Piano Literature 1
MUSC 4325
Professor Korevaar
Fall 2007
Bach 4
September 20, 2007
Listen to:
Italian Concerto
Goldberg Variations (at least first 12 variations; be familiar with the
structure of the work)
How does the Italian Concerto get its name? What do the dynamic
indications in the score mean? How do we know what instrument Bach
wrote these two works for?
Bach’s Goldberg Variations
Notes by David Korevaar and Tim Smith
Published in the early 1740s as the fourth book of Bach’s modestly
titled Clavierübung (“keyboard practice”), the Aria mit
verschiedenen Veränderungen (“Aria with diverse variations”) is
the apotheosis of the Baroque variation set. Since the early 17th
century, composers like Girolamo Frescobaldi had composed variations –
called Partite in Italian – based on standard bass-lines with names
like Follia, Ruggiero, Passacaglia, Monicha, and Romanesca. These fixed
forms would have been familiar to musicians of that time in the way
that today’s standards are to jazz musicians. By the time Bach
came around to writing his far grander set on a bass-line that combines
features of several of these older fixed forms, these kinds of
bass-line oriented variations sets were already a kind of historical
curiosity.
Approaching this musical monument was not easy for me. At the outset, I
wasn’t sure that Bach expected the piece to be performed as a whole.
The abstract architecture of the piece, with its canons separated by
dances and wild hand crossings; the wide variety of genres and styles
encompassed within its great expanse; the sheer length of the piece if
performed with all of the repeats – these aspects conspire to overwhelm
the performer and the audience. I think one could make any number of
convincing excerpts from the work, creating little suites of variations
or even performing them singly. And, to make the whole convincing as a
concert piece (or on a recording to be heard at one sitting) finally
required, from my point of view, a judicious selection of repeats to do
and repeats to omit. The biggest reward of the process was the
(re)discovery of the greatness of these variations – both the parts and
the whole. In fact, whether or not Bach expected a complete
performance, the whole makes sense. And every variation is itself a
masterpiece.
One of the marvelous things about growing up as a
musician today has been the opportunity to see the early instrument
movement blossom. Listening to the many wonderful recordings of works
by Bach and earlier composers on harpsichord and teaching about the
earlier keyboard repertoire in my Piano Literature classes at the
University of Colorado has opened my ears to a new world of sound and
rhythmic treatment. The sense of timing created by the physical act of
plucking a harpsichord string brings a special kind of swing to music
both fast and slow; the need to show expressive nuance with time rather
than tone – the opposite of what pianists are trained to do for the
most part – creates its own aesthetic of what tempo is. As I worked on
the Goldbergs, I strove to find a sense of time and tone that would
preserve characteristics of the harpsichord approach while adapting it
to the sonic flexibility and color of the modern piano, pedals and all.
The Aria that begins and ends the piece, with its
bass-line that appears in all 30 variations, is rhythmically and
phraseologically a courtly Sarabande, with a strong melodic emphasis on
the second beat of the ¾ measure. Bach’s familiarity with French
harpsichord music of his lifetime and before is translated into an
absolute mastery of that idiom. This 32-bar Aria, with its lute-derived
textures and sure deployment of ornamentation, could stand by itself as
an apotheosis of French Baroque style. To follow it with 30 “diverse
variations” in a compendium of styles – French, German, Italian;
dance-derived, contrapuntal, vocal; virtuosic in terms of both
composition and performance – shows Bach in the last decade of his life
as the summarizer and transcender of all the stylistic innovations of
the preceding century-and-a-half of keyboard music.
Each group of three variations ends with a canon – a
piece based on the exact imitation, according to a “canon” or rule, of
one voice by a second. Each canon uses a successively larger interval
as its point of imitation, beginning with the same pitch level (unison)
in Variation 3, up through the ninth (an octave plus one note) in
Variation 27. What should be the final canon, Variation 30, is instead
a Quodlibet (“as you please”): the contrapuntal combination, in best
serious religious style, of popular tunes and chorales – a
compositional joke in a way, but also a serious-sounding grand
conclusion before the return of the Aria. Two of the canons (Variation
12: at the fourth; Variation 15: at the fifth) add a second rule beyond
imitation at the given interval: that of inversion. In these two cases,
the imitating voice appears upside-down. All of the canons except for
the final one are in the Italian trio-sonata texture: the canon takes
place in two upper voices, while the bass provides an accompaniment.
Even these most Germanic of contrapuntal exercises are informed by
Bach’s love and understanding of the dance; not one of them lacks an
underlying swing to remind us of some French courtly rhythmic source.
Every third variation then is not only an example of Germanic
contrapuntal mastery, it is also a reminder of the “provincial” Bach’s
cosmopolitanism as a composer.
The other two variations of each group allow Bach to
show that he can do absolutely anything better than anyone else before
him – and do it without ever changing the underlying bass-line. The
first two variations are contrapuntal; the first a two-part invention,
the second a three-part invention. The first variation is also a
Polonaise, while the second is a perfect trio-sonata movement. Both
offer ample opportunity for additional ornamentation by the performer –
a characteristic not shared by all that follow.
Beginning with the second group (Variations 4-6),
Bach establishes a pattern of a contrapuntal piece (with the exception
of the two slow Arioso-type variations, 13 and 25) followed by a
virtuoso piece – often featuring hand crossings and generally calling
for the use of two keyboards – not a feature of my piano,
unfortunately. These pieces also can be identified with other musical
forms. For example, Variation 4 is not only a four-part contrapuntal
piece featuring old-style points of imitation, it is also a perfectly
convincing example of a Passepied. Variation 16, which opens the second
half, is a French Ouverture, featuring orchestral textures, dotted
rhythms, and a lively concluding fugue in triple meter. Other examples
include a Gigue as two-part invention (Variation 7), a
Bourrée-like Fughetta (Variation 10), another Passepied in
three-part counterpoint (Variation 19), and a dancing Canzona (an
old-fashioned Italian imitative piece; Variation 22). The final group
of three variations (28-30) features two virtuosic pieces with trills
in unusual dispositions to be played on two keyboards, followed by the
aforementioned Quodlibet.
Although the work is in G major, Bach provides
emotional and coloristic contrast by using G minor in Variations 15
(Canon at the fifth), 21 (Canon at the seventh), and 25. These three
minor-key pieces become successively more chromatic, with Variation 25
at the expressive center of the whole work – a grand Adagio sung from
the heart, bearing the pain of the world. The harmonies here – derived
from the progression of individual voices – provide one of the supreme
examples of the use of expressive chromaticism in the Baroque era.
Ultimately, Bach requires his performer (and perhaps
even his listener) to be literate in the styles and genres of a long
ago age to fully appreciate everything he has done. While it is
impossible for one of us to achieve Bach’s familiarity with these
areas, we can try to approach it as we do when we open a book or look
at a painting from another time and place. And, Bach has been kind: in
the Goldberg Variations he has given us a reference work: an
Encyclopaedia of Baroque style, genre, and gesture to treasure and
admire. The modest composer who signed many of his works “only to the
glory of God” leaves us awestruck at his prodigious craftsmanship,
broad knowledge of the music of his Europe, and deeply personal
artistry.
David Korevaar, Boulder, Colorado, September 2007
Commentary by Tim Smith…
To open the eternal worlds, to open the immortal Eyes,
Of Man inwards, into the worlds of Thought, into Eternity,
Ever expanding in the Bosom of God, the Human Imagination.
I give you the end of a golden string,
Only wind it into a ball,
It will lead you in at heaven’s gate
Built in Jerusalem’s wall.
William Blake
(1757-1827)
The Goldberg Variations are like a much-loved poem—for most people,
forever joined with its creator, to whom we trace our love for every
other poem. The analogy rings true, I think, whether the poet is
Blake, Bach, or David Korevaar, whose performance on this CD is
destined to become the poem of entry for another generation of
Bachophiles. We are drawn to the Goldbergs when interpreted, as
here, with brilliance and skill.
But who has not also been drawn by the supposed story of their
composition? Bach’s first biographer, Forkel, tells how the
Russian ambassador to Saxony, an insomniac by the name of Keyserlingk,
begged of Bach if he might obtain pieces for the clavier with which his
harpsichordist, a youth by the name of Goldberg, might enliven the
sleepless nights. “Come, Goldberg, play one of my variations,”
the Count is overheard to have said.
It is a charming narrative, a touching tale; one that we are obliged to
retell if only to spark more serious inquiry into this monument of
keyboard literature. Of three yawning holes in the story, Bach’s
lack of dedication to Count Hermann Carl von Keyserlingk is most
problematic. Then there is the small matter of Goldberg’s
age--fourteen when “his” variations were composed (although in
fairness, he was reputed to be a prodigy). Finally, we have
Bach’s own title, Aria with Diverse Variations, with its indifference
both to Keyserlingk and Goldberg. Yet the moniker has triumphed, and
“Goldberg” Variations they remain.
But we’ve digressed. That more serious
inquiry of which we write must necessarily begin with Bach’s own title,
and its excess of “diverse variations” (what is variation if not
diverse?). The title is a tad prosaic, hinting of defensiveness
and mission. These seem like the words of one who is out to prove
his music equal to his métier: “composer for the royal court of
Poland and the Electoral court of Saxony, Kapellmeister and Director of
Choral Music in Leipzig.” For a provincial, this is heavy stuff.
Christoph Wolff has recently advised us that Bach, who lived in a
university town, chafed at reminders that he had no university
degree. He was apparently driven of self-consciousness—about
being self-taught. That drive and overachievement, that perennial
quest for titles that we’ve come to associate with the irascible Bach,
may have been born of this very unease. Four years before
publication of the “diverse variations,” Johann Adolf Scheibe’s dig,
that Bach was “unlearned in the art of rhetoric” (i.e., not French
enough) had surely cost Bach himself more than one sleepless night.
It is a conjecture, but let’s imagine the Goldbergs as Bach’s
rejoinder, not only to this scurrilous attack, but also to the ongoing
collision of styles and world-views begun with the Enlightenment, a
beginning that happens to coincide with our story. If the
Goldberg Variations are indeed Bach’s response, then the “diversity” of
his cycle has both to do with variation achieved by contrapuntal savvy
(more about that later), as well as intellectual and cultural
awareness—proof that Bach was not, by Scheibe’s allegation, “unlearned.”
Stylistically, the Goldberg Variations parade like haute couture, from
the first variation’s polonaise in Prada down to the Gucci Italian
corrente (hands coyly crossed) of var. 5. The centerpiece, of
course, is a free-lace strapless French Overture by Dior. More up
his sleeve than lace, Bach has bundled var. 10 in a Beck fughetta knit,
while number 21 sports the regional allemande in a ladies trench coat
from Banana Republic. The theme of our stylistic fiesta is an
aria, loosely fitted fore and aft in a Balenciega sarabande, while
Givenchy’s silken passepied and gigue (vars. 4 and 7) strut the catwalk
in threes. The showstoppers are Yves Saint Laurent’s character
pieces (vars. 28 and 29) in crepe flou and polka dots. As always,
the Quodlibet is “as you like it.”
Seriously, if Bach’s word “diverse” implies surfeit of styles, his
companion term, “variation,” must (for variation’s sake!) have meant
something else. The Goldberg’s nine canons suggest, rather
emphatically I think, that he meant contrapuntal techniques—dare I
write laws—which he proves applicable to every style. Here Bach
hints, in proportion to our theory, of satire. You see, when
Scheibe, the Hamburg music critic and organist, ranted (in Der
critische Musicus) that Bach’s music was “vain and tedious,” devoid of
“every natural element” because of its “bombastic and muddled nature,”
that “obscures their beauty through an over-abundance of art,” he must
have had, uppermost, the canons and fugues in mind. And, when it
comes to counterpoint, there is no more studied trick than canon, the
sine qua non of the Goldberg Variations. So, let’s talk about
those canons, Bach’s “golden string” so essential to valuing his
variations for the lessons they offer to our age.
But first, it might be helpful to know that, at the moment he wrote
them, Bach knew full well that the Prussian worthies (his audience) had
already indicted counterpoint as exhibitionistic and overwrought.
And, as Scheibe has shown, they could be quite snooty about it.
Three years before Bach’s composition of the Goldbergs, his son, Carl
Philipp Emanuel, had become Court Composer to the “great” apostle of
Enlightenment, Frederick II of Prussia, who shrugged off contrapuntal
music as reeking of religion. While Frederick, who had banished
church sonatas from his library, enjoining his musical entourage from
playing fugues, could well appreciate the braininess of counterpoint,
the music itself was an artifact, a museum piece, the relic of a ruined
age. Enlightenment required another music, one that Voltaire
considered to have no higher purpose than to entertain. Against
this backdrop, the canonic testimony of the Goldberg Variations is that
of a hostile witness.
Brilliant, isn’t it, that Bach should defend himself in the very
fashion of which he was accused of being unfashionable! The
Variations represent, then, not mere rebuttal of Scheibe’s invective,
but a pitch for the survival of contrapuntal music as a species—his
blown fan to the dying embers of Neoplatonism. (The cosmological
assumption of Neoplatonism can be surmised in the alchemical slogan,
“As above, so below,” a mantra as comfortable with canons at the fifth
in contrary motion as planetary motion.) The polemic, which history
reveals to have been Quixotic, is, from a musical and tactical point of
view, pure genius: strut a more fashionable canon down the runway,
coiffed in the powdered wigs and bodices of a more contemporary
style. In this manner Bach demonstrates not just that he is
master of every style, but that every style is also amenable to
development by venerable means. Then in the depths, beneath the
froth of plumes, pompadours, and panniers, flash the golden gleam (here
history has also been the judge) of what is timeless and profound.
The gleam is this: variations that are evenly divisible by three are
canons, with the divisor being the interval between leader and
follower. There are 3x3=9 nine canons. The Trinitarian
subtext is inescapable, and would have banished Bach’s cycle to the
laddered shelves of Frederick’s library for sure. The veneer of
piety achieves overt expression in number 25, the longest variation by
far, and climax (in my estimation) of the cycle. Wanda Landowska,
whose bread and butter the Goldbergs were, called this one her “Crown
of Thorns.” The restraint and introspection required by this
variation is unparalleled, and David Korevaar’s interpretation
priceless.
Listening to variation 25 we are reminded that the famous
fourteen-canon addendum, discovered in 1974 by Christoph Wolff,
contains one particular canon, number 11, of unique relevance to the
larger cycle of which it forms a part. Both canon 11 of the
addendum, and variation 25 of the cycle are densely chromatic, both
contain laments (five descending semitones), and both transform the
lament, by melodic inversion (into five ascending semitones).
These are Bach’s arcane symbols, respectively, for the cross and
crown. So there could be no doubt, beneath the corresponding
canon Bach made explicit: “This is a symbol of Christ, who will crown
those who carry his cross.”
Now, then, is the proper moment to recall that the title page of the
Goldbergs identifies them as Book IV in a series that Bach called
“Keyboard Practice.” Book III is the “Organ Mass,” where
Trinitarian and catechistic symbols abound. Books II and I
contain still more, albeit less profuse, allusions to the mystical
meanings of music. In context, the Goldbergs are very much more
than haute couture; they represent Bach’s perennial poem, his quest
really, “to open the eternal worlds, to open the immortal Eyes, Of Man
inwards, into the worlds of Thought, into Eternity.”
Tim Smith
Flagstaff,
Arizona, September 2007
A summary of the work…
Aria: Sarabande
Variation 1 (1 keyboard): Polonaise-like dance piece.
Variation 2 (1 keyboard): Trio-sonata texture (two intertwining soprano
voices over a walking bass).
Variation 3 (1 keyboard): “Canon at the unison” Like all of the canons
except that at the 9th, this one exhibits a trio-sonata texture, with
the imitative voices accompanied by a walking or running bass.
Variation 4 (1 keyboard): 4-voiced Passepied-like dance piece featuring
contrapuntal imitation.
Variation 5 (1 or 2 keyboards): Virtuoso hand-crossing piece,
Corrente-like.
Variation 6 (1 keyboard): “Canon at the second.”
Variation 7 (1 or 2 keyboards): “al tempo di Giga.”
Variation 8 (2 keyboards): Virtuoso piece.
Variation 9 (1 keyboard): “Canon at the third.”
Variation 10 (1 keyboard): “Fughetta.”
Variation 11 (2 keyboards): Gigue-like virtuoso piece.
Variation 12 (1 keyboard): “Canon at the fourth.” The answering voice
is in inversion.
Variation 13 (2 keyboards): A slow variation, similar in style to the
slow movement of the Italian Concerto, with a florid solo line over a
two-voiced left hand accompaniment.
Variation 14 (2 keyboards): Virtuoso piece.
Variation 15 (1 keyboard): “Canon at the fifth.” “andante.” The first
minor-key variation; the answering voice is in inversion.
Variation 16 (1 keyboard): “Ouverture.” Significantly, the beginning of
the second half of the Goldberg Variations is in the form of a French
Overture, a genre which features an opening section based on dotted
rhythms followed by a fast fugue in triple meter.
Variation 17 (2 keyboards): Virtuoso piece.
Variation 18 (1 keyboard): “Canon at the sixth.”
Variation 19 (1 keyboard): Contrapuntal dance piece in three voices.
Variation 20 (2 keyboards): Virtuoso piece.
Variation 21 (1 keyboard): “Canon at the seventh.” In G minor. Allemande
Variation 22 (1 keyboard): “alla breve.” Old-fashioned contrapuntal
piece in four voices (like a “canzona”), based on points of imitation.
Variation 23 (2 keyboards): Virtuoso piece.
Variation 24 (1 keyboard): “Canon at the octave.”
Variation 25 (2 keyboards): “adagio.” The amazing, wildly chromatic,
deeply touching slow G-minor variation – “Crown of Thorns.”
Variation 26 (2 keyboards): Virtuoso piece.
Variation 27 (1 keyboard): “Canon at the ninth.” This final canon is in
only two voices; there is no accompanying bass line.
Variation 28 (2 keyboards): Virtuoso piece: Etude in trills in one hand.
Variation 29 (1 or 2 keyboards): Virtuoso piece: Etude in trills in two
hands.
Variation 30 (1 keyboard): “Quodlibet.” As you like it: a potpourri of
popular melodies and chorale tunes set in four voices.
Aria