-rhetorical figures found in this chorale prelude are found in the final three measures including the hyperbaton, the longinqua distancia, the parrhesia, and the passus duriusculus. It is a succinct and effective summary of the work. The pedal anchors all, the low note, the one that hasn’t been heard since measure 5 and has been all but forgotten, perhaps the depths of the heart (from which prayer comes), perhaps simply pedal point and tonic note, the longest note of the composition.

Performance
The purpose here is not to go into basic performance techniques of North German Baroque music or Buxtehude in particular. That is a given regarding playing this music at all. Beyond that, the player must understand that proper Baroque playing technique is not enough. The fact must be taken into consideration that at no level of the composition does Buxtehude simply “write music.” Therefore the player cannot “simply play” the music. Compositional decisions were made on the basis of the chorale text, both on the local level of single notes and words, as well as on a more global level of form and compositional techniques. The text is the source of a great number of the musical ideas found here. Therefore performance decisions must be made with an ear towards the audibility of these musical features.
The registration cannot be simply “melody and accompaniment”, i.e., forte – mezzo piano. The melody must be clearly melody, yet the accompaniment must not be relegated to the background. The alto, tenor and bass voices simply have too much to express. The possibilities are otherwise almost endless, given this basic premise of the equality of importance of melody and accompaniment.
Tempo must be flexible. Buxtehude took the words of the text into careful consideration—the soprano is, in a very real sense, a sung musical line. Or better: it is the spoken oration, the declamation and, at the same time, an exegesis of the text. One must be able to linger on the words (= musical ideas) Buxtehude considers important.
Perhaps performance cannot pay attention to every detail found in this piece or any other. There is so much to which to listen in this very short composition that there is a real danger of becoming bogged down with details. And maybe from day to day one’s ear is drawn to different aspects of the composition. However, a performance that takes no notice at all of any of the richness found here is inadequate. Important aspects of the composition, aspects that can only be approached first rationally through knowledge of the text and not purely aesthetically (i.e., aurally), should not be ignored. In fact, performance in the Baroque belongs to the rational ordering of music in general. The pronunciatio, or delivery, is the final part of musica rhetorica. Without an adequate delivery, even the best music will fail to produce an effect in the listener. Without some rational thought, which I would like to call practice, some passages will not be recognized as unusual, there will be no contour, no shape to the composition, because these passages will never be heard. Frescobaldi admonishes: “ . . . one should endeavor in the first place to discover the character of the passages, the tonal effect intended by the composer, and the desired manner of performance . . . ” (italics are mine).
Performance is perspective, a way of listening. Performance is understanding, not interpretation. And yet, performance is individual. I would like to close with a remark by Hans Heinrich Eggebrecht made at the end of “Mythos Bach,” found in his book Geheimnis Bach. I will only substitute, for the word Bach, the word Buxtehude. “Understanding needs perspective, calls for the Ego. In other words, in speaking about Buxtehude, be it ever so scientific, we speak also about ourselves because understanding cannot exist without the Subject, without the Ego, and concerning Buxtehude we are called again and again to find a perspective, while at the same time attempting to find ourselves.”■

This article was first published as a chapter in the book Horizonte des Hörens Gerd Zacher, ed. Matthias Geuting (ISBN 3-89727-322-5, ISBN 978-3-89727-322-1, PFAU-Verlag, 2006), pp. 245–258.

 

by Joseph Horning

Johannes Brahms, who died 100 years ago on April 3, 1897, composed the final installment of his musical legacy--the Eleven Chorale Preludes, Opus 122 --during the last year of his life. They were written during his summer holiday at Ischl, where Brahms had vacationed annually from 1889. But his final visit was clouded by Clara Schumann's recent death and his own illness, cancer of the liver, which had taken his father twenty-five years earlier and the symptoms of which he likely would have recognized.1

 

When considering Op. 122, it is valid to ask: "Are these works all that special?"--because no composer created an endless string of pearls. Indeed, Peter Williams revealed his reservations in a review in The Organ Quarterly:

[While] the stature of the man makes all his works interesting in some way or another, there is something depressing about this music.  I do not mean merely the death-centered theme of Op. 122 but the general tenor of the musical idioms found here, the kind of organ sound most suitable for them and the weird absence--considering who their composer was--of melodic flare or that dramatic sense of sonority and rhythmic impetus we know from the composer's symphonies.2

As these works are chorale preludes, Mr. Williams' mention of "melodic flare" is peculiar. And his comparison to the "sonority and rhythmic impetus" of Brahms' symphonies is irrelevant, as these are clearly miniatures, each wonderful and satisfying when played in an empathetic manner. But it is perhaps unfortunate that the complete organ works of Johannes Brahms--his four early works dating from 1856-7 and the "Eleven"--fit so conveniently on one CD, for they are becoming the most frequently recorded set of organ works, second only to Boëllmann's ubiquitous Suite Gothique. Unlike the latter, however, Brahms' "Eleven" are a collection rather then a suite, and their effectiveness is diminished when heard all at one sitting. I feel they have far more impact and are more enjoyable inserted one or two at a time into an eclectic program.

Clearly, what can be a small masterpiece in the hands of one can be tedious in the hands of another--and even more so for Op. 122.  For with these works, Brahms has hidden eleven treasures inside a maze. In this essay, we will examine the "Eleven" and discuss ways to make these treasures come alive.

Form of the Chorales

To begin, see Table 1 for a survey of the forms Johannes Brahms used in Op. 122.  In addition to simple harmonized treatments, Brahms embellished some chorales into aria form, extended some with interludes, or used each phrase as a motif for the accompanying parts (Pachelbel style), or surrendered to a free fantasy form in which the original melody is almost totally lost.3

One can see from Table 1 that half are on Passiontide or requiem themes.  But only number 10, based on the "passion" chorale, expresses the depths of the emotions implied by the text: "My heart is ever yearning for blessed death's release." Of those based on other themes, numbers 5 through 8 are warm, lovely and contemplative and number 4 is an outburst of joy. Even O Welt, ich muss dich lassen, the last of the "Eleven" and Brahms' final composition, is a gentle farewell to life. E. Power Biggs summed up these works very well in the Preface to his edition of Op. 122:

Composed in memory of his dearest and most faithful friend, Clara Schumann, at the same time the Preludes are a revealing document of Brahms' thoughts on his own life. One biographer, Niemann, points out that most of the Preludes are: "A retrospect and an epilogue, a salutation to youth and its ideals, and a farewell to this world which is, after all, so fair." Somber as many of the Preludes are, they yet have a warm, autumnal quality that is all Brahms' own.4

Baroque or Romantic?

Since the "Eleven" are cast in the traditional German form of chorale preludes, and since Brahms had applied himself diligently to the rediscovery of early music, in particular Bach with whose music he was quite conversant,5 there is the question of whether the interpretation should reflect performance practice of the late 19th century or early 18th century. The great body of Brahms' compositions show that he was a thoroughly Romantic composer of great power. His Classical inclinations, however, restrained him from some of the delicious excesses of, say, a Tchaikovsky. Brahms' "Eleven" require the performance practice of Brahms' age, not the Baroque. When Villa-Lobos' Bachianas Brasileiras, or Dupré's "Chorale in the Style of J. S. Bach" (Fifteen Antiphons), or Franck's Three Chorales are performed--all of which took their inspiration from Bach --the interpretive style should be that of the composer's age, not the 18th century.  So also with the "Eleven." Robert Schuneman makes a key point when he says:

One should not be deceived by the brevity of the chorale preludes, nor with an initial reaction to the printed page which makes them look like chamber music. Their religious nature, the sacredness, otherworldliness, the transcendental quality--all of this is expressed by Brahms (as in other Romantic music) with grandeur, monumentality, and weightiness in terms of organ sound in acoustic space.6

An initial look at the printed page has misled many an organist to think that the "Eleven" are as easy to play as they are short, but Brahms sophisticated writing often seems to jig where the hand wants to jog. Simply learning the notes is the organist's first task.  But it is remarkable how many organists confide that these works are often poorly played even if the notes are correct.  Indeed, Schuneman decried " . . . the stiff, unyielding, ungraceful and ragged performances which are so often heard . . . "7

A Romantic Framework

For idiomatic interpretations of Brahms' "Eleven," it helps to consider them within the context of the 19th century. Born in 1886 in Belgium, the renowned organ virtuoso Charles M. Courboin provides a link with that sensibility. His pupil, Richard Purvis, discusses Courboin's approach:

Courboin always returned to three elemental principles in the consideration of any piece. First, one had to consider the architecture of the work; second was texture; third was emotional content. The architecture was most important. "Where are the high points," he would ask, "and how are you going to do them justice? Where are the transitional points, at which you leave one mood and go to another?"

If the architecture defined the parameters of the piece, the texture was the actual landscape for which Courboin often used visual imagery as might describe an oil painting, an etching or a watercolor.  At other times he would discuss texture in more strictly musical terms: was it contrapuntal, harmonic, a combination of the two?  And what tools were you going to use to emphasize the texture rather than obscure it.  Once you had the architecture and had done justice to the texture, you could then afford to explore the fine points of the emotions you were trying to communicate.  Courboin constantly asked, "What emotions does the piece involve, conjure up, portray?"8

The Brahms Organ

Brahms did play the organ to some degree in the 1850s when he wrote the four early compositions. But as he was never a professional organist associated with a specific organ, there has been an active debate over the years concerning the ideal Brahms organ sound. For example, registrations recommended by Walter E. Buszin and Paul G. Bunjes reveal their ideal Brahms organ to be a Baroque affair on which one should draw no more than one 8' stop per division.9 The result is far from weight, grandeur and monumentality.

A key year in this discussion is 1833, the year of Brahms' birth and the year in which E. F. Walcker completed his first major achievement, a 3-manual, 74-voice trendsetter for the Paulskirche in Frankfurt.10 The Oberwerk had five 8' flues and the Schwellwerk had six. The structure of the 23-voice Hauptwerk was as follows: 32,16,16,16,8,8,8,8,51/3, 4,4,4,31/5,22/3,2,2,13/5,1,V,IV,V,16,8. Walcker built hundreds of organs based on similar principles throughout the 19th century, including a 3-manual, 61-voice instrument built in 1878 for the Votivkirch in Vienna,11 an organ which was certainly known to Brahms as he had settled permanently in Vienna in 1868.  The Oberwerk of the Votivkirch organ had four 8' flues and the Schwellwerk five. The structure of the 23-voice Hauptwerk is: 16,16,8,8,8,8,8,8,8,51/3, 31/5,4,4,4,22/3,2,2,VI,III,V,16,8,4.12 Franz Ebner, who recorded the "Eleven" on this organ, stated:

The instrument on which Brahms' art can most suitably be realized is not the Baroque organ but that type in which the endeavors of the 19th century to attain a full, warm, immediately arresting tone found fulfillment.13

However, a "Brahms organ" does not have to be huge or even large.  As Max Miller pointed out in his article, "The Brahms Chorale Preludes--Master Lesson," the small instruments in every organ culture aspire to the effects of large instruments and thus clearly indicate the idealized sound of the time.14 He offers this 1869 German stoplist in which 60% of the manual voices are of 8' pitch:

Hauptwerk: 16,8,8,8,4,III

Oberwerk: 8,8,8,4

Pedal: 16,16,8.

For a fuller discussion of organ design in 19th century Germany, see Robert Parkins' series of articles in The Diapason: "Rediscovering the German Romantic Organ" (January, February and March, 1989).

Registrations

Robert Schuneman devoted a full page of his Brahms article to excerpts from Hugo Riemann's Catechism of the Organ, which gives an insight into German organ playing from the period 1845 to 1895. This is most valuable reading for those who play Brahms. One of the key concepts is horizontal registrations.  That is, one first combines a succession of 8' stops--from the softest to the Diapason--to create a bed of unison sound to which one adds the Octave, the 16', the 22/3' Quinte, the reed, the 2' and the Mixture in that order. The manuals are coupled to achieve fuller effects, and "gap" registrations like 8'+2' are to be avoided unless the composer has specified it.15

In "Some Thoughts on the Sound of the Organ," John David Peterson offers valuable insights into the ideal Brahms "sound":

Brahms' orchestrations call for a rich blend of dark colors. His favored instruments were the horn, viola, violoncello and clarinet, and his piano works challenge the player to call forth half- and counter-melodies from the tenor register of thick textures. It is not surprising that his organ works share the same sense of musical color.16

The key word which sums up registrations for Op. 122 is "warmth." Thus it is surprising that Robert Schuneman would have said: "Strings, as we know them today [1972], and especially celestes, are not appropriate."17 German 19th century stoplists had many a Gemshorn, Salizional, Fugara and Viola da Gamba and the celesting stops Unda Maris and Voix Celeste were to be found.  If these sounds were part of the organ culture of Brahms' time, and if one of his favorite orchestral effects was massed cellos and violas, what better way can there be to realize Op. 122 than by including strings in the registrations? The quieter chorales--Nos. 5, 6, 8 and 11--are excellent candidates for a celeste. If one has a broad Violoncello Celeste, it might be just the thing for the pedal cantus in No. 10. And how better to let the final notes of No. 11 O Welt, ich muss dich lassen float up into heaven than with a quiet celeste?

Brahms' Markings

While Brahms didn't indicate registrations, he left dynamic indications which, coupled with the precepts in Riemann's Catechism, may well amount to the same thing (see Table 2).

The dynamic markings and performance indications would seem to be clear enough, with the possible exception of "dolce." In Dynamics in the Music of Johannes Brahms, Imogen Fellinger says that dolce implies a weakening of the given preceding dynamic strength, just as expressivo is an intensification of the predominant dynamic strength.18 This may well be so where the dynamic marking is forte. Thus "forte ma dolce" in numbers 1, 3, and 11 would translate "loud but sweetly" or "loud but not strident." However, it seems a bit of a stretch to say that "dolce" in numbers 5 and 8 actually implies a dynamic slightly softer than the indicated "piano." It probably calls for a "sweet" or "gentle" interpretation and has nothing to do with dynamics. In support of this, note that only numbers 2, 7, 9 and 10 are without the "dolce." What is different about them from the rest? Both 2 and 9 are sturdy and forthright (the latter remarkably so), number 7 is a combination of urgency and melancholy, and number 10 is characterized by great pathos.

Tempo

In preparing this article, I studied fourteen organ recordings of Op. 122 and two of the Busoni piano transcriptions of Nos. 4-5 and 8-11. The range of tempi is remarkable. The slowest interpretations of the complete "Eleven" take 42 minutes whereas the fastest last but 21 minutes--half as long, or twice as fast.  The median19 duration was 321/2 minutes. See Table 3.

It is easier and clearer to discuss the tempos of these works, which as Romantic works are subject to considerable rubato, using the duration of the piece rather than metronome indications. The player who wishes to play Brahms musically would be well advised to avoid the extremes of tempo. Speeding through these works with the fastest tempos renders them meaningless and trite, but performances with the slowest tempos lacked energy and were often boring and stultifying. I found it of passing personal interest that the tempos at which I play these pieces are, in most cases, pretty close to the median. These median durations would seem to be a good starting place for those attempting to discover the ideal tempos.

Rubato

In his essay, "Playing Around With Tempo," Robert Schuneman describes tempo rubato:

Most music is mechanical without it in some form. On the other hand, the same music may turn into a caricature of its own intent and content with too much of it poorly applied. It is the most difficult of all musical terms to describe in words, and it takes an extremely sensitive player to use it well.20

As rubato is so difficult to describe in words, I would recommend Arthur Rubenstein's renditions of the Chopin Nocturnes as a most exquisite example of rubato in 19th century music.21

One might divide music into two types: objective and subjective. With objective music, of which Brahms' early a-minor and g-minor Prelude and Fugue are two good examples, if you play all the notes in a reasonably steady tempo, you achieve 80% of the composer's intent.  With subjective music, of which the "Eleven" are an excellent example, if you simply play all the notes in a reasonably steady tempo you realize absolutely none of the musical content the composer put into the work. The worst performances (with the notes played correctly) one will ever hear of Op. 122 are those in which, to paraphrase the popular song, "the beat goes on."

Schuneman makes an excellent point which is quite relevant to Op.122:

With the emergence after 1830 of free forms, program music, salon music, and the seeking out of emotional content over form, declamatory expression (free tempo rubato) became much more indispensable to good performance.  Furthermore, as the 19th  century progressed, tempo rubato became increasingly tied to dynamics. Accelerando means crescendo and vice-versa; ritardando means diminuendo and vice-versa.22

The most important performance points here are that in Op. 122, the beat itself is modified, which is a considerably further modification of tempo than the 18th century notion of rubato, where the melody in the right hand was subject to rubato but the beat in the left hand was not.23

Chorale No. 5, Schmücke dich, provides a clear illustration of the above points. Consider Figure 1, which is a harmonization of the chorale, as it would be sung. The added crescendo and decrescendo markings--not to be overdone, of course--simply indicate what any good choir would do intuitively. This music, all music, for that matter, is meant to be performed expressively. So apply this dynamic pattern to Brahms' realization of the chorale in Figure 2 (expression marks added to the Henle edition). If played on the Swell 8' flues, subtle opening and closing of the swell box is no problem. Per the above discussion of rubato, a subtle accelerando would accompany the crescendo and a ritardando comes with the diminuendo. One might alternatively describe this as a slight increase and decrease in intensity. Then there is the syncopated rhythmic pattern in the left hand which Brahms notated as shown in Figure 3, the way George Bozarth would have preferred to notate it in the Henle edition.24 Then there are the delicious dissonances, Brahms beloved major seconds, which Samuel Swartz always said "Brahms put there to linger over." And finally, there are the notes here and there to which, in expressive playing, one gives agogic accents. Integrate all of this into a performance and one has a small masterpiece. Play it straight on through ignoring these factors, on the other hand, and one has a very trite rendition.

Another excellent example of the necessity for rubato is in Chorale No, 11, O Welt, ich muss dich lassen. The structure of the work has a forte section followed by a piano section followed by a pianissimo section--which is repeated six times. Whether Brahms is simply using a series of echos or is referring to the vigor of youth, the mellowness of middle age and the weakness of old age we cannot know. But all of the pianissimo sections need to end with a ritard and a pronounced pause before beginning the next forte section. It is truly amazing that many play this work as if a metronome were clicking inside their heads, rushing past the pianissimo to get at that forte just in the nick of time. See Figure 4 for the interpretation marks I would suggest, and heed Max Miller's advice:

The variables of building and organ will dictate how much time is to be allowed and how freely the echoes should be taken. The non-harmonic tones require spaciousness and breadth in performance.  Time, for Brahms, has with this last composition ceased its hurry and its very meaning.25

Yet another reason for rubato is to give meaning to one of Brahms' favorite rhetorical gestures, the sigh motiv.  Consider the first four bars of O Gott, du frommer Gott (Figure 5), where the sigh motives are indicated by a bracket.  They are descending in mm. 2-3 and inverted in mm. 4-5.  Played in a metronomical tempo, these gestures are as musical as the regular clicks and whirs of factory machinery.  Played with a slight relaxation of tempo, they define the essence of Op. 122.

Indicated Phrasing

In addition to the dynamic and tempo markings, Brahms indicates a wealth of phrasing. Consider the first four bars of No. 1 in Figure 6. Brahms clearly and deliberately sets out a phrasing pattern which leaves little doubt of his intentions. In No. 3, however, there may be some question about the two-note slurs (see Figure 7). Some organists misinterpret these slurs as phrasing marks, and play the two eighth note figures as an eighth and a sixteenth, with a sixteenth rest before the next group begins. This misguided approach gives a jerky, frenetic sound which is the antithesis of the feeling of the chorale, O Welt, ich muss dich lassen. What Brahms meant by these markings was to give a slight stress to the first note of the groupings of two eighth notes. If strings played this piece, there would be the slightest, almost infinitesimal, pause in the sound as the bows changed direction between the eighth-note groupings. And this is precisely how it should be played on the organ.

It is in the very pianistic No. 4 that the precision markings in the Urtext Henle edition clearly communicate Brahms' intentions--markings which are changed or omitted in some other editions. See Figure 8 for the first four bars of No. 4. The quarter notes in the alto voice form a melody in which some notes are held longer than the precise note values, as indicated by the secondary slurs. In bars 1 and 3 the notes marked A are held for two beats,26 in bar 2 the note marked B is held for five beats, and in bar three the note marked C is held for three beats. This is consistent with 19th  century piano practice.

Leslie Spelman, who has spent a good bit of his extraordinarily long career promoting the "Eleven" in both recital and masterclass, sees a parallel to the above technique in No. 10 (see Figure 9). The notes with the horizontal bars added above them form a melody, and Dr. Spelman suggests holding them beyond their indicated value. The notes with the added slurs are to be held even longer. All the while, observing Brahms' molto legato indication and keeping the pulse nicely articulated in the bass.27 This exquisite chorale is also very pianistic and, in fact, is marvelously realized on the piano with a cello playing the cantus. Organists have been ending this piece with an a minor chord for nearly a century, and the A Major ending in the new editions--correcting an error in reading Brahms' autograph by the original editor Mandyczewski--sounds very strange to ears accustomed to the minor ending. But Henle edition editor George Bozarth points out that all of the minor-key preludes in the "Eleven" do, in fact, end with a Picardy third.28 A pronounced ritard in the penultimate measure and a generous observance of Brahms' indicated Adagio in the final bar does "set up" the A Major chord.

Soloing Out Melodies

In several of the Chorales, Brahms allows a clearly discernible melody in the soprano to move moments later to an inner voice where it can be obscured by the accompaniment above it. For example, this happens in measures 5-6 and 14-16 of Es ist ein Ros' entsprungen and measures 28-31 and 38-41 of O Gott, du frommer Gott. There are two schools of thought on this challenge.  Vernon Gotwals feels it is wrong to solo out melodies because this:

. . . shows an unawareness of the abstract nature of Brahms' conception.  It is wrong to emphasize any voice in the manner of the piano in these organ pieces, as Brahms knew that the melody would be lost when it dipped into the tenor in No. 7 or climbed from tenor to alto in No. 8. His subtle conception is destroyed by those who cannot forebear going beyond his precise registrational directions simply because it is physically possible to do so.29

Of course, this implies that in Op. 122 Brahms' conception was a total departure from almost everything he had written before. In his previous compositions, the pianists, instrumentalists and vocalists were able to emphasize and bring out musical lines in a way most suitable for the performance. I find it very unlikely that Brahms would prohibit emphasis of these obscured melodic lines--in fact, he probably would find the very question incomprehensible.

There are two ways to treat these lines. One can choose "solo" stops of exactly the same character as the accompaniment so that the principal difference between solo and accompaniment is volume, or one can choose a contrasting tone color. The former approach is probably more characteristic, although I must confess that the temptation to solo the tenor portions of Es ist ein Ros' on a Clarinet is very strong. The Clarinet was one of Brahms' favorite instruments, and if one has a nice one it may serve quite well. One doesn't have to play these works exactly the same way each and every time. The tenor melody in Es ist ein Ros' can be played on the pedals as suggested in the Biggs' edition (see Figure 10). But an alternative solution, which Leslie Spelman learned from Joseph Bonnet, is to play both the bass and tenor on the pedals starting on the third beat of m. 5, leaving the left hand free to solo the melody (see Figure 11).30

O Gott, du frommer Gott is one of the longest and most graceful of the chorales. One can very easily play the cantus on the Pedal 4' Chorale Bass. Draw 8' stops (at least the 8' Diapason and flute) on both the Great and Swell and couple them. Thus in the forte sections played on the Great, the Swell box can give an arch to the line. And in the piano sections played on the Swell, the box allows expression and perfect balance whether the solo soars out above or is buried within the accompaniment. The timbre of the Chorale Bass would be quite similar to the Diapason and flute of the Swell, with just a boost to the volume (see Figure 12). For emphasis one can add the Swell 4' Octave in measures 22-26, 50-54 and during the final five bars, but there is no indication that the forte section with which the work concludes should be significantly louder than the forte section with which it begins.

Repeated Notes

In the slower of Brahms' chorales, repeated notes in the soprano and bass should always be articulated, but there are some decisions to make about the inner voices. No. 11 O Welt, ich muss dich lassen is an excellent case in point. Though instances occur throughout the piece, the final three bars with their implied molto ritardando are critical. One might very well separate all the repeated notes in a room with five seconds reverberation. But see Figure 13 for a suggestion of adding ties on the inner voices to have the feeling of repetition without choppiness. This is not to say that Brahms should "ooze." In mm. 24-25 of the same chorale are two instances where added phrasing marks in the left hand and pedal can help set up the ending (see Figure 14).

Conclusion

Brahms' Chorale Preludes are very special compositions. As Fenner Douglas once observed, it's too bad for organists that Brahms didn't have a church job for a while, so that we might have more works from this master. I would urge those interested to seek out the cited articles by Bozarth, Gotwals, Miller, Peterson and Schuneman for a broader scope and fuller understanding of the problems and possibilities these works present. Playing these works expressively on the piano is also very helpful, as is experimenting with legato and super legato touch on the organ. Those who unlock the secrets of Op. 122 will not just have gained eleven lovely pieces for their repertoire--they will have learned things of inestimable value which they can apply in countless other works. n

Appendix: Survey of Opus 122 Recordings

The Early Recordings

Of the four late '50s and early '60s recordings, the best are by Robert Noehren and Franz Eibner, but none of them leaves you wishing for a reissue on CD. Dr. Noehren's Brahms (Lyrichord LLST 7123) is well played with sufficient rubato and convincing transitions between sections. But both of the Noehren organs he recorded on were totally unenclosed 2-manual organs with Positiv rather than Swell. The lack of a swell box and absence of registrational variety limited this recording.

Franz Eibner (Teldec SLT 43018-B) had the best organ of the early LPs. The 3-manual, 61-voice Walcker in Vienna's Votivkirche dates from 1878 and was certainly heard by Brahms. The organ's sound--with its rich palette of flutes, strings and principals--is most appropriate to Brahms. Eibner's playing, though consistently a bit stiff, borders on satisfactory, with suitable rubato at times but some awkward transitions. Some chorales, like Schmücke dich, he trots through with no regard to musical subtleties.

The other two early recordings are very disappointing. Karl Richter's recording on the Steinmeyer in the Herkules-Saal in München (Deutsche Grammophon 138906 SLPM) features a most unattractive organ sound. His registrations overemphasize screechy upperwork and de-emphasize the fundamental, sometimes creating a "music box" effect. Richter's playing is completely insensitive to the music, charging right through Opus 122 from start to finish.

Kurt Rapf's recording on the organ of Vienna's Ursulinenklosters is even worse, with an organ sound lacking fundamental but featuring prominent chiff on the manuals and a loud, deep and murky pedal sound. The plenum on No. 11 has searing mixtures, snarly reeds, booming bass and no "middle." Rapf's playing displays the fastest tempos at which these pieces have ever been recorded. All of the notes are there, but none of the music.

The Best of the Modern Recordings

(Note: All the CDs except Arkay include the complete works of Brahms.)

One of the most satisfying recordings to date is by Carole Terry on the 4-manual Flentrop of St. Mark's Cathedral in Seattle (Musical Heritage Society MHS 512523M). Blessed with a rich palette of principals and flutes in a gorgeous acoustic, the organ has a fine sound although the pair of Gemshorns on the Swell are a far cry from real strings. This recording was made before the recent rebuild added a wonderful 32' Posaune to the Pedal and an 8' Trumpet to the Great, plus enabled the 32' Prestant to actually speak. Ms. Terry's playing is simply elegant. She has a real empathy with Brahms and uses rubato and phrasing to create a truly musical result. The two settings of Herzlich tut mich verlangen are the high point of the recording: No. 9 is quite virile on a big registration and No. 10 is the essence of sensitivity.

Another fine recording on LP, unfortunately out of print, is by Bernard Lagacé (Titanic TI-38).  He recorded Opus 122 on the 1977 2-manual 23-voice Wolff organ in New York's Eighth Church of Christ Scientist. The neoclassic design has its limitations for Brahms, but Lagacé uses it fully and well. His playing is inventive, lively and sensitive.  Hopefully this recording will be reissued on CD.

Nicholas Danby made an elegant recording on the organ of the Church of the Immaculate Conception in London (CRD 3404). This 3-manual 44-voice organ is of some historical interest, having been built by Anneesens in 1876, rebuilt by Bishop in 1914, and completely remodeled in 1926 by Henry Willis III to the designs of G. Donald Harrison and Guy Weitz (organist from 1917 to 1967). Its virile plenum (with tierce mixtures), typically English reeds, rich foundations and colorful flutes make for a varied listening experience. Unfortunately, Danby failed to use the two sets of strings, but his playing is imaginative, solid and sensitive. A high point is an attractively up-tempo rendition of Herzlich tut mich erfreuen with well handled transitions between the forte and piano sections, and a sensible (that is to say, slight) volume differential between the sections. All in all, a rewarding experience.

The Interesting Middle Ground

Georges Athanasiadès has made a charming recording on the huge 103-stop Jann organ of 1989 in the lush acoustics of the wildly Baroque Basilica of Waldsassen (Tudor 790). It missed the first tier only because of a severe lapse of taste on the chorale No. 1, where the cantus in the pedal is registered on flue stops plus a set of tubular bells--the effect is ghastly. But in the remaining ten chorales, Athanasiadès proves to be a resourceful player who provides the most tasteful registrational variety of all the recordings. In Herzliebster Jesu and O wie selig he goes to an extraordinary effort to solo out the melody--unnecessary, but interesting and not at all unpleasant. He makes tasteful use of the tremulant on the pedal cantus of the second Herzlich tut mich verlangen and on a splendid rendition of Es ist ein ros'. In the final chorale he exhibits a sensitive balance between the forte, piano and pp sections, with a very attractive string celeste based pp section. Clearly Mr. Athanasiadès has many good ideas and much to offer on this CD.

Jean-Pierre Leguay, one of the four titular organists of Notre Dame in Paris, has made an impressive recording on the monumental 4-manual 1890 Cavaillé-Coll at the Abbey of Saint Ouen in Rouen (Euro Muses 590073 AD 184).  This organ--lavishly equipped with diapasons, a great variety of flutes, several sets of strings and reeds galore--is actually not far from what one might consider an "ideal" Brahms organ. All the stops are colorful, and there is a great amount of variety in the 8' range. The massed unison stops, which are exhibited in Herzliebster Jesu, sing beautifully. For a climactic effect, nothing in the recorded literature of Opus 122 quite matches the final section of the first chorale, where Mr. Leguay adds the 32' Bombarde to an already grand plenum. Some of the chorales, Nos. 4-6 and 11 for example, are given a rather indifferent treatment, but O Gott, du frommer Gott sparkles in a high-energy high-volume treatment with reeds in both the forte and piano sections. A tasteful Es ist ein Ros' alternates a beautiful string celeste with a quiet flute. Opting for contrast and clarity, Mr. Leguay gives the pedal cantus in Herzlich tut mich verlangen to a Trompette. This recording is recommended for generally excellent playing and a quite stupendous sound.

Jacques van Oortmerssen chose the 1906 Setterquist organ of the Kristine Church in Falun, Sweden for his recording of the works of Brahms (BIS-CD-479). This 2-manual 30-stop instrument is based on the French Romantic organs of Cavaillé-Coll, but the sound is a far cry from St. Ouen. There are some lovely individual stops, but the plenum with pedal is murky and a 2' Octava sticks out rather than blending. Oortmerssen's usually elegant playing is uneven, with one chorale singing and soaring and the next plodding quirkily along. He does observe the implied crescendo in O wie selig and builds to a satisfying forte.

Herman Schäffer chose a 4-manual 92-stop 1911 Steinmeyer at the Christuskirche in Mannheim for his Brahms recording (Motette CD 10711). This instrument offers generally attractive sounds and great variety, but Schäffer's playing is uneven. Herzliebster Jesu has no energy and a painfully slow O Welt, ich muss dich lassen (No. 3) falls flat, but these are followed by an energetic and stylish Herzlich tut mich erfreuen.  Schäffer loves contrast, and solos the melody in Schmücke dich on an oboe, the pedal cantus in Herzlich tut mich verlangen (No. 10) on a trumpet, and the melody in O wie selig on a Nazard combination (with the bass played on a heavy and murky 16' pedal). In Es ist ein Ros', Herzlich tut mich verlangen (No. 9) and O Welt, ich muss dich lassen (No. 11) the contrast between the forte and piano sections is far too great. Within these works, however, there are registrations of great beauty, including some luscious string celestes. In sum, the playing and interpretations are uneven and the largely original historic organ is of interest.

Recordings Of Lesser Merit

One might think that recording Brahms on a 1965 4-manual 56-stop Marcussen organ would give a thin, chiffy and uncharacteristic sound (Nimbus NI 882 286-909). On the organ at the Odense Domkirche this is not so, although the upperwork (used only in the first chorale) is too intense. Kevin Bowyer's registrations prove that this instrument can give an appropriate sounds to Opus 122. His playing is another matter, though--tempos seem either to be too fast or too slow. For example, he makes a race out of Herz-lich tut mich erfreuen. But whether the tempo is fast or slow, he doesn't offer much more than the notes. In O Welt, ich muss dich lassen (No. 3) he misinterprets the slurs over the two eighth note groups for a very choppy result. His favorite chorale would seem to be Herzlich tut mich verlangen (No. 10), as he gives a very sensitive performance of it (at 4:38 the slowest of all the recorded performances) with a lush sound and a lovely articulate solo flute with tremulant for the cantus solo. Would that the other ten chorales had had this degree of attention.

Jonathan Dimmock recorded Opus 122 on a 2-manual 26-stop Frobenius at St. Stephen's Episcopal in Belvedere, California (Arkay AR 6113). A visceral involvement with the music seems to be missing, and there are some note problems. Dimmock followed a basically conservative approach to registration, passing on the opportunity for a true forte even for No. 9 Herzlich tut mich verlangen. Although he did make good use of the Gambe Celeste in two chorales, it was an unfortunate choice to solo the melody in O Gott du frommer Gott on the Swell Oboe, because this precluded a significant contrast between the forte and piano sections, a key element of the work.  Whereas O wie selig is satisfying with a nice Oboe combination, No. 11 O Welt, ich muss dich lassen receives a perfunctory performance without the crucial implied ritards between the pp and forte sections.

Robert Parkins recording on the large Flentrop in the Duke University Chapel would seem to have a lot going for it (Naxos 8.550824). A lush acoustic, large organ, talented performer. Large as the Flentrop is, however, is has no expressive divisions and no strings--one wonders how Opus 122 would have fared on the spectacular Aeolian at the front end of Duke Chapel. Parkins gets around this limitation well, however, and the massed 8' tones provide needed warmth. His tempos are the key problem--Nos. 1, 2, 3, 7 and 9 are or are among the slowest tempos on record. The energy of these pieces drains away and you are left wanting to shout "Get on with it!" Balance this criticism with artful performances of No. 4, 6, 10 and an especially sensitive rubato in No. 11. Interesting though flawed, but at a bargain price.

Rudolph Innig's performance of Opus 122 has little to recommend it (Dabringhaus and Grimm MD+GL 3137). The 3-manual Klais organ at St. Dionysius in Rheine is a lightweight neoclassical design with lots of mutations which Innig, unfortunately, uses.  His interpretations feature separated pickups, which are decidedly un-Brahmsian, and a general lack of sensitivity to the music.

 

Notes

                  1.              Heinz Becker, "Johannes Brahms," The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians, 1980, Vol. 3, p. 161.

                  2.              Peter Williams, Review in The Organ Quarterly.

                  3.              Anonymous essay on "Brahms' 11 Chorale Preludes" on Lyrichord LP (LL 123).

                  4.              E. Power Biggs, Preface, Brahms' Chorale Preludes, Mercury Music Corporation, 1949, p. 2.

                  5.              Becker, op. cit., pp. 173-174.

                  6.              Robert Schuneman, "Brahms and the Organ," Music/The AGO-RCCO Magazine, September, 1972, p. 34.

                  7.              Schuneman, op. cit., p. 34.

                  8.              Jonathan Ambrosino, "Lessons with Dr. Courboin--A Conversation with Richard Purvis," The Erzähler, Volume 4, Number 3, January, 1995, pp. 3-4.

                  9.              Brahms' Complete Organ Works, ed. by Walter E. Buszin and Paul G. Bunjes, Edition Peters.

                  10.           Peter Williams, The European Organ 1450-1850, published by The Organ Literature Foundation, 1967, pp. 94-95.

                  11.           Vernon Gotwals, "Brahms and the Organ," Music/The AGO-RCCO Magazine, April, 1970, p. 42.

                  12.           Günter Lade, Orgeln in Wien, Austria, 1990, p. 184.

                  13.           Franz Ebner, Program Notes to Teldec LP: SLT 43018-B.

                  14.           Max B. Miller, "The Brahms Chorale Preludes Master Lesson," TAO, April, 1979, pp. 43-46.

                  15.           Schuneman, op. cit., pp. 32-33.

                  16.           John David Peterson, "Some Thoughts on the Sound of the Organ," The Diapason, April, 1981, p. 16.

                  17.           Schuneman, op. cit., p. 34.

                  18.           Imogen Fellinger, Uber die Dynamik in der Musik von Johannes Brahms, (Berlin and Wunsiedel: Hesse 1961), p. 20. Translated by and cited in Schuneman, op. cit., p. 34.

                  19.           The "median" is the middle value in a distribution of data--half of the times are shorter and half are longer than the median.

                  20.           Robert A. Schuneman, "Playing Around With Tempo," The Diapason, May, 1970, p. 16.

                 21.           Arthur Rubenstein, The Chopin Nocturnes, RCA 5613-2-RC (two CD set).

                  22.           Schuneman, "Tempo," op. cit., p. 16.

                  23.           Peter Hurford, Making Music on the Organ, Oxford University Press, 1990, p. 67.

                  24.           George S. Bozarth, "Brahms Organ Works: A New Critical Edition," The American Organist, June, 1988, p. 56.

                  25.           Miller, op. cit., p. 46.

                  26.           Less a brief "lift" on the first quarter note in measure one, so it can sound again on beat three.

                  27.           Leslie Spelman, in a February, 1995, masterclass.

                  28.           Bozarth, op. cit., p. 57.

                  29.           Gotwals, op. cit., p. 48.

                  30.           Masterclass, February, 1995.

Permission to reproduce segments from Werke für Orgel granted by G. Henle Verlag.

 

Other articles of interest:

Franz Liszt and Johann Gottlob Töpfer: A Fruitful Relationship in Weimar

Théodore Dubois and César Franck at Sainte-Clotilde

Brahms Opus 122 in score

Enrique Alberto Arias

Enrique Alberto Arias holds a PhD in music history and literature from Northwestern University. He is currently associate professor in the School for New Learning at DePaul University, Chicago. In addition, he is president of Ars Musica Chicago.

Wilhelm Middelschulte (1863-1943), the distinguished organist and composer, is a name found frequently in the earlier issues of The Diapason.1 The present article will consider his Kontrapunktische Symphonie über Themen von Joh. Seb. Bach. In addition to the discussion of this great and complex work, Middelschulte's connections to Ferruccio Busoni and Bernhard Ziehn will be explored as well as Middelschulte's position within the so-called Chicago "Gothic" school.

Biography

Middelschulte was born in Heeren Werve, near Dortmund, Germany on 3 April 1863. He received a good part of his musical education at the Royal Academy of Church Music in Berlin, where he studied with Haupt, Loeschern, Alsleben, Commer (editor of the series of early music entitled Musica Sacra), and Schröder. He also studied with August Knabe in Soest, who considered Middelschulte his most famous student. Knabe also seems to have instilled Middelschulte's profound veneration of Bach. Middelschulte is often said to have been Haupt's last student and to have functioned as his assistant. Carl August Haupt (1810-91) was a distinguished organist who participated in the Bach revival of the 19th century; thus these years of study with Haupt also formed many of the features of Middelschulte's career. Middelschulte became Haupt's assistant and later was the organist and choirmaster of the St. Lucas Church in Berlin.

In 1891, Middelschulte came to Chicago, where he served as the organist at Holy Name Cathedral, a position he held until 1895. During this time he studied with the theorist and composer Bernhard Ziehn (1845-1912), who, as we shall later see, deeply influenced Middelschulte's musical style. In 1893, Middelschulte gave a series of recitals for the Columbian Exposition. He also held organist positions at St. James Catholic Church in Chicago and the K.A.M. Temple. In 1894, Middelschulte became organist for the Theodore Thomas Orchestra (later, Chicago Symphony Orchestra), a position held until 1918, when the anti-German sentiments of the First World War caused him to leave this post. An indication of the honor in which he was held was that he played for both the memorial services of Emperor Frederick III in Germany and for Theodore Thomas.2

During these years he taught at the American Conservatory of Music in Chicago, the Wisconsin Conservatory, and the Detroit Conservatory of Music (originally known as the Foundation Music School). According to Hans Joachim Moser, Middelschulte was at the American Conservatory from 1891 to 1918, but in fact he was at the Conservatory until 1936.3 He is listed on the faculty of the conservatory until the fall of 1936, and in 1932 he took the place of Adolf Weidig, who had died in 1931, as a leading member of the theory department in addition to his position in the organ department. In 1922, he received an honorary LL.D. degree from Notre Dame University, where he regularly gave summer classes in organ. By this time Middelschulte was Chicago's major organist and an important composer of works for organ. In 1939, Middelschulte returned to Germany, just before the outbreak of World War II. During the last few years of his life, Middelschulte lived in Switzerland and Italy because of declining health. He died in Dortmund, Germany on 4 May 1943 of a heart attack. Among his many students, several went on to have major organ careers, principally Virgil Fox and Arthur C. Becker, about whom I have written previously for The Diapason.4

Thus, although born and educated in Germany, Middelschulte made the United States and, more specifically, Chicago his home. Middelschulte was a scholar and composer, whose works re-flect his intimate knowledge of Bach.5 Middelschulte was, by all accounts, a virtuoso organist of the first order, famous for his performances from memory (he was one of the first organists to do this). His performances of Bach were widely recognized as models of style, thus relating to Ferruccio Busoni's fabled Bach performances on the piano. Middelschulte's repertory was apparently vast. For example, the 1 June 1926 issue of The Diapason announced that Middelschulte would give a series of four recitals at Notre Dame in July of that year. One recital was to be "historical," and included compositions by Palestrina, Frescobaldi, Merulo, Gabrieli, and masters of the Baroque period. The second recital, not unexpectedly, was to be devoted to the organ works of Bach. The third (and this is striking) was to be of American organ music (including a composition by John J. Becker, one of the members of the American experimentalist group and a student of Middelschulte's), while the final recital was to be a potpourri, but including works by Reger and Bach.6 Few organists could equal such a feat. But this series is interesting for its inclusion of works before Bach. His studies with Franz Commer, one of the most important musicologists of the 19th century, would have made him aware of this repertory. His recital of American organ music, despite his conservative German background, shows his interest in promoting the music of his students.

It is impossible to understand Middelschulte's accomplishments without a consideration of his German connections and the German tradition of such Chicago musical institutions as the American Conservatory of Music and the Chicago Symphony Orchestra. The American Conservatory of Music was founded in 1886 and incorporated in 1887. The founder was John J. Hattstaedt, and by the early 20th century the American Conservatory was considered one of the leading music schools in Chicago. It had strong ties to Germany in that most of its faculty were trained there. Thus, for example, Adolf Weidig (1867-1931), who had studied with such notables as Riemann and Rheinberger, continued this German tradition at the conservatory, where he taught composition and theory. Weidig was also a violinist who played in the Chicago Symphony Orchestra and an accomplished composer whose works deserve renewed attention.7 His teachings are summarized in the text that was widely used at this time: Harmonic Material and Its Uses (Chicago: Clayton Summy, 1923).

There were many other important German musicians in Chicago at this time. For example, Emil Liebling (1851-1914), a student of Liszt's and known for his editions of the etudes of Carl Czerny, was an impressive pedagogue who also was an editor for The American History and Encyclopedia of Music. He came to Chicago in 1872 and remained until his death.8 Bernhard Listermann (1841-1917) was the concertmaster of the Thomas Orchestra and continued a distinguished career in Chicago, publishing a violin method and some compositions. This list must include the great Theodore Thomas (1835-1905), born in Essen, Germany, and the founder of what would become the Chicago Symphony Orchestra. Thomas was one of the major conductors of his time who permanently left his mark on Chicago.9

Theodore Thomas founded the Chicago Orchestra in 1890, but the name of the orchestra was changed to the Theodore Thomas Orchestra in 1905 and then the Chicago Symphony Orchestra in 1912. Thomas conducted the orchestra until his death in 1905, when he was succeeded by Frederick Stock, who conducted the orchestra until 1942 (the year of his death). The Chicago Symphony Orchestra was created in the German tradition, and the rehearsals were conducted in German up to World War I. There was great emphasis placed on German repertory (including the then-modern Richard Strauss), and the orchestra was known for its German sound because of the rich brass, a tradition that continues to the present day. Middelschulte accordingly worked in musical institutions where his German musical heritage was highly valued and where he made significant contributions.

Middelschulte's influences

Middelschulte's compositional style grew out of his studies of Bach, but it was also clearly influenced by the theories of Bernhard Ziehn, with whom he studied in Chicago. Bernhard Ziehn (1845-1912) was born in Erfurt, Germany, but came to Chicago in 1868 to teach mathematics and music theory in the German Lutheran School of Chicago. In addition to his studies of music theory and history, Ziehn was an accomplished mathematician and botanist, whose studies of poison ivy were commended by the U.S. Department of Agriculture. Ziehn had a number of notable students, including the composer John Alden Carpenter and the pianist Fannie Bloomfield-Zeisler. It was said that Middelschulte was Ziehn's favorite student, and certainly he was the student who most clearly exemplified Ziehn's theories in his own work.

Ziehn had promulgated a principle of symmetric inversion: that in chromatic music a figure or motive could be inverted exactly without regard to tonal considerations. Ziehn writes in Canonical Studies: A New Technique in Composition: "Experience gained by careful practice is the only means of finding out whether or not a setting is suitable for symmetric inversion. No rules can be given, but with certainty we can say: the more chromatic a setting is the more appropriate it becomes for symmetric inversion, because chromatic progression is the smoothest."10 From this quote it is clear that by using symmetric intervals tonality is obscured; thus Ziehn adumbrates an idea that is also found in Schoenberg's 12-tone serialism. This technique is illustrated in Example 1.

Another influence on the music of Middelschulte was that of Ludwig Thiele (1816-48). Thiele had been a classmate of Mendelssohn's, and, like Haupt (Middelschulte's teacher), had studied with A.W. Bach. Thiele wrote a number of large-scale organ works that evidence the same kinds of canonic techniques, double pedal usage, and chromaticism that are characteristic of Middelschulte's works. It is evident that the Haupt, Thiele, and Rheinberger (just to name a few) were deeply influenced by J. S. Bach and thus prepared the way for Reger and Middelschulte.11 In turn, they were indebted to Mendelsohn's and Schumann's revitalization of Bach performance and scholarship.

Busoni and Middelschulte

Ferruccio Busoni and Middelschulte enjoyed a personal relationship. In 1910, while on tour, Busoni gave some concerts in Chicago. At that time it seems Ziehn suggested to Busoni that he complete Bach's Art of Fugue . Instead of doing so, Busoni took the themes of the incomplete Contrapunctus found at the end of the Art of Fugue  as the basis for what would ultimately become the Fantasia contrappuntistica. As Busoni himself writes referring to the decision to add a new theme to the Contrapunctus:

The fourth subject, on the other hand, had to be a completely new creation; there was no clew as to its character. There was the inevitable stipulation that this fourth subject had to sound simultaneously with the three earlier ones and must also suit them. As the principal theme of the Art of Fugue  (of which the "Fragment" forms the close) was not one of the three subjects already worked out it was easy to guess that this principal theme should step in (as fourth) and thus close the circle of the whole work. Bernhard Ziehn, in Chicago, gave an affirmative and conclusive answer to my question on this point, and I was able to begin this part of my work on sure ground.12

But John J. Becker, who, as previously noted, had studied with Middelschulte, writes:

It was Middelschulte who helped Busoni on the way, by suggesting that he study the theoretical combinations as worked out along the same line by Bernhard Ziehn of Chicago. (Middelschulte is proud to call himself a disciple of Ziehn). Busoni did so, and was convinced by those studies that Bach intended using the theme of the very first Fugue of "Die Kunst der Fuge." He worked along this line and successfully found the solution, thereby solving one of the most difficult aesthetic problems confronting the musical world.13

This implies that it was Middelschulte more than Ziehn who influenced the conception of the Fantasia contrappuntistica. Indeed, Busoni knew about Ziehn through Middelschulte and this opens up the question whether Busoni and Ziehn ever met personally.

As Marc-André Roberge points out, the first version entitled Grosse Fuge was sketched and written between January and March 1910 and was a continuation of the Contrapunctus XV from the Art of Fugue .14 In June 1910 Busoni reworked the Grosse Fuge into the Fantasia contrappuntistica by adding the "Preludio corale" based on the third of the Sechs Elegien for piano (1907). This Elegie is entitled "Meine Seele bangt und hofft zu dir" (My soul is afraid and hopes in you). It is, however, actually based on the chorale Allein Gott in der Höh sei Ehr'.15 In July 1921, Busoni rewrote the Fantasia for two pianos and somewhat modified its complex structure. It is this two-piano version of the Fantasia contrappuntistica that is the best known. Busoni, however, wrote: "The Fantasia contrappuntistica is thought of neither for pianoforte nor organ, nor orchestra. It is music. The sound-medium which imparts this music to the listener is of secondary importance."16

The relationship between Middelschulte and the Fantasia is striking. In 1911 Middelschulte made an arrangement of the Fantasia for solo organ and, it now seems clear, according to Roberge, that he helped or even composed the organ part for Frederick Stock's arrangement of the Fantasia contrappuntistica for organ and orchestra that was made in the same year. Roberge writes:

Busoni dedicated the edizione definitiva of the Fantasia contrappuntistica "An Wilhelm Middelschulte, Meister des Kontrapunkts." He must have had for Middelschulte a profound admiration, since he chose him to be the dedicatee of one of his most ambitious works. It is obvious that both men discussed some compositional aspects of the work, because sketches for the Grosse Fuge contain contrapuntal studies based on the Art of Fugue  by both Middelschulte and Ziehn. There are also two four-part canons bearing the dedication "Herrn Ferruccio Busoni zur frdl. [freundlichen] Errinerung von W. Middelschulte, Chicago. 16. Januar 1910."17

Chicago Gothic Tradition

It is thus obvious that Middelschulte participated in the conception of the Fantasia and was considered by Busoni to be "a master of counterpoint." Both Ziehn and Middelschulte were, furthermore, the principal members of what Busoni termed the "Chicago Gothic" school. As we shall directly see, Middelschulte ultimately responded to Busoni's Fantasia with a work related in a general way to Busoni's Fantasia contrappuntistica: the Kontrapunktische Symphonie (1932).

Middelschulte wrote exclusively for the organ, and his style is fairly consistent from his earliest works through those of his later years. The general aura of these works is indeed "Gothic," which is to say that a dark chromatic, contrapuntal style prevails. Textures are thick, and the ear is constantly surprised by the harmonic progressions caused by the chromatic and frequently dissonant counterpoint. Many sections are saturated chromatically, which is to say that all twelve chromatic pitches follow in rapid succession in all the voices of the texture. Because of this, many sections employ a kind of atonality; thus conservative and radical elements are blended in his works. Middelschulte's compositions are difficult to listen to because of their subtle references, complex textures, and extensive designs. The structures and rhythmic language are clearly derived from Bach; thus Middelschulte, like Reger, Busoni, and, later, Hindemith, employs a neoclassicism based on German models.

The Kontrapunktische Symphonie

The Kontrapunktische Symphonie über Themen von Joh. Seb. Bach is a culminating work. It is, however, a reworking of his earlier Kanonische Fantasia über B.A.C.H. und Fuge über Themen von J.S. Bach (1906). The Fantasy is based on 43 variations in canon over the BACH theme in the bass. The fugues that follow are based on some of the same themes that Middelschulte would subsequently use in the Kontrapunktische Symphonie: the theme from the Musical Offering , the theme from the "Confiteor" of the Mass in B Minor, the BACH theme from the Art of Fugue , and the theme from the Toccata and Fugue in D minor . Both these compositions are dedicated to August Knabe, Middelschulte's teacher from the Teachers College in Soest, Germany.18 In addition to the use of the same themes, specific sections, such as the fugue based on the theme from the Musical Offering , of the Kontrapunktische Symphonie and the conclusion are derived from the earlier work. Accordingly, the Kontrapunktische Symphonie develops the line of thought present in the Kanonische Fantasie; but, as we shall see, it uses more themes and develops more combinations as a result. The following points reflect an overview of the connections between these two compositions: 1) The concept is the same for both works. 2) The same themes by Bach are chosen though, as we shall see, the Kontrapunktische Symphonie employs 14 themes derived from Bach, while the Kanonische Fantasie employs only four. 3) Specific sections of the later work are derived from the earlier (but often with changes of counterpoint). 4) Both clearly result from Middelschulte's study of Bach.

One can ask why Middelschulte wrote two compositions closely related to each other several decades apart. Perhaps Middelschulte wanted to work out further possibilities in the Kontrapunktische Symphonie not present in the Kanonische Fantasie; thus the Kontrapunktische Symphonie uses more themes and the combinations are more complex. Although the general conception of the two works is the same, the Kontrapunktische Symphonie has an even denser harmonic language and more intricate structure.

Although written later in Middelschulte's career, the Kontrapunkstiche Symphonie also reflects Middelschulte's early association with Ziehn and Busoni. It combines Ziehn's approach to organizing chromaticism through symmetric inversion with Busoni's concept of a series of fugues based on Bach but expanding on the given themes. But it must also be noted that the Kanonische Fantasie, the composition that is reworked and developed for the Kontrapunktische Symphonie, was composed before Busoni's Fantasia contrappuntistica and may well have impacted Busoni's conception of this stunning work. Thus it seems that a work by Middelschulte perhaps influenced Busoni, whose Fantasia contrappuntistica in turn is mirrored in the Kontrapunktische Symphonie.

The Kontrapunktische Symphonie was premiered in 1932, as the following notice from The Diapason dated 1 June 1932 makes clear:

A new work for the organ which is expected to attract much more than ordinary attention is a Symphony in D minor on themes and motives by Johann Sebastian Bach, which has been composed by Wilhelm Middelschulte, Ll. D., and is to receive its initial performance at the summer series of recitals to be played by Dr. Middelschulte at Notre Dame University, South Bend, Ind., and in a recital at Rockefeller Chapel, University of Chicago, June 5.

This implies that the composition was completed by 1932, although it was not published until 1935. This is also evident from a letter Middelschulte wrote to  John J. Becker, his student, on 28 July 1932 in which he says: ". . . I enclose a program of music which shows you that I have not been idle--wrote a Symphonie on 12 [sic] Bach themes for the organ . . . played it here in Chicago and Detroit--everywhere with great success . . ." Again he writes in another letter of 9 January 1933: "Enclosed is a program of music of my Contrapuntal Symphony--built on 14 Bach themes--wish I had fifteen fingers . . . had great success with it in Detroit and still polishing it--also at work on my 2nd Symphony . . . "19 I believe that Middelschulte forgot for the moment how many Bach themes he actually used, but it is evident from the second quotation that he was still working on the final details in 1933.

The Kontrapunktische Symphonie consists of a prelude and five fugues on 14 themes from various compositions by Bach. In the preface, Middelschulte lists these themes as well as their sources:

1. The Musical Offering , BGA, VI, p. 222.

2. Confiteor and Remissionem from the Mass in B Minor, BGA, VI, p. 264.

3. Fugue in D Minor, BGA, XV, p. 269.

4. Fugue in B Minor, BGA, XV, p. 206.

5. Prelude and Fugue in C Minor, BGA, XV, p. 218.

6. Art of Fugue , BGA, XXV, 1 and XLVII.

7. Fugue in C Minor, BGA, XV, p. 132.

8. Prelude in A Minor, BGA, XV, p. 198.

9. Fugue in E Minor, BGA, XV, p. 242.

10. BACH theme from the Art of Fugue , BGA, XXV, 1 and XLVII.

11. Chorale prelude Sleepers Awake, BGA, XXV, 2, p. 63.

12. Canon at the Fifth from the Goldberg Variations , BGA, III, p. 282.

13. Fugue in C Major, WTC I, BGA, XIV, p. 4.

14. Fugue in E-flat Minor, WTC I, BGA, XIV, p. 34.

Of these themes, the most important and the one that prevails throughout is that from the Musical Offering . It will be remembered that this theme is actually by Frederick the Great and was used by Bach as the basis for the various musical transformations of the Musical Offering . The theme from the Art of Fugue is given less importance. Some themes are highlighted and become the themes for the fugues, a practice similar to that found in Ziehn's Canonical Studies, while other themes from this group of fourteen play a subsidiary role. Only two vocal works are cited, the Mass in B Minor and the chorale Wachet auf from the Cantata No. 140. Themes are combined and their keys are changed to fit Middelschulte's tonal plan. In addition, the BACH theme and the references to Bach's three great cyclic works (the Goldberg Variations , The Musical Offering , and the Art of Fugue ) are symbolic and link the Kontrapunktische Symphonie to Middelschulte's veneration of Bachian contrapuntal mastery.

Bach's cyclic works, the Art of Fugue  and The Musical Offering , served as paradigms for the Kontrapunktische Symphonie, although Middelschulte's composition is on a smaller scale than the Bach works and, for that matter, the Busoni Fantasia as well. In addition, the contrapuntal quodlibet concept or the combination of themes from disparate sources found in such Renaissance works as Heinrich Isaac's Missa Carminum or Jacob Obrecht's Missa diversorum tenorum is used. Middelschulte also at times presents the same theme at different rates of speed, as does Johannes Ockeghem's Missa prolationum. I am not suggesting that Middelschulte knew these Masses, but the similarities in techniques are striking, and Middelschulte was perhaps aware of the Renaissance tradition of quodlibet and mensuration canon through his studies with Commer and Ziehn.

Middelschulte has furthermore employed his most extreme chromatic style as well as the idea of symmetric inversion derived from Bernhard Ziehn. (Example 2) As a result, Middelschulte's organ works are strikingly similar to those by Reger, who likewise combined chromaticism with the procedures of Bach. In a word, the Kontrapunktische Symphonie summarizes Middelschulte's outlook as a composer and relates to Busoni's Fantasia contrappuntistica. Both build on the "Gothic" idea of complex fugal procedures.20

For Busoni, Ziehn and Middelschulte were the two members of the Chicago Gothic tradition, a tradition that stretched back to the Flemish and German masters of the Renaissance and epitomized in the music of J.S. Bach. It is found again in the music of César Franck and is notable for its use of counterpoint that creates unusual harmonic progressions. Essentially, Busoni held that Ziehn and Middelschulte created dissonant counterpoint that went beyond the restrictions of tonality, thus employing a concept central to the music of Hindemith as well. Although Ziehn was a composer, his music is not on the level of Middelschulte's organ compositions; thus Middelschulte's works and especially the Kontrapunktische Symphonie manifest Busoni's tenets as does his own Fantasia contrappuntistica.

The Kontrapunktische Symphonie does not present the fourteen themes in the order in which they are listed in the preface to the score, but rather treats them in cumulative fashion; thus the introduction presents the B-A-C-H motive to furnish the symbolic context for the entire composition: a celebration of the contrapuntal genius of J.S. Bach.  Emphasis is placed on the B-A-C-H theme as well as the themes from The Musical Offering  and the Art of Fugue . Middelschulte relates these themes in such a way as to show their symbolic implications.

The work begins with an introduction marked recitativo based on the B-A-C-H theme. (Example 3) The dotted rhythms give the impression of a French overture. Toward the end of this section Ziehn's technique of symmetric inversion is evident. This section recurs at the end of the work, creating an arch form. The first fugue uses the theme from The Musical Offering  presented at different rates of speed simultaneously. (Example 4a) This section is derived from the Kanonische Fantasie, where the note values are presented at half the speed and the bass voice is an octave lower. (Example 4b) Fugue No. 2 presents No. 13 from the group of fourteen themes (refer to the list of Bach themes above) as a countermotive. Later, the theme from the Art of Fugue  is combined with the theme from the Toccata and Fugue in D minor . (Example 5)

Fugue No. 3 again emphasizes theme No. 3, derived from the celebrated Toccata and Fugue in D minor . The B-A-C-H and No. 9 themes are present as well, combined with the theme from the Toccata. This fugue ends with a cadenza-like passage based on No. 8 that leads into the next fugue. (Example 6) Various combinations of themes ap-pear in this fugue. Nos. 9 and 10 appear as do Nos. 4 and 3. In all, this fugue employs Nos. 3, 9, 10, 4, 6, 7, 2, and 8. Fugue No. 4 begins with references to the B-A-C-H theme (Example 7) as well as the motives from the Goldberg Variations  and Wachet auf. It should be noted that the motive from the Goldberg Variations  is always treated in combination with other ideas. Also striking in this section is the combination of the themes from the D-minor and E-flat-minor fugues. This fugue presents various combinations of themes not found previously: 11 and 13 and, at the end, 3 and 14. Nos. 10, 12, 11, 13, 1, 3, and 14 appear in this fugue. Because of the slow tempo, this fugue functions as an interlude.

The fifth and final fugue combines previous elements, but it leads to a Maestoso section that harmonizes the theme from The Musical Offering  and is derived from a similar episode in the Kanonische Fantasie (where the harmonization is slightly different). This fugue presents themes 10, 3, 1, and 6; and it ends with a grandiose conclusion with trills in the outer voices. The BACH theme and the theme from the Art of Fugue  are here combined and emphasized both musically and symbolically. (Example 8)

In general, the dominating themes are 1, 3, 6, and 10, while the others are subsidiary. Themes are transposed and combined, sometimes at different rates of speed. As is clear from this discussion, the themes are not presented in the order that they appear in the preface; but, later themes in the numeric order are usually found later in the work. The themes are well known and reflect Middelschulte's knowledge of Bach's keyboard literature. At times, themes are only suggested. This is true, for example, of the Fugue subject in C major from WTC I, which is briefly treated as a countermotive in Fugue No. 2. Likewise, the motive from one of the canons from the Goldberg Variations  always is secondary to some other theme.

The following outline lists the order of the themes in the Kontrapunktische Symphonie:

Introduction: No. 10

Fugue 1: No. 1

Fugue 2: Nos. 2, 1, 5

Fugue 3: Nos. 3, 9, 4, 6, 7, 2, 8

Fugue 4: Nos. 10, 11, 13, 12, 3, 14

Fugue 5: 10, 1, 3

The Kontrapunktische Symphonie, however, is more than a series of Bach quotations, for it has a powerful overall unity. This is achieved through the relationships between the fugues and the general tonal plan. Thus the introduction sets the tone for the work and leads into the first fugue. The first three fugues form a longer section and are marked by increasing rhythmic activity. Fugue No. 3 ends with a sustained toccata-like section that leads into Fugue No. 4. This fugue is in a tranquillo tempo and again strongly refers to the B-A-C-H motive; thus it serves as a slow interlude and a preparation for the fifth and final fugue. It is also notable for the largest number of thematic combinations. The fifth and final fugue, because of its return to a quick tempo and the central tonality of D, represents the climax of the work. As the work nears its conclusion, the tempo moves to Maestoso, as mentioned previously, with a harmonization of the theme from The Musical Offering  and references to the B-A-C-H theme, thus relating to the opening. This final section serves as the coda to the final fugue but also to the work as a whole.

The following shows the connections between the fugues:

Introduction--Fugues 1, 2, 3--Tranquillo Fugue with its BACH reference--Fugue 5 that returns to the tempo and figuration of the first three fugues--Maestoso conclusion.

This suggests that the fugues create longer sections and that there are cyclic references to the B-A-C-H motive which regularly punctuate the work. In one sense, it is possible to look at the work as having four sections: the introduction, the first three fugues, the slow interlude, and the concluding fugue with its peroration. Although the harmonic language is densely chromatic and the tonal references at the local level obscure, the use of D as an anchoring tonality at key spots of the work is structurally important. On the other hand, the most tonally ambiguous sections (built on the BACH motive) occur at the beginning and during the slow fugue. The final cadence of the work can be seen as a slow descent from E- flat to D.21

The term Symphonie, it seems to me, is used in two senses: as an indication of the scope of the work but also to imply that the organ is used in its full symphonic grandeur. As has been suggested throughout this article, there are clear connections between Busoni's Fantasia contrappuntistica and the Kontrapunktische Symphonie. As will be remembered, Middelschulte made an arrangement of the Fantasia and Busoni dedicated the final version of the work to him. In addition, the genesis of the Fantasia occurred during a period when Busoni was in close contact with Middelschulte. Both Busoni and Middelschulte were consummate virtuosi deeply involved with the music of Bach; thus the Fantasia contrappuntistica relates to the Kontrapunktische Symphonie. The parallels between the works can be summarized as follows:

Both reflect Bach's cyclic contrapuntal works: The Musical Offering  and the Art of Fugue .

Both were influenced by the theories of Bernhard Ziehn.

Both use a chromatic language influenced by Bach, Liszt, and Ziehn himself.

Both are based on the cyclic concept of fugues exemplified by the Art of Fugue .

Both use the D dorian mode as a focal tonality.

Both exemplify the aesthetics of the Chicago "Gothic" School.

Conclusion

The Kontrapunktische Symphonie was not Middelschulte's last composition. Middelschulte wrote a set of variations on "The Old 100th" that was completed in Italy before he left for Germany, but is now lost. In addition, he planned or composed a second symphony (probably in the style of the Kontrapunktische Symphonie). There is no indication as to when this work was started or how far it had progressed, though the letter of 1935 mentioned previously refers to it.22

The Kontrapunktische Symphonie is a manifestation of the relationships between and among Ziehn, Busoni, and Middelschulte, but it also reflects the Bach tradition beginning with Mendelssohn and continuing through Thiele and Haupt. It summarizes Middelschulte's lifelong interest in the music of Bach as well as approaches found in his earlier organ compositions. It also mirrors the Chicago-German connection as well as what Busoni termed "Young Classicism," or "the sifting and the turning to account all the gains of previous experiments and their inclusion in strong and beautiful form."23 Furthermore it epitomizes the Chicago "Gothic" tradition, a tradition of exploring recondite chromatic techniques and contrapuntal sophistication. This masterpiece demonstrates Middelschulte's control of the medium of organ composition, but it also suggests his own extraordinary abilities as a performer. It manifests those fascinating techniques evolved by Reger, Busoni, and Middelschulte around the turn of the 19th and 20th centuries that combine chromaticism with the contrapuntal rigor of the incomparable J.S. Bach.

Postscript

Middelschulte, although an important figure in his time, and, I believe, a seminal figure in the development of chromaticism at the beginning of the 20th century, has suffered a curious fate: he is little known in Germany and is largely forgotten in Chicago, where he made his home and taught for many years. A small number of Middelschulte devotees, however, are again bringing the music of this fascinating composer to public attention. A CD appeared in 1999 entitled Brink Bush performs Organ Works of Wilhelm Middelschulte (Volume 1). (This is available at  <www.ohscatalog.org&gt;.)

This CD contains the following works:

Perpetuum Mobile from the Konzert für Orgel über ein Thema von Joh. Seb. Bach (1903). This is based on Bach's "Wedge Fugue" (BWV 548) and is an early work that already shows the line of thought present in the Kontrapunktische Symphonie.

Passacaglia für die Orgel (1896). The BACH theme and the chorale Ein Feste Burg are used in this composition. This early work once more shows Middelschulte's consistency of approach.

Chromatische Fantasie und Fuge für Orgel (published 1922). It is based on original themes but is clearly related to Bach's celebrated Chromatic Fantasy and Fugue.

Drei Studien über den Choral Vater unser im Himmelreich (published 1913)

Kanonische Fantasie über B-A-C-H und Fuge über Themen von Joh. Seb. Bach (published 1906). This, as mentioned in the article, was the model for the Kontrapunktische Symphonie.

Middelschulte consistently used German titles for his compositions and wrote exclusively for organ (with the exception of orchestral accompaniments for the Konzert für Orgel, performed by Middelschulte under Stock with the Chicago Symphony Orchestra. These orchestral parts have been lost). He began composing rather late in life, but once he did he employed a complex style that continued to the last of the published works. His entire output can be considered a tribute to J.S. Bach.

At this time Brink Bush is preparing a second CD that will include the Kontrapunktische Symphonie, the full Konzert für Orgel, and the Kanon in F.    

Alexander Fiseisky

Alexander Fiseisky, born in Moscow, graduated with distinction from the Moscow Conservatoire as pianist and organist. He is an organ soloist of the Moscow State Philharmonic Society, head of the organ class at the Russian Gnessins’ Academy of Music in Moscow, and president of the Vladimir Odoyevsky Organ Center. He organized and served as artistic director for organ festivals in Moscow, St. Petersburg, Kiev, and Tallinn, among others. In 1997 he was honored by President Yeltsin with the title ‘Honored Artist of the Russian Federation’. Fiseisky has given concerts in more than 30 countries. In the Bach anniversary year of 2000 he played J. S. Bach’s entire organ works, twice in the context of EXPO 2000 in Hannover, and once in a single day in Düsseldorf as a Bach marathon. Sought after as a juror in international competitions, he has directed seminars and masterclasses in Europe and the USA. He is the dedicatee of numerous compositions, including works by Mikhail Kollontai, Vladimir Ryabov, Milena Aroutyunova, and Walther Erbacher. A musicologist, he has edited anthologies of organ music of Russia and of the Baltics (Bärenreiter-Verlag). He has many recordings to his credit, including the complete organ works of J. S. Bach.

It goes without saying that the primary
task of every performer who wishes to convey the meaning of any given musical work must first be to understand the original intention of the composer. And when the works in question are those of Johann Sebastian Bach, where the invisible thread that should link us to the era in which he lived seems to be irretrievably broken, the task takes on Herculean proportions. The aim of this analysis is to attempt a correct reading of the Clavierübung III—one of the most enigmatic works in the whole literature of the organ.
This work, which was composed at the high point of the composer’s creativity (1739), impresses us by its dimensions alone. It is part of a cycle of works, comprising the Six Partitas (Part 1, composed in 1731, BWV 825–830), the French Ouverture and the Italian Concerto (Part 2, composed in 1735, BWV 831, BWV 971), as well as the Goldberg Variations (Part 4, composed in 1742, BWV 988). And the Clavierübung III itself is also a cyclical work—it consists of 21 chorale preludes and four duets framed by a prelude and a fugue in E-flat major.
Bach certainly accorded the Clavierübung III particular importance. It is no coincidence that this was the first work for organ that he had published in Leipzig. What was Bach’s purpose in writing this work, and what means did he choose to fulfil it?

The history of the composition. The intentions and aims of the composer
The Clavierübung III was written to coincide with the 200th anniversary of Luther’s visit to Leipzig and the festal Whitsun service in St. Thomas Church on the 25th of May 1539, which effectively marked the official recognition of the Reformation in Leipzig. The Clavierübung III consists essentially of arrangements of chorales from the Protestant church service, and in its structure it is reminiscent of Luther’s Catechism, which consists of two parts: the Greater Catechism deals with the principles of faith, while the Lesser Catechism is directed more towards children and the less-educated part of the population. Correspondingly, each chorale melody—with the exception of Allein Gott in der Höh’ sei Ehr’ [Glory be to God alone on high]—is presented in two versions: a greater version which uses all the resources of the organ including the pedals, and a shorter manualiter version.
And indeed, because of its special structure, the Clavierübung III has often in the past been referred to as an “Organ Catechism,” and correspondingly it is usually referred to today as the “Organ Mass.” It is clear that neither of these two names do full justice to the structure of Bach’s composition. Nor do they explain the inclusion of the four duets.
The title of the work is as follows:

Dritter Theil / der / Clavier Übung / bestehend / in / verschiedenen Vorspielen / über die / Catechismus- und andere Gesaenge, / vor die Orgel: / Denen Liebhabern, und besonders denen Kennern / von dergleichen Arbeit, zur Gemüths Ergezung / verfertiget von / Johann Sebastian Bach, / Koenigl[ich] Pohlnischen, und Churfürstl[ich] Saechs[eschen] / Hoff-Compositeur, Capellmeister, und / Directore Chori Musici in Leipzig. / In Verlegung des Authoris.

[Third Part of the Clavierübung consisting of various preludes on the Catechism and other Hymns for the organ: for amateurs, and especially for connoisseurs of such work, for the refreshment of their souls, executed by Johann Sebastian Bach, Royal Polish and Electoral Saxon Court Composer, Capellmeister, and Directore Chori Musici in Leipzig. Published by the author.]

Bach here follows the example of his predecessor at St. Thomas Church, Johann Kuhnau (1660–1722), and modestly calls his work Clavierübung [Keyboard Exercise].2 He thereby encourages us, through diligent practice (Übung in German), to understanding his purpose in writing this work.
Let us accept this invitation.
The first question, even after a cursory look at Bach’s work, is probably “What does it represent in this compositional form? Are we to understand it as a unified dramatic whole or as a collection of diverse pieces for the keyboard?”
Characteristically, the usual concert practice suggests that the Clavierübung III is not seen as an integral work: virtually nobody plays the whole composition in its published form.3 But the question nevertheless remains: Is there really no suggestion of an overall dramatic structure within the work?
An analysis would help us to answer this question. But before we tackle it, we should—even very generally—look at some characteristics of the musical aesthetics and Bach’s particular compositional style during the period when he was working on the Clavierübung III.

The theological and philosophical basis of the work of J. S. Bach
Bach’s personal philosophy was heavily influenced by the philosophical ideas and the personality of Martin Luther (1483–1546). Books written by Luther accounted for a quarter of all the books in Bach’s private library. According to the personal inventory that was made after his death, Bach owned two complete editions of the works of Martin Luther in Latin and German, as well as works of his successors: Abraham Calov, Martin Chemnitz, Johannes Olearius, and others.4 The title page of an earlier version of the Clavier-Büchlein für Anna Magdalena Bach5 bears a note giving the title of the work as Anti-Calvinismus by August Pfeiffer, written in Bach’s own hand.
It is well known that Luther was a well-educated musician.6 In contrast to the majority of the reformers in the 16th century, Luther considered music to be a form of divine revelation. In the foreword to Georg Rhau’s anthology Symphoniae iucundae7 he wrote: “In summa: Die edle Musika ist nach Gottes Wort der höchste Schatz auf Erden.“8 [Summing up: Noble music is the greatest treasure on earth next to the Word of God.] He is quoted in the Encomion musices as giving a similar definition: “Musika ist eine schöne, liebliche Gabe Gottes, sie hat mich oft also erweckt und bewegt, daß ich Lust zu predigen gewonnen habe...”9 [One of the finest and noblest gifts of God is music. It has often aroused and moved me so that I have gained a desire to preach . . . ] And in a letter to Ludwig Senfl of 4 October 1530 we find the following lines in his handwriting:
Et plane judico, nec pudet asserere, post theologiam esse nullam artem, quae musicae possit aequari, cum ipsa sola post theologiam id praestet, quod alioqui sola theologia praestat, scilicet quietem et animum laetum…10
[I plainly judge, and do not hesitate to affirm, that except for theology there is no art that could be put on the same level with music, since except for theology, (music) alone produces what otherwise only theology can do, namely, a calm and joyful disposition.11]
Luther’s views were akin to those of Bach. Like the great reformer, Bach saw the world of music and the world of theology as very closely connected.12 A short handwritten treatise concerning figured bass, which Bach wrote while working on the Clavierübung III, is introduced with the following words:
Der Generalbaß ist das vollkommenste Fundament der Music welcher [auf einem Clavier] mit beyden Händen gespielt wird dergestalt das die lincke Hand die vorgeschriebenen Noten spielet die rechte aber Con- und Dissonantien darzu greift damit dieses eine wohlklingende Harmonie gebe zur Ehre Gottes und zulässiger Ergötzung des Gemüths und soll wie aller Music, also auch des General Basses Finis und End Uhrsache anders nicht, als nur zu Gottes Ehre und Recreation des Gemüths seyn. Wo dieses ists keine eigentliche Music sondern ein Teuflisches Geplerr und Geleyr.13
[The thorough-bass is the most perfect foundation of music. It is played with both hands on a keyboard instrument in such a way that the left hand plays the written notes, while the right hand strikes consonances and dissonances, so that this results in full-sounding Harmonie to the Honor of God and the permissible delight of the soul. The ultimate end or final goal of all music, including the thorough-bass, shall be nothing but for the Honor of God and the renewal of the soul. Where these factors are not taken in consideration, there is no true music, rather, devilish bawling and droning.14]

When Bach at the age of 23 left Mühl-hausen, he declared that the Endzweck [ultimate aim] of his creative work would be the regulirte kirchen music zu Gottes Ehren [regulated church music to the glory of God].15
One can further assess the musical and aesthetic views of the composer with the help of his annotations in the margins of a Bible that was published by Abraham Calov (1681–1682) in Wittenberg.16 These marginalia are quite valuable—they allow us to catch a glimpse of the personal views of their writer and open up his world for us.
Already in Exodus, Chapter 15, where the prophetess Miriam sings of the wonderful deeds of God, we can read in Bach’s own hand: “N.B. Erstes Vorspiel auf 2 Chören zur Ehre Gottes zu musiciren.” [N.B.: First prelude for two choirs to be sung to the glory of God.] As a comment on First Chronicles 29, v. 2117 we find the following statement by the composer:

Ein herrlicher Beweiß, daß neben andern Anstalten des Gottesdienstes, besonders auch die Musica von Gottes Geist durch David mit angeordnet worden.
[Splendid proof that, besides other arrangements for worship, music too was instituted through David by the Spirit of God.]18
First Chronicles 26 describes the choosing of musicians for the temple. Bach’s comment: “Dieses Capitel ist das wahre Fundament aller Gott gefälligen Kirchen Music.” [This chapter is the true foundation of all church music pleasing to God.]
And one final quote: Second Chronicles, chapter 5 contains the passage:

. . . it was the duty of the trumpeters and singers to make themselves heard in unison in praise and thanksgiving to the LORD, and when the song was raised, with trumpets and cymbals and other musical instruments, in praise to the LORD “For he is good; for his steadfast love endures for ever,” the house, the house of the LORD, was filled with a cloud, so that the priests could not stand to minister because of the cloud; for the glory of the LORD filled the house of God. (2 Chronicles 5:13–14)19

Bach annotates this text with a remarkable comment that has programmatic significance and shows not only his relationship to the composing, performing, and hearing of music, but also to the activities of a church musician in general: “Bey einer andächtigen Musique ist allezeit Gott mit seiner Gnaden Gegenwart.“ [Where there is devotional music, God with His grace is always present.]
These examples suffice to clarify where we must start if we wish to analyze the works of Johann Sebastian Bach. Albert Schweitzer wrote in his masterful fashion: “Music is an act of worship with Bach… For him, art was religion...”20 The orthodox Lutheran Bach, who was born and raised in Eisenach, Luther’s own town, where the façade of the main church of St. George was decorated with the Protestant motto “A mighty fortress is our God,” transcended in his music the boundaries of confession and creed. “In the last resort, however, Bach’s real religion was not orthodox Lutheranism, but mysticism. In his innermost essence he belongs to the history of German mysticism.”21
This mystical sensitivity to the presence of God and the desire to give witness to Him through music, coupled with his dazzling talent, enabled Bach in his later works to develop an astonishing artistic fusion, the likes of which had not been seen in the world’s cultural history.
In 1747 Bach was admitted to the Societät der musikalischen Wissenschaften [Society of the Musical Sciences], which his one-time pupil, the philosopher and music author Lorenz Christoph Mizler von Koloff (1711–1778), had founded.22 Mizler, a friend of Bach’s, was strongly influenced by Pythagorism and the rational philosophy of both G. W. Leibnitz (1646–1716) and Christian Wolff (1679–1754). He saw music as a mathematical science.23
The very fact that Bach accepted Mizler’s invitation to join the Societät der musikalischen Wissenschaften is in itself significant. The composer obviously sympathized with Pythagoras’s ideas concerning the universe and its perfect harmony: a harmony that, according to the teachings of the ancient philosopher and mathematician, was expressed in numbers,24 and shared the convictions of his progenies.
J. S. Bach became the fourteenth member of the Society after G. F. Telemann (6) and G. F. Handel (11), together with other well-known scholars and philosophers. Following the established tradition, upon joining the Society he contributed a mite of his own. In addition to the Canonic variations on “Vom Himmel hoch, da komm’ ich her” (BWV 769), the composer also donated a portrait of himself to the Society, which had been painted in 1746 by Elias Gottlob Hausmann. A microanalysis of the music manuscript that appears in this painting has been made by Friedrich Smend. The results have thrown light on significant aspects of Bach’s compositional methods, which until the middle of the twentieth century had not attracted much attention by scholars.25
Smend’s publication gave new impetus to investigating numerology in the works of the Cantor of St. Thomas Church in Leipzig.26 It is not without interest that the researchers first found support in the writings of Christian theologians, but later more and more in the works of the ancient philosophers.27

Features of J. S. Bach’s compositional method
Albert Schweitzer defined Bach as a phenomenon in the history of music: “Bach is . . . a terminal point . . . everything merely leads up to him.”28 Indeed the works of the Cantor of St. Thomas make use not only of the fruits of earlier achievements in composition, but they are also the consummation of the most characteristic tendencies in the music of his own time. He makes use of a plethora of past and present expressive techniques and puts them at the disposal of one single goal: the creation of “devotional music.”
So what exactly were the artistic methods used by J. S. Bach as a composer?
Victor Hugo once described Gothic cathedrals as “symphonies in stone.” If we apply this quotation to the works of Bach, we could say that his larger compositions are “Gothic cathedrals” in music. And when one looks more closely at how Bach approached a new composition we can actually find quite close parallels to architecture. One could contrast, for example, Bach’s methods with the processes current in Viennese Classicism. Whereas in the latter period composition proceeded in a “linear” fashion, beginning from the melody in one of the voices, the methods of Bach’s time started from quite a different point. First of all, the composer laid down a concept of the entire work, or—to use the architectural analogy—he created a “ground-plan.” Then he proceeded to fill in the details. An example of this method is provided by the Orgelbüchlein [Little Organ Book] (BWV 599–644).
This working method gave free rein to the composer’s imagination. The proportions of the composition and its “saturation” with both obvious and more hidden details—factors that played an important role in determining the overall sense of the work—could easily be incorporated in the composition from its very beginning. Great importance was attached to Affektenlehre [Doctrine of the Affections], musical-rhetorical figures, and numerology.
Bach was without a doubt a brilliant “musical architect.” There is no room in his works for anything non-essential. He worked in a similar fashion to the architects of the Middle Ages: every detail has its origin in the concept governing the whole. And as with the medieval builders, much of this work remains, even today, shrouded in mystery. There are always new avenues opening up in these seemingly well-known works for new generations of interpreters to explore.
One can of course only penetrate more deeply into this musical architecture of most of Bach’s works if the connection to the words of the chorales used by the composer is taken into account. Johann Gotthilf Ziegler (1688–1747), a pupil of Bach, wrote in 1746: “Herr Capellmeister Bach, who is still living, instructed me when playing hymns, not to treat the melody as if it alone were important, but to play them taking into account the affect of the words.”29
Johann Mattheson (1681–1764) described music as sounding speech. Naturally this form of speech required its own lexicon in the shape of the definite progressions of musical notes bearing the semantic meaning—the motives, or musical-rhetorical figures, as they are called. These were quoted by Bach’s cousin, Johann Gottfried Walther (1684–1748), in his Musicalisches Lexicon [Music Encyclopaedia] (1732) and in the Praecepta der Musicalischen Composition [Principles of Musical Composition] (1708). Another important compositional aspect was the use of rhetorical laws in the construction of the musical structure, so that the composition began to resemble a religious sermon. As already mentioned, the Affektenlehre [Doctrine of the Affections], which depended upon the use of unequal temperament and the resulting different emotional character of the various keys, played an important role in composition,30 as did, surrounded as it was by an air of mystery, numerology with its different levels of meaning.
One of these levels is to be found in allegorical symbolism. Andreas Werckmeister (1645–1706) gave the following meanings to the first eight numbers in Musikalische Paradoxal-Discourse:31 1 – God, unity; 2 – The Word, God the Son; 3 – The Holy Spirit; 4 – The world of angels; 5 – Symbol of Mankind (“sensual Mankind” [Numerus sensualis]); 6 – Third Person of the Godhead (3×2);32 7 – Symbol of purity and peace; 8 – Symbol of wholeness and perfection.
Another level is that of semantic symbolism. For example, the number 7 symbolises the Seven Last Words on the Cross.
A third level is that of cabbalistic symbolism. Each letter of the alphabet stands for a particular number: a = 1, b = 2, c = 3 and so forth. The letters i and j share the number 9, while u and v are both attributed to the number 20. This means that particular combinations of letters each have a corresponding number. For example, the number 14 is the sum of the numerical values of the letters BACH. Thus the number 14 (or similar numbers, such as 140 or 1.4) would be associated with the composer Bach, whose name was assembled from these individual letters.
Numbers were also used as a constructive element, whereby the harmonic proportions of the ratios of simple numbers, which had been known since Pythagoras’s time, were incorporated into the composition. In addition, the proportio divina, the “Golden mean,” was also used. Naturally Bach was a consummate master of all these creative methods and he used them constantly in his compositions. The most obvious example is the Clavierübung III, which occupies a key position among all Bach’s works for the organ.
Let us examine the structure of this composition more closely.

The chorale preludes
The central part of the work under consideration, as Bach’s title-page suggests, is the collection of chorale preludes. This collection covers not only the essential elements of the Protestant liturgy but also of Luther’s Catechism.
Kyrie, Gott Vater in Ewigkeit – Christe, aller Welt Trost – Kyrie, Gott heiliger Geist [Kyrie, God the Father, eternal – Christ, consolation of all the world – Kyrie, God the Holy Spirit] (BWV 669–674)
The triad of the first chorales creates a sense of unity. The models for these autonomous works were certain verses of the Gregorian chorale Kyrie fons bonitatis (10th century),33 which display the characteristic of a refrain. (Example 1) Such a compositional method is seldom found among Bach’s organ works. In the context of Kyrie – Christe – Kyrie it allowed the composer to establish by means of music the essence of the “one and indivisible” Holy Trinity.34
The first motif of the cantus firmus is characterized by a stepwise progression. In the final statement of the cantus firmus (which is the same in all three compositions), note the upwards leap over a fifth. It is perhaps of interest to note that both the stepwise movement on the one hand and the prominent role of the fifth on the other (elements that determine the mood of the first chorales of the Clavierübung III) play an important part in the dramatic construction of the whole work.
The unity of the initial Kyrie – Christe – Kyrie is underlined by the fact that they are written in a single compositional style—the stile antico. Hermann Keller described them as “Orgelmotetten kunst-vollster Art” [The most highly artistic motets for organ].35 The music suggests greatness and quiet strength. The movement of the accompanying voices working out the motifs of the cantus firmus is linear. The cantus firmus, which is kept in longer note values, appears successively in the soprano (Kyrie, Gott Vater in Ewigkeit), in the tenor (Christe, aller Welt Trost), and in the bass (Kyrie, Gott heiliger Geist), and thus symbolizes in similar fashion the three Persons of the Trinity: God the Father, who is above all, who holds all in being; Jesus Christ, the mediator between God and humankind; and the life-giving Holy Spirit.
The epic element appears organically tied to the inner dynamics of the Kyrie – Christe – Kyrie. The contemplative character of the first chorale gives way to a feeling of emotional turbulence in the second chorale. The third chorale is energy-laden, an effect achieved by the introduction of a fifth voice, the acceleration of the musical structure, and the use of chromatics.
The end of the chorale Kyrie, Gott heiliger Geist is quite remarkable: against the backdrop of the final statement of the cantus firmus in the pedals, a tie overflowing with chromatic dissonances appears in the upper voices. These six-and-a-half bars differ quite markedly from all that has gone before. The sound as it were illustrates the text, which at this point contains a plea for mercy. The word eleison is accompanied by an ostinato, which climbs in seconds and by a chromatic figura parrhesia. The music suggests a certain personal involvement. It is significant that one finds the motif BACH in crab motion here (although it appears in other notes), and finally encounters the signature of the composer: CH-BA in the alto of the penultimate bar. (Example 2)
There are altogether 60 bars in the chorale prelude Kyrie, Gott heiliger Geist, which matches Werckmeister’s concept well.36 And there is of course the additional association with the creation of the world (the six days of God’s creative work).37 It is worth mentioning that in the first prelude of the Clavierübung III the numerical symbol for the name Bach already occurs more than once. The subsequent statement of the theme in the chorale Kyrie, Gott Vater in Ewigkeit is not only emphasized by the use of parallel thirds, but also by its extension to 14 notes (the numerical value of the letters BACH).38 And the cantus firmus in the chorale prelude Kyrie, Gott heiliger Geist has a total of 41 notes (JSBACH).
The three manualiter Kyries, each in the form of a small fughetta, all elaborate the opening motif of the appropriate verse of the chorale. Each following chorale begins in the soprano with the last note of the preceding chorale, which serves to underline the inner unity of the three manualiter pieces Kyrie – Christe – Kyrie.
An interesting aspect, which is seldom found within Bach’s organ works, is how the keys of the six pieces we have looked at are related. Each of them has at least two tonal centers. We should not let the key signature with three flats of the greater chorale preludes Kyrie – Christe – Kyrie confuse us: the rules of musical notation would certainly have allowed these preludes to have been written with only two flats. It would appear that the composer intentionally adopted three flats in order to strengthen the association with the Holy Trinity.

Allein Gott in der Höh’ sei Ehr’
[Glory be to God alone on high] (BWV 675–677)
A special feature of the following section of the Clavierübung III is the fact that it has three different preludes on the chorale Allein Gott in der Höh’ sei Ehr’—the Protestant version of the Gloria in excelsis from the Gregorian Mass for Easter Sunday. An explanation for this phenomenon must be sought in the text of the chorale itself,39 as it sings the praises of the Holy Trinity. Correspondingly, Bach includes three preludes here, each of which is a very individually elaborated piece in three-part texture.
In the first prelude, elegant and rhythmical canon-like outer voices surround the cantus firmus in the alto. The next prelude is executed as a trio sonata with pedal obligato. The cantus firmus appears from time to time in one or other of the voices of this exquisite trio and blends with the natural flow of the music.40 The last chorale prelude is a small fugato in the manner of an Italian versetto, based on the first notes of the cantus firmus.41 All in all, these three versions of the angel’s praise Allein Gott in der Höh’ sei Ehr’ create a feeling of incorporality and immateriality, convincing us by their clarity and purity, and creating an impression of harmony and perfection.
In this section of the Clavierübung III there is a small, at first glance insignificant, compositional detail that is, however, very interesting when seen from the perspective of the dramatic construction of the whole. The keys of the chorale preludes—F major, G major, and A major—form an ascending motif that is the basis for all three preludes on Allein Gott in der Höh’ sei Ehr’. The composer must assuredly have chosen this sequence of keys with the aim of thus uniting the whole cycle. Numerology reveals another interesting aspect—the numerical values of F, G, and A (6 +7 + 1) comes to 14, the same value as BACH.

Dies sind die heil’gen zehn Gebot’ [These are the holy Ten Commandments] (BWV 678–679)
Following the lead of Luther’s Catechism, Bach now begins an extensive section of the Clavierübung III with arrangements of the Gregorian chorale on an Old Testament theme, Dies sind die heil’gen zehn Gebot’.42 This is the last pair of chorales in a major key for the remainder of the cycle and the only time that Bach uses the same key for two consecutive compositions—Mixolydian G major, which is one of the purest keys in unequal temperament. It is significant that in both the Orgelbüchlein and in Cantata 77, the chorale melody Dies sind die heil’gen zehn Gebot’ is also written in this key.
The greater chorale prelude is developed as a composition for five voices, with the cantus firmus appearing a total of five times as a canon in the tenor. Thus it appears ten times in all, symbolizing an obedient response to the Law.43
The beginning of the prelude is wonderful: over a pedalpoint we hear, emerging out of the stillness, the motif of three descending notes, which we encountered earlier in the piece, worked out as a canon in the upper voices. The measured diatonic motion, the prepared suspensions, the surrounding motifs, and the ascending triads—these are just some of the musical means the composer has used to create a world of unspoiled purity, order, and harmony, in which the unsullied inhabitants of Paradise were at home before the Fall. (Example 3)
A change in character occurs in the fifth bar44 with the introduction of a figura suspirans45 and a motif of ‘falling seconds’, supplemented by a descending chromatic figura parrhesia motif in the alto. (Example 4)
Now the music is dominated by grief, sorrow, and misfortune.46 A change occurs once more in the sixth bar with the introduction of a figura kyklosis or figura circulatio in the alto47 (Example 5), which enriches the fabric with its new nuances. Thus with the help of symbolic motifs that are organically woven into the very fabric of the music, the composer brings us closer to the meaning of the chorale.
The First Commandment, which Luther in his Great Catechism deems to be the most important, is interpreted in the second verse of the chorale:

Ich bin allein dein Gott, der Herr,
kein Götter sollst du haben mehr,
du sollst mir ganz vertrauen dich,
von Herzens Grund lieben mich,
Kyrieleis.

[I alone am your God, your Lord,
No other Gods shall you have,
You shall put your whole trust in me,
Love me from the depth of your heart.
Kyrieleis.]

There is much evidence that precisely these lines were the starting point for Bach’s plan for the whole composition.
It is interesting to note that where the text speaks of “the love of God that comes out of the depths of the heart,” Bach interrupts the cantus firmus (bars 48–50) and increases the number of repetitions from ten to twelve. The motivation for this change can best be seen as an attempt to create a connection between the Old and New Testaments, whose interpreters in the new Christian congregations were the twelve Apostles. And Bach will follow the same intention to connect, through the symbolic comparison of the numbers ten and twelve, the Mosaic Law and the teachings of Jesus again in the Eucharist part, the conclusion of the chorale prelude section of the Clavierübung III.
It is well known that in the New Testament the Commandment of Love takes on decisive significance: “Jesus answered . . . you shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind, and with all your strength” (Mark 12:30). The composer underlines the importance of this commandment with the help of special methods that are introduced at key points. When the word Herz [Heart] appears in the chorale text, Bach highlights it (in bars 46-47) with two groups of 16th notes, and when the words lieben mich [love me] appear in bars 51–52, he uses the heterolepsis, a musical rhetorical figure that creates the effect of two being united in one.48 Thus the composer uses musical means to portray the tangible content of the text. (Example 6)
Numerology plays an especially important role in the chorale prelude Dies sind die heil’gen zehn Gebot’.49 The chorale prelude has 60 bars (corresponding to the six days of creation). A pause first appears in the pedal after 37 notes, which can be seen as the Labarum, or Chi-Ro Christogram.50 The next pause comes after 60 further notes (another apparent reference to the creation of the cosmos). The subsequent melodic structure of the pedal line up to the pedalpoint in bar 29, which creates the illusion of a reprise, contains 47 notes. In the first bar, after the pause (bar 21), we encounter a leap of two octaves in the pedal, covering the entire range of the pedal, which is very unusual. (Example 7)
It is well known that Bach often referred to the Psalter, as did Luther in his Catechism. Psalm 47:2 states: “For the LORD, the Most High, is awesome, a great king over all the earth.” The text of the cantus firmus quoted at the point of the two octave leap is: Kein Götter sollst du haben mehr [No other Gods shall you have]. Michael Radulescu suggests that we should see the leap as an original “musical comment” by the composer, which, though hidden behind the abstract numerological symbolism, is to be understood as a distinct statement: “I am larger than life, I am your King.”51
The subsequent phrase in the pedal contains 147 notes. When Luther in his Catechism explains the meaning of the Ten Commandments, he quotes Psalm 147:11: “But the LORD takes pleasure in those who fear him, in those who hope in his steadfast love.” By introducing the number 147 into his chorale prelude Dies sind die heil’gen zehn Gebot’, Bach is underlining the actuality of the psalmist’s words quoted by Luther for the theme of the Decalogue.
The final notes of the cantus firmus in the second tenor are accompanied by a descending counterpoint in the first tenor, beginning with a chromatic figura parrhesia, which contains 12 notes (bars 57–60). The last phrase in the pedal consists of 14 notes (BACH), which is preceded by two short phrases of five notes each.
After all the above we can concur with those experts who suggest that the basic idea behind this work is love for the Creator.52 Additional confirmation for the correctness of this view is the number 315, which is the sum of all notes in the pedal. Albrecht Clement considers this number to be the numerical expression of the phrase Du sollt Gott, deinen Herren, lieben. [Literally: “You should love God, your Lord” as a direct rendering of the Luther Bible’s translation of Mark 12:30.]53
Characteristically, Bach introduces this summons in the title of Cantata 77, whose opening chorus is built upon the theme of the chorale prelude Dies sind die heil’gen zehn Gebot’, viz.

Du sollt Gott deinen Herren lieben
24 + 73 + 59 + 49 + 65 + 45 = 315

The manual fughetta on the chorale Dies sind die heil’gen zehn Gebot’, written in the form of a gigue, is also dominated by the number 10, although it also contains other interesting numerical allusions.
First of all, it is a four-voice fughetta and the theme is presented ten times (4×10 = 40). The same relationship can be seen in the exposition of the fughetta: ten bars of four dotted eighth notes (10×4 = 40). The theme runs for ten beats. Thus we see the same relationship in the exposition: 10×4 = 40. The theme in the second exposition is presented in inversion and in a shortened form (six beats). The relationship is correspondingly 6×4 = 24. And finally, the last two stretti quotations of the theme (bars 32–35) give us the relationship 8×2 = 16, as the theme here is eight beats long. It is not difficult to see that the addition of 24 and 16 results in the key number 40, which is apparently a reference to the Jewish people’s forty years of wandering in the wilderness before being given the stone tablets with the Decalogue.
The theme has a most interesting structure. It consists of two parts: the main melody of the chorale emerging from a repeated ostinato note and its leaps (six beats), and stepwise motifs over a fifth (four beats). (Example 8) Christoph Albrecht described the theme figuratively as a musical picture of a “raised warning forefinger.”54 But numerology allows us to find deeper connotation in it. The second part of the theme contains 14 notes (BACH). One could consider this as a mere coincidence, were it not that we meet the melody with this numerical symbol again at other central formative points in this little piece.
This second part of the melody occurs as a theme in its own right in the 41st beat of the fughetta (JSBACH), where it fills out the eleventh bar at the junction between the two expositions. Again, this melody is consistently developed in the 14 bars that separate the two concluding quotations of the theme from the second exposition. And we would finally add that the number 14 is underlined by the sum total of all the beats in this chorale prelude: they all add up to 140.
Without a doubt it would be the very height of negligence for a performer who is looking for an authentic interpretation to ignore the manifold recurrence in the composition of the name of its creator. The composer of the manual version of Dies sind die heil’gen zehn Gebot’ obviously had definite reasons for weaving his name again and again into the musical fabric of the work.
Let us boldly assume that in this work Bach wishes to embody the idea of the divine Commandments as the cornerstone of his own life. The tenfold repeated theme of the chorale Dies sind die heil’gen zehn Gebot’ and the numerical symbol 40 harbor the idea of the Commandments. Their importance for Bach personally is attested to by the composer’s repeated use of the symbol 14.

This article will be continued.

 

A Performer’s Investigation, Part 1

by Gary Verkade

Knowledge

In order to acquire knowledge about John Bull’s work, it is important to know a little bit about what knowledge actually meant at the time the work was created. Here we are dealing with the late Renaissance–early Baroque, the exact date of the composition itself, as far as I have been able to determine, being unknown. Michel Foucault in his book, The Order of Things: An Archaeology of the Human Sciences, states:

Up to the end of the sixteenth century, resemblance played a constructive role in the knowledge of Western culture. It was resemblance that largely guided exegesis and the interpretation of texts; it was resemblance that organized the play of symbols, made possible knowledge of things visible and invisible, and controlled the art of representing them. The universe was folded in upon itself: the earth echoing the sky, faces seeing themselves reflected in the stars, and plants holding within their stems the secrets that were of use to man (p. 17) . . . To search for a meaning is to bring to light a resemblance (p. 29) . . . There is no difference between the visible marks that God has stamped upon the surface of the earth, so that we may know its inner secrets, and the legible words that the Scriptures, or the sages of Antiquity, have set down in the books preserved for us by tradition. The relation to these texts is of the same nature as the relation to things: in both cases these are signs that must be discovered (p. 33) . . . Knowledge therefore consisted in relating one form of language to another form of language; in restoring the great, unbroken plain of words and things; in making everything speak. That is, in bringing into being, at a level above that of all marks, the secondary discourse of commentary. The function proper to knowledge is not seeing or demonstrating; it is interpreting (p. 40).

If knowledge in the Renaissance and Baroque is interpretation and uncovering order, then knowledge about a work of art created in this transition time at the end of the Renaissance and the beginning of the Baroque can only be about discovering an order and an interpretation. I do not believe that the impossibility of total certainty of the results of such inquiry should deter one from the attempt to understand a work in the sense the maker might have understood that concept of “understanding.” One thing is certainly true. Understanding, in this sense, for a musician cannot simply mean hearing and/or playing a work and responding with “like” or “dislike.” Our response must go deeper. “It is not enough to feel the effects of a science or an art. One must conceptualize these effects in order to render them intelligible” (Rameau, p. xxxv). We must dig in order to uncover what might be hidden from cursory view. We must, as Frescobaldi demands, “endeavour in the first place to discover the character of the passages, the tonal effect intended by the composer  . . . ”(Notes).

John Bull

 

John Bull (1562–1628) had his feet in the Renaissance and his head in the Baroque. In other words, he was a child of the Renaissance and experienced the beginnings of the new era as a grown man. He was the student of John  Blitheman. John is known as William in the Fitzwilliam Virginal Book, which contains an In nomine of his immediately preceding the Ut, re, mi, fa, sol, la of Bull’s which is the subject of the present essay. Blitheman was known for his cantus firmus compositions, which occasionally demanded great virtuosity of the player. Bull’s education, grounded in Renaissance teaching as it must have been, certainly did not end with his formal studies. He was elected first Public Reader in Music at Gresham College, London in March of 1597 where he remained, except for a year’s leave of absence, until 1607, the year which saw his necessary marriage to one Elizabeth Walter, who was pregnant with his child. During his period at Gresham, the College was a hotbed of discussion of new ideas, inventions and discoveries from all over Europe.

For example, during the last quarter of the sixteenth century the ideas of Copernicus became more widely disseminated among the general public, the world view which stood the previous view of the universe on its head. What was formerly immovable, the earth, now was realized to be hurtling through space at unheard-of speeds. Bull must have been well-informed as to the revolutions in scientific thought in which learned men all across Europe were engaged. He was part of the established intellectual community; the universities did not ignore these new, ground-breaking ideas. He must have known about the fierce debates between the followers of Copernicus and those of Aristotle at Cambridge during the 1580s. For “we find Gresham College was, throughout the first half of the seventeenth century, a general clearinghouse for information concerning the latest scientific discoveries. Its professors of astronomy and geometry were among the ablest scientists of their day, and the college’s central location in London made their rooms a convenient rendezvous for all those who were actually contributing to the advancement of science in England” (Johnson, p. 263).

There is no need to go into the relevance of science to music in either the Renaissance or Baroque eras. That relationship has been amply discussed in a plethora of publications. What is important to note here is that the age in which Bull lived and worked was one of adventurous discovery, one in which science was revolutionizing the view of the world, as well as one in which, first in Italy and then in the rest of Europe, music, too, was undergoing revolutionary change. It is important to note that revolution, new ways of thinking, were part and parcel of Elizabethan life. Bull was no stranger to the new.

The hexachord

The hexachord was first described, but not named, in Guido of Arezzo’s treatise Micrologus of 1025–28. There are three hexachords, all of which have the same intervallic structure: the hexachordum naturale (C - D - E - F - G - A); the hexachordum molle, so-called because it included b molle, i.e., b-flat (F - G - A - B-flat - C - D); and the hexachordum durum, so-called because it included b durum, i.e. b-natural (G - A - B - C - D - E). Since medieval theory did not consider pitches of higher or lower octaves to be identical, seven hexachords were differentiated in the scale from G to e2, all of them beginning on C, F, or G. There was no concept of modulation. A melody exceeding the compass of a single hexachord was considered to be in transition from one hexachord to another. This movement was referred to as mutation. Tonal centers were not established by such movement, but rather the compass of a particular melody simply shifted from one area to another by making use of a pivot tone, a tone which belonged to both hexachords. Thus, for example, the tone sol in one hexachord could at the same time function as the tone ut in another. Yet, because the hexachord has the same construction whether based on C, F, or G, it has one interesting similarity to the major-minor tonal system: it has the potential to form the basis of a relative pitch system.

Guido’s treatise was referred to throughout the ensuing centuries, though the term “hexachord” itself apparently does not appear until about the 16th century. Although Masses based on the hexachord were composed, keyboard composers of the late Renaissance and the early Baroque seem to have been particularly fascinated by the musical possibilities offered by this theme. Pieces based on the hexachord were written by such important composers as Girolamo Frescobaldi (2) and Gregorio Strozzi in Italy, Johann Jakob Froberger in Austria, Pieter Cornet (the piece survives only as a fragment) and Jan Pieterszoon Sweelinck in the Low Countries, Samuel Scheidt in North Germany, Pablo Bruna in Spain, and William Byrd (2), Thomas Tomkins (7!), John Lugge, and John Bull (3) in England.

John Bull and the hexachord

Thomas Morley, as Master Gnorimus in A Plaine and Easie Introdvction to Practicall Mvsick (1597) which is organized in dialogue form, spends at the beginning of that treatise a considerable amount of time explaining musical notation to Philomathes, a student in the dialogue. He does this by using the hexachord and the syllables ut, re, mi, fa, sol, la. Morley’s art of teaching music was not unique in England and musicians must have been familiar with this system.

 The adventurous John Bull composed three very different pieces on the hexachord. One, Ut, re, mi, fa, sol, la [II], is an extended composition (292 measures in the Musica Brittanica edition, 237 irregularly-barred measures in the Fitzwilliam Virginal Book) in which, after the second statement, the hexachord theme is treated principally as a cantus firmus in the soprano in long notes accompanied by figurations which become in the course of the piece quite virtuosic. Beginning with a long section in two voices, Bull introduces a third voice for a similarly long section, and then a fourth voice, the piece remaining four-voiced to the end. The subdivision of the beat changes a number of times in the course of this work and in addition to the metric two-against-three which occurs in the juxtaposition of duple and triple times, rhythmic two-against-three is also found in this composition, a favorite Bull device.

Another is the more contrapuntal, 188-measure Ut, re, mi, fa, sol, la [III] (not found in the Fitzwilliam Virginal Book) composition. The more sustained polyphonic nature of the five-part texture and the avoidance of metric and rhythmic variety (the piece moves principally in halves, quarters and eighths with some dotting of values) starkly differentiate this piece from the preceding one. In addition, the hexachord theme itself is found in several rhythmic forms, principally varying combinations of halves and quarters with some tied notes, dotted values and an occasional eighth-note.

The piece which is the subject of this essay is the shortest of the three hexachord compositions by Bull.

Ut, re, mi, fa, sol, la [I]

Editions

I made the decision to use the version of the piece found in the Fitzwilliam Virginal Book since it is clearly closer to the actual score of the piece as Bull himself might have written it. The version found in the Musica Brittanica edition, with its regularly-barred measures and its conformity to 20th-century notational practices, leads one to think that the piece may be in common time. Whereas I would like, as much as is possible for a musician living very much with both feet planted in the 21st century, to get into the musical mind of Bull as it manifests itself in this composition. One must assume that whoever copied the music in the 17th century had an understanding of the music he was copying and, especially, was closer to the manner in which it was notated than editors in the mid-20th century could have been. And it is the notation which provides the only clues we have directly from the composer, clues we need in order to reach some understanding of the work, without which appropriate interpretive decisions cannot be made. The importance of the manuscript and the collection in general speaks for going to the Fitzwilliam Virginal Book as primary source.

The theme

The theme (see Example 1) has two parts, which mirror each other, consisting of the ascending and descending hexachord. The highest note (at the first appearance of the theme an e1) is always repeated.

As do the other two compositions on this theme, the present work begins not only with the hexachordum durum, but also with the very same note: g0, although it is the soprano voice (not bass or tenor as in the other pieces) which here begins the work in this low register.

Meter

Since the irregular measures of 1/1, 2/1, 3/1, 4/1, 5/1, 9/2, and 12/2 do not seem to indicate any regular occurrence of accent, my attention was brought to the consideration of meter in terms of the theme as a whole. The whole note is the value at which the regular occurrence of the tactus takes place. The piece floats in an unaccentuated flow of regular beats of that tactus. The entrance of the hexachord theme every 13 whole-note units is the important, regularly occurring event in the work. The unit of measure is not the bar line, wherever it is drawn, but rather the whole note itself and we will subsequently refer to whole-note units rather than any measure numbers. The six ascending and six descending notes give us the duration of twelve whole-notes. Except for the first three statements and one curious half note during the 13th statement, the entire theme consists of 12 unvaried note values throughout.  The final pitches of the first two statements consist of two whole notes: two g0’s and two a0’s respectively. The final pitch of the third statement is one b0 whole note tied to another. After that, the final pitch of the theme is always a whole note separated from the following thematic statement by a whole-note rest. This makes the entire theme, the ascending and descending hexachord and the unit of rest, one phrase measuring 13 units (whole notes).

We can think of the hexachord theme as beginning with a downbeat and spanning the duration of 13 whole notes. A secondary accent occurs, perhaps, at the repetition of the highest note of the theme, which results in two units of six whole notes each. The 13th whole note of the first statement repeats the final note, that of the second statement repeats the final note with an ornament, that of the third is tied to the previous whole note. After that, the 13th whole note is a rest. The 13th unit of the hexachord theme functions, especially beginning with the fourth statement, as a breath, a metrical breath if you will, a moment of rest, of gathering energy, before continuing with the next statement. This music breathes in 13-unit phrases with a consistency unbroken until the end.

Transposition

The second statement of the hexachord theme begins a whole-step higher than the first statement; and the third statement begins another whole step higher. This transposition of the theme upwards by whole step is pursued rigorously up to f1, at which point the next statement would appear again on a G (g1, an octave above the first note of the piece). This Bull does not do, but rather jumps down almost two octaves to A-flat and begins the process of transposition by whole step upwards all over again, using the remaining pitches of the twelve-note chromatic scale.

Example 2 gives the initial notes of all 17 statements of the hexachord theme, the last 4 statements of which are all on the same pitch, g1. Thus we see that the cycle of whole-step transposition, beginning on g0, interrupted once at f1 and leaping down to A-flat instead and then continuing the cycle in order to return to g0, involves 13 statements of the hexachord theme.

Modulation

With the transposition of the hexachord theme Bull is forced to modulate to new keys at every single entrance of the theme. The composition manifests remarkable instances of modulatory prowess and enharmonic ambivalence. Consider Example 3.

The E-major chord at the beginning of Example 3 includes b0, the last note of the previous statement of the theme.  D-flat1 is the first note of the fourth entrance of the theme and it appears here immediately as D-flat and not as C-sharp, as might be expected from the previous harmony. The enharmonic modulation must take place somewhere and Bull chooses to do it here. Apparently, in spite of what the Musica Brittanica edition has done here (namely first spell c-sharp1, then tie to d-flat1), Bull is not interested in making a smooth, a plausible, enharmonic modulation (see Example 4).

We can see that Bull has not written a piece concerned with modulating to as many keys as possible, thereby enabling the hexachord theme to appear in those keys. The plan of his work is to transpose, to shift the hexachord theme; he shifts the theme and afterwards draws the harmonic consequences. The transposition of the hexachord theme is the given, leading to necessary modulation—not modulation leading to transposition of the theme. The transposition of the hexachord theme is the postulate which implies the stipulation of key, not vice versa.  In other words: the form is a priori and precipitates the harmony; the harmony does not precipitate the form.

Form

We have noted above that after 12 shifts or transpositions of the hexachord theme, i.e. with the 13th transposition, Bull returns, comes full circle transpositionally, to the g0 with which he started the piece, though here it is the bass voice and not the soprano as at the beginning. Here Ut, re, mi, fa, sol, la could conceivably end. Bull has traversed the entire gamut of pitches available to him in the chromatic scale and returned back to where he had started. This disregards, however, the psychological strain through which he has put his listener. Bull must draw the consequences of going so far afield harmonically. He must first establish conclusively for the listener that one has arrived “home.” And that is not achieved by a single statement on G.

There follow four more statements of the hexachord theme, all on G, all on the same g1, all in the soprano voice. However, just as Bull begins to anchor the listener in the hexachordum durum, he changes what has up to that point been a duple to a triple division of the beat. Now this is a common device found at the ends of many compositions of this period and others: triple subdivision as ecstatic conclusion. Statement 14 consists of three half notes per whole note. Occasionally the half notes are subdivided into duple quarters which sound against the (now dotted) whole notes. Statement 15 contains both duple and triple subdivisions of the beat; the quarter notes here are ambiguously either triple subdivisions of the duple half notes or duple subdivisions of the triplet half notes. This rhythmic ambiguity occurs exactly at the point where Bull is interested in being unambiguous harmonically, i.e., he can now afford to be ambiguous on the rhythmic level now that the harmonic level has become more stable. Statements 16 and 17 return to duple subdivisions on all levels, as had been the case from statements 1 to 13.

So at the end of the composition there are five statements of the hexachordum durum. The first of these five statements (on g0) occurs at the end of the transposition process begun at the outset of the piece and belongs to that process. It rounds off that section of the piece. The final four statements (on g1) are no longer part of that process, but provide the necessary anchoring in G in order for the piece to come to a satisfactory close.

Counterpoint I: beginning and end

The hexachord appears as a cantus firmus, it does not take part in any imitative counterpoint. Three of the four voices are, then, not predetermined by the form. The opening of Ut, re, mi, fa, sol, la is instructive (see Example 5) and merits a close look. It is not marked by strict imitation carried through the three free voices.

The soprano begins, opening with the hexachordum durum on g0. The bass enters one half note later on the same g0, before the soprano moves to its second note. The two voices sound together for the duration of one half note with the same pitch, thus obscuring the two-voiced texture. The bass continues stepwise downwards through the fourth unit. At unit three the alto enters with a motive different from both the hexachord in the soprano and the descending motive in the bass. It enters on the only available note between soprano and bass: g0. The tenor enters one unit later with the descending motive first heard at the bass entrance. However, the entrance of the tenor is obscured by the fact that at that same moment the alto and the soprano sound the same note together: c1. In other words, at the entrance of the fourth voice one hears only three voices. This obscures not only the texture again, but the imitation between bass and tenor as well. Significant, and genial, about the beginning of the work is that all four voices start from exactly the same point, exactly the same pitch: the final of the hexachordum durum, g0.

The descending fifth motive, found in the bass and tenor voices, does not reappear as such throughout the rest of the work until the very last measures. The motive is given one prefix note and is found here in all three free voices. This reminiscence of the beginning provides a fitting and appropriate close to the work (see Example 6).

Counterpoint II: alto motive

At the beginning of the work (see example 5) the soprano has the hexachord as cantus firmus and the bass and tenor voices imitate each other, in fact the first five pitches are exactly the same. The alto voice is here unique, free. It proves to have a more productive motive than that shared by tenor and bass, and, indeed, we find that it is not imitation which is most significant here or in the work as a whole. There are scattered passages which employ imitation in one form or another, more or less strictly, between two or three voices. There seems to be no overall formal principle which dictates when and where imitation between the voices takes place. It is one of the compositional means at Bull’s disposal and he uses it without ever losing the prevailing sense of freedom which the three voices have in the face of the strict formal construction of the transposition scheme of the hexachord.

The emphasis is not on imitative counterpoint, but rather on a free development of the concept of imitation. One can see this on the freedom with which Bull treats the alto motive, heard at the outset (see Example 7) and referred to henceforth as the alto motive no matter in which voice it is found.

During the course of the second statement of the hexachord theme, we hear this motive in different guises in three of the four voices (see Example 8).

Rhythm and intervals are altered, and inversion is heard in the alto and bass as well as retrograde in the bass voice. Just a few units later, during the third statement of the hexachord theme, the alto motive is found using a passing tone (see Example 9).

The part of the motive which is found at units 33–34, using the quarter-note passing tone, is one that is found in all the three free voices at that point and plays a role through the fourth entrance of the hexachord theme. The alteration of the alto motive thus generates a further motive that is used contrapuntally in these passages.

In Example 10, taken from the fourth statement of the hexachord theme, we find an interesting canon, interesting in the fact that it is not strict. The bass voice leads, followed by the alto voice one whole note later with a rhythmically enlivened version of the bass voice. Also noteworthy is how the same note takes on different harmonic functions. This is due, of course, to the fact that one of the voices is the bass and the other the alto. It also has to do with the fact that, although the entrance of the d-flat1 in the alto is rhythmically analogous to the entrance of the d-flat0 in the bass, namely mid-unit, the d-flat1 enters with the length of a whole note and obscures the fact that the alto voice is, contrary to the bass, placed on the unit (beat). Thus the g-flat0 in the bass becomes dissonant at unit 44, whereas the g-flat1 in the alto at unit 45 is consonant for its entire duration. So, too, the e-flat0 in the bass is consonant for its duration, but, the e-flat1 in the alto at unit 47 becomes dissonant.

This last example demonstrates the developmental possibilities of the alto motive. Given its construction (see Example 7), the small ambitus of a perfect fourth, the prominent interval of the third, and the half step at the end, it is a motive that is related to any other motive using those intervals. It is possible to recognize in example 10 that the alto line is directly derived from the alto motive in the bass voice. In other cases it is more difficult to assert that other motives with similar constructions were consciously fashioned from the alto motive. Nevertheless, many of the passages contain motives constructed with thirds and fourths, or often end with a half step, which fact is not surprising in music that is articulated with cadences.

From units 86–93 (see Example 11), the end of the seventh and the beginning of the eighth statement of the hexachord theme, we find the alto motive used in free imitative fashion between soprano, alto and tenor. Interesting is the alto voice which mirrors itself beginning at unit 89 and then tacks on a cadential e-flat1 - d1 - e-flat1.

Example 12, from the tenth statement of the hexachord theme, demonstrates a still freer treatment of the alto motive or, if you will, those primary intervals of which the alto motive is constructed. The passage does not illustrate imitative counterpoint, but rather a free development of the alto motive. Notice particularly the alto voice which, as in the previous example, mirrors itself and pivots around f-sharp1.

Immediately following this passage, at the end of the tenth and the beginning of the eleventh statement of the hexachord theme, the soprano states two versions of the alto motive successively, the first descending (i.e, inverted), the second ascending (see Example 13).

There are further passages in which the alto motive or fragments thereof play a role in the contrapuntal texture of the work. Often, just as is the case in a number of the above examples, they are worked into phrases which are much longer. The motive shines forth suddenly from within the context of something larger than itself and contributes to the unity of the work.          

Gary Verkade was born in Chicago and grew up in the south suburbs. He studied music at Calvin College and the University of Iowa in the United States, and in 1978 he received a Fulbright grant to study at the Folkwang-Hochschule in Essen, Germany, and lived in Germany for 17 years. He has performed much new music throughout Europe and the United States and is the composer of music for organ, electronics, chamber and improvisational ensembles.Verkade has been a guest professor/lecturer/performer at universities in Europe and the United States; he served on the music faculty of Carthage College, Kenosha, Wisconsin, from 1995–2000. He is presently on the faculty of the Musikhögskolan i Pitea, Sweden, where he continues to teach, perform, compose, record, and write about music.