What is easy to sing, has a highly repetitive modal melody, a small range, simple harmony and is immediately danceable?

Folk music!

It’s easy enough to describe but terribly difficult to define, since, although there are common features, the form folk music takes and the purpose for which it is quoted or mimicked varies widely.

Used most often in the music of German, Russian, Czech, Hungarian and Polish composers, folk songs instantly evokes a particular culture and by extension its language, customs and geography. The mania for folk music in the late 19th century was, in part, a product of astute music publishers taking advantage of the nationalist movement happening in Europe but also due to composers’ genuine affection for the music and, in the case of Verdi, their own political ideas.

Of special interest to the Romantics was the idea of revaluing their heritage by working with the music of their people. The rationale was that since folk music was created and performed largely by self-taught amateurs, it was somehow more pure, and therefore desirable, than the learned style favoured by those trained in a conservatory.

The concept of purity would become even more entrenched in the early 20th century thanks to the relative portability of recording equipment. Much like the organic food movement in the 21st century, the idea discovering music that was free of the intellectual tentacles choking the art music world was largely a middle class affection.

19th century Romantics weren’t fussed about authenticity, however and composers such as Borodin, Brahms, Bruch, Smetana and Dvorak regularly wrote pieces in a folk style. Brahms became so good at it that his second set of Hungarian Dances, written in 1880, were entirely his own creation. Dvorak used the rhythms from the music of his native Czechoslovakia but created his own melodies. Some of these original compositions were so popular they actually became folk tunes in their own right.

By the time Bartók, Kodály, Grainger and Vaughan Williams were at work, it had become very noble to spend time recording, cataloguing and working with folk music. The cruel irony is that the recording industry that grew from this early technology is, in large part, responsible for destroying the very thing these infant ethnomusicologists were trying to preserve.

The oral transmission of culture that has kept folk song going for centuries is quickly losing ground in the individualist culture of the 21st century. It is no longer common in the West for people to live with Aunt Hazel and their Nan, which inevitably means that less people are learning folksong. Despite this gap in knowledge, we seem to grasp almost innately what a folk tune signifies when it is heard. We may have a deeper understanding if we know what the tune is or the accompanying words but, on the whole, it is not a barrier to understanding its meaning

Mieczyslaw Karlowicz
Lithuanian Rhapsody

Born in 1876 in Wizniewo, Lithuania, Polish composer Mieczyslaw Karlowicz studied composition in Warsaw between 1889 and 1895. After failing to get into Joseph Joachim’s violin class at the end of his studies in Poland, Karlowicz decided to become a composer. His unapologetically Romantic style earned him much criticism from his contemporaries who were afraid of being, “affected by some evil spirit that would deprave their work, strive to strip it of individual and national originality and turn them into parrots lamely imitating the voices of Wagner and Strauss.”

Although he uses folk song in his other works, the Lithuanian Rhapsody is his only composition based entirely on authentic folks song. The Rhapsody’s themes are recollections of childhood, with the portrayal of the family home and children’s games. When asked about his intentions, Karlowicz replied that he was trying to, “encapsulate within [the piece] the total grief, sadness and eternal servitude of native Lithuanians” and that he was hoping it would contain, “a particle of that which hangs vanishing in the air in every part of that region.”

Rather than create a mash-up or medley of folk tunes, Karlowicz instead chooses a more episodic structure loosely based around five through composed sections. Harmonic conservatism is typical of folk music, so to counteract this, Karlowicz emphasizes colour changes to create interest. His music is highly visual and it seems likely that he would have been a very gifted film composer had he not been hit by an avalanche at age 33.

The Rhapsody begins with rustling in the strings and a bass clarinet solo. A hint of a tune appears in the lower strings but fades away to allow the flute to have the starring role. The second section is a lovely pastorale complete with bird song as well as lots of oboe and clarinet. Section three is a sort of lullaby fashioned out of a thoroughly tonal six-note theme. The endless repetition brings to mind a brook bubbling gently in the summer sunshine.

A piccolo breaks the idyll as the strings transform the lullaby motive into a decoration of another tune. Eventually, the ornament is developed into its own tune and takes over. The brass announce the beginning of the final section by repeating the opening theme. Karlowicz’ colleagues would be horrified but as the section develops it is not difficult to hear the influence of Strauss. More of the opening is heard as the last section arches towards the end. The solo bass clarinet returns, a flute appears and it all fades, as memories do, into the ether without a trace.

Bela Bartók
Dance Suite BB 86a
Moderato
Allegro molto
Allegro vivace
Molto tranquillo
Commodo
Finale

In a discussion of folk music in an art music context it is not long before Bela Bartók’s name is mentioned. He and fellow composer Zoltán Kodály spent a good part for their life collecting and cataloguing folk tunes from Southern and Eastern Europe as well as North Africa and the Middle East. The pair travelled together, analyzing and systematically classifying the songs they collected. One of their major discoveries was that authentic Magyar folk music was vastly different to the Hungarian gypsy music that was regarded as the country’s only folk style.

Written in 1923 to celebrate the union of the cities of Buda and Pest into the present-day Hungarian capital, the Dance Suite contains a smorgasbord of folk melodies from throughout Easter Europe. The Dance Suite is through-composed and divided into six sections with a riternello in Hungarian style linking the parts together.

Bartók’s most well-known piece, Concerto for Orchestra wasn’t composed until 20 years after the Dance Suite but they make similar demands on the orchestra. Always trying to replicate the sounds he heard while collecting folk songs, Bartók uses imaginative instrument combinations to create unusual colours. He also very often scores for one or two instruments at a time as if the orchestra is a super-sized folk band rather than one big unit. Bartók was careful to retain the non-diatonic and modal scales he encountered in the field rather than shoehorn the melodies into the tonal structure of Western art music. Because of this, the music has a certain wild, untouched quality to it.

The suite opens with solo bassoon and becomes increasingly animated as oboes and then cor anglais take centre stage. Rather than settling in on one tune, Bartók flits between ideas, changing colours and moods without notice. Both the first and second dances contain tunes of Magyar origin. Romanian traditional music from the Wallachia region ups the energy level considerably as solo bassoon and clarinet passages give way to a full orchestra folk party. The mood mellows for a moment but then, like and excited child, starts off again in another direction.

Bartók didn’t confine himself to the music of his homeland, choosing to use Arabic inflections in the sensuous fourth dance. He combines the cor anglais and bass clarinet to create a truly unique colour. The section alternates between an almost Debussyian string motive and the bass clarinet/cor anglais or oboe theme.

An archetypical peasant dance form the basis for the fifth section. Quiet, mysterious strings and a drone in the bass are the foundation for short unison figures scored for varying timbres.
The sixth section draws together thematic and rhythmic ideas of the previous dances in an exhilarating synthesis. An energetic brass opening begins a sort of canon that spreads throughout the orchestra. Rhythms and melodies twist and turn back over themselves with abandon in what Bartók described as, “the brotherhood of peoples…in spite of all wars and conflicts.” The piece ends as it began, out of nowhere.


Johannes Brahms
Symphony No 1 in C minor Op 68
Un poco sostenuto. - Allegro
Andante sostenuto
Un poco allegretto e grazioso
Adagio - Piu andante - Allegro non troppo, ma con brio

Brahms’ approach to folk music was more like Karlowicz’ than Bartók’s. He had a deep love for German folksong and mimicked the style often in his lieder, the two sets of Hungarian Dances and many other compositions. Brahms’ first symphony is neither a collection of folk tunes nor a reflection on the struggle of a people. It is far more abstract, with the folk-inspired sections included as a sort of indication of contentment and triumph over darker times.

Although Brahms was desperate to get out from under the shadow of Beethoven, he couldn’t help but reference the giant’s work. The key of this symphony, C minor, and the struggle between darkness and light are archetypical of Beethoven. When asked if the chorale in the last movement was related to Beethoven’ s Ninth Symphony, Brahms gruffly replied, “Any ass can see that!”

The premiere of the First Symphony was given in Karlsruhe, with Otto Dessoff conducting, on November 4, 1876. It was a triumph, and the influential conductor Hans von Bulow did not hesitate to proclaim it “the Tenth”. It was a tribute given in good faith but Brahms had mixed feelings. Even though he had created the most important symphony since Schumann, he was still connected to Beethoven.

The introverted turbulence of the first movement is established immediately by an insistent tympani line and an searing motive in the strings. Thematic material is jagged and eventually takes shape but the nervous drive of the opening doesn’t fully resolve until the very end.

In the second movement, the prevailing mood is one of heart-easing calm and solace. There is no need for a display of technical fireworks, merely serenity. The main thematic motive, while not a folk tune as such, is reminiscent of one. It is introduced by a solo violin and then echoed in turn by various wind soloists.

Easy cheerfulness and gentle restraint are the hallmarks of the third movement. More an intermezzo than a scherzo, it is not without its moments of autumnal melancholy courtesy of the clarinet. A short-lived trio is more animated but it is not long before the more relaxed pace of the opening section returns.

Without a doubt, the massive finale is the jewel of this symphony. The previous movements have set up the drama and now all will be resolved in the last act. A slow introduction full of suspense creates a sense of deep expectancy. All the uncertainty of the previous movements is washed away as the horn bursts through the clouds like a ray of sunshine with an Alphorn tune. The melody is one Brahms sent Clara Schumann on a birthday card in 1868 after he heard it played in the mountains while on holiday in Switzerland. After a benedictory brass chorale, the strings enter with the majestic theme of the finale proper. The mood becomes progressively more exultant, culminating in a blazingly assertive reincarnation of the introductory brass chorale.

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Beethoven still had five years left to live when he wrote this sonata but in many ways it feels like a definite end. The thirty two piano sonatas has spanned nearly thirty years of his life and transformed the genre from an at home entertainment to a vehicle of intimate, personal expression. Pianist Robin Taub describes Op 111 as , “a work of unmatched drama and transcendence … the triumph of order over chaos, of optimism over anguish.”

The work is only two movements, something he did in four previous sonatas but still unusual enough for Beethoven’s publisher to assume that the final sonata-rondo has been lost in the post. A sketch was made for the last movement but, with every second counting, it was put aside in favour of the Missa Solemnis.

Beethoven had managed to solve the problem of unity between movements by resolving the conflicts of one in the other. The two-movement format also results in an interesting binary comparison representing the opposing forces of major/minor, allegro/adagio, appassionato/semplice, sonata form/variation form, turmoil/ecstatic serenity, earthly/spiritual prevalent in much of his work.

In the first movement, a trill fading to pianissimo, which eventually leads to successive suspensions, repeatedly tempers the aggressiveness of the fortissimo dotted rhythm. A tremolo in the left hand introduces a fugue theme that is never fully realised, instead being treated as a free-form sort of canon. The two main thematic motives are tossed about between registers without ever getting completely off the ground. Beethoven manages to make it sound impressive without formally doing anything. The classic Beethoven dichotomy between c minor and C major is very much present here as final fortissimo statement of the theme in the home key in c minor mysteriously leads to a C major cadence.

The final movement in Beethoven’s piano oeuvre is a mammoth variation set, nearly twenty minutes in length. In contrast to the staggeringly intense Grosse Fugue, Beethoven’s last string quartet movement, this is simplistically cheerful. In C major, the key he used most often to indicate triumph and happiness, Beethoven finally lets go of tension and instead concentrates on writing joyful, exuberant music.

It is significant that he chooses a variation set. A master improviser, Beethoven could vary any theme almost indefinitely even if he had only heard it once. He had no shortage of skill or imagination and would gleefully accept the challenge given by his friends or members of the nobility. Although it is impossible to say with any certainty, it is certainly plausible that it was in these situations that Beethoven felt the least tormented by his personal afflictions and frustrations and was able to truly be content.

Like Op 109, there are six variations in this set. The theme is so simple that it is fit for a child’s piano lesson. Making something out of nothing is one of Beethoven’s trademarks and here it serves as a reminder of his incredible skill. With what seems like no effort at all, the contentedness of the opening theme is built up into a wild euphoria by the third variation. Complex subdivisions of metre in the first two variations slowly increase the excitement until all of the sudden it seems as if Beethoven has discovered jazz. The dotted rhythms of the third variation have resulted in it being nicknamed the boogie-woogie variation.

Things calm down a little in the fourth variation with the theme remaining relatively intact accompanied by a murmuring left hand. For the fifth variation, Beethoven chooses to present the original opening theme with the variation occurring in the accompaniment. Trills indicate the beginning of the final variation, which moves the theme to the upper register. A G major pedal is heard throughout in the form of a constant trill. The mood becomes more otherworldly and reflective as the trill is moved to the upper register and the piece ends quietly and contentedly, without fanfare.

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On paper, Op 110 is a traditional four-movement sonata. In reality however the work is a further example of the dissolution of sonata form within the outer movements as well as any sense of the usual order of the movements themselves. The cantabile theme of the first movement is more reminiscent of a Haydn string quartet adagio than a Beethoven sonata opening. The melody is unadorned in the right hand and accompanied by repeated chords in the bass. With the expected sonata form abandoned, the next six minutes are taken up with a sort of meandering through the movement with periodic restatement of the opening theme. Secondary themes are short and mostly motivic and the development section is practically non-existent. After a decorated version of opening theme appears, the movement ends with a quiet cadence.

Although less than three minutes long, the third movement is a fully formed scherzo and trio. The extreme dynamics and uneasy accents are almost comical. Especially amusing is the ending, where a string of fortissimo chords end with a pianissimo resolution of the final cadence.

A contemplative recitative beings the final movement of Op 110, further illustrating Beethoven’s preoccupation with song during this period. The basic structure is arioso, fugue, arioso, fugue with the opening recit soon transformed into the single line melody of the first arioso. Simple, repeated chords in the bass create a transparent texture. The fugue theme is stated quietly at first and increases in volume and intensity as the other two voices make their entrances. Its sturdy, no-nonsense feel is in stark contrast to the delicate beauty of the arioso. This time, beauty wins and the fugue fades back to arioso before reaching any sort of climax. Insistent G major chords begin the second fugue, the subject of which is the first fugue theme upside down. Beethoven really goes to town here and uses diminution—cutting the note values in half and half again—to increase intensity and bring the movement to an unexpectedly joyful close.

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In the 11 years between Op 10 and Op 81a, much had changed both for Beethoven personally and in Europe politically. Beethoven had become a household name throughout Europe for his music, the impact of which was compounded by his near complete deafness and unpredictable behaviour. Since Op 10, he had written 6 symphonies, 5 piano concerti, 9 violin sonatas, the Violin Concerto, the Triple Concerto, 18 piano sonatas and 9 string quartets, all of which have become standard repertoire in their respective genres.

Beethoven wasn’t the only one who had arrived however. An Italian megalomaniac called Napoléon had been terrorising much of Europe since the turn of the century. When the French Revolution first started Beethoven was enamoured, as most students are, with the ideas of liberty, fraternity and equality. He was often frustrated by the customs and rules of the aristocracy that provided his support and found in Napoleon an embodiment of the triumph he wished for himself.

Beethoven’s admiration for the French general was withdrawn abruptly in 1803, when Napoleon had a spot of amnesia regarding the republican ideals of the French Revolution and declared himself First Consul for Life. This imperial gesture was too much for Beethoven and upon hearing the news he tore the dedication out of his Third Symphony manuscript.

The lives of the two revolutionaries intersected again in 1809 when Napoleon was advancing with his troops to Vienna. The majority of the Viennese aristocracy sensed trouble afoot and fled the city. Beethoven’s good friend and patron Archduke Rudolf left with his entire family, leaving Beethoven without any friends in the city. Op 81a depicts the Archduke’s departure, Beethoven’s feelings about his absence and the Archduke’s return to Vienna. It is Beethoven’s only concretely programmatic work and it is dedicated to its subject.

Beethoven was unable to escape Napoleon’s influence even after the General left Vienna. When the sonata was being printed, the publisher insisted on using French titles with Italian tempo markings rather than the German that Beethoven had insisted on. Naturally this decision disgusted him and he dismissed the French and Italian as being Napoleonic, an adjective that he would have used as a superlative eight years previously. In later sonatas, he made sure to avoid using the offending languages, titling them für Hammerklavier rather than pianoforte and using German tempo markings.

The first movement, entitled Das Lebewohl, was written in May 1809 when the Archduke left Vienna with his entourage. It is reported that he spent the duration of the siege holed up in his brother’s cellar with a pillow over his head to protect what little remained of his hearing. The published dedication reads, “On the departure of his Imperial Highness, for the Archduke Rudolph in admiration.” Private notes in the sketches indicated that the movement was “from the heart.” The opening, descending motive is a distant horn call, a device used by composers before and after Beethoven to indicate a farewell. In the score, he makes his intentions perfectly clear by writing the word Le-be-wohl over these three notes.

The second and third movements were written in January of 1810 after the Archduke and the rest of the court returned to Vienna. Das Abwesenheit expresses Beethoven’s feeling loss during the Archduke’s absence. It is improvisatory in nature and one can easily imagine Beethoven at the piano working out the loneliness he felt during that time. The second theme is slightly more optimistic than the first and although this movement isn’t his most tragic, Beethoven does manage to convey a strong sense of pathos. The extended chain of false cadences immediately preceding the third movement are brilliantly tense. The harmonic unrest deliciously amplifies the euphoria of the maniac third movement opening.

Das Wiedersehen is in strict sonata form but in many ways it resembles a caprice. It is short on melody but there are plenty of fireworks, with the pace only lessening slightly during the second theme. Beethoven even marks the tempo a rather silly vivacissimamente. The coda starts out calmly and it appears as though Beethoven has finally managed to get his excitement under control. It is not too long however, before the seams burst and the piece comes to a dazzling end.

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The difference in style between the three early sonatas and Appassionata is marked. In the intervening 12 years, Beethoven had written 20 piano sonatas, two cello sonatas, nine violin sonatas, three piano concerti, the first six string quartets, the Triple Concerto and the first three symphonies. None of these works, except perhaps the Third Symphony have inspired so much comment as Appassionata.

English composer Hubert Parry wrote of the sonata, “Here the human soul asked mighty questions of its God and had its reply.” Vladimir Lenin once said, “I know nothing that is greater than the Appassionata; I would like to listen to it every day. It is marvellous superhuman music. I always think with pride - perhaps it is naïve of me - what marvellous things humans can do.”

It is indeed one of Beethoven’s most violent and passionate works and it has been said that Appassionata is the sonata he loved over all the others. The piece was written during the summer of 1804 while Beethoven was holidaying in Baden outside of Vienna. By this point he was nearly deaf and had been sent to the country by his doctor to recover from treatments.

As with the Pastoral symphony, the theme for the final movement came to him as he was walking outside in the country. Upon returning home, he rushed to the piano before even removing his hat and spent an hour furiously writing the music down. The work was not published until 1807, with the nickname Appassionata given by the publisher. Somewhat unusually for Beethoven, he approved of this action and was not upset with the publisher for taking liberties.

The most unusual aspect of the first movement is the omission of the repeated exposition. This is the first time Beethoven does this and signals his rejection of tradition classical sonata form. It is as if he has too much to say to be bothered with repeating himself again. The coda is long and improvisatory, with arpeggios spanning nearly the entire length of the piano available to him at the time. This lengthy writing in the coda would be extended even further in the Fifth Symphony where the V-I cadences seem to go on forever.

The slow movement is a set of theme and variations that are mostly given over to harmonic progression rather than straight melody. Somehow Beethoven manages to make something beautiful out of a harmony exercise and the result is simply stunning. The end of the Andante is interrupted by a pair of diminished seventh chords heralding the beginning the third movement. Once again, Beethoven gets creative in the coda and introduces an entirely new theme. In the final bars, the piece comes crashing down on itself and ends with a short but defiant final cadence.

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Beethoven made a few minor changes to the standard sonata form in this piece, the first of which occurs in the development of the first movement. Traditionally, the development is a place for the composer to play around with the first and second themes and then modulate back to the home key in time for the recapitulation. Beethoven introduces new thematic material into the development, setting the stage for a new flexible sonata form that would later include, among other things, double developments, extended and double codas, and new thematic material in the coda.

In the second movement, Beethoven again plays with convention by setting a minuet and trio in a minor key. He disguises it by labeling the score Allegretto but the ABA form is a dead give away. The ever-resourceful Beethoven pulls another trick out of the bag for the final movement and set the whole thing as a fugue. It is not a strict setting but rather fugal principles combined with Classical form. The fugue was considered by Beethoven’s contemporaries to be difficult to master and restrictive. Beethoven had such facility that he was able to use the format extensively in the development, a place generally reserved for less academic figures.

On to Op 10 No. 3

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Turangalîla–Symphonie (tour-ahn-ga-lee’-lah) was commissioned by American composer/conductor Serge Koussevitsky for the Boston Symphony Orchestra. Started on 17th July 1946, the piece took nearly two and a half years to complete. The Symphonie is revolutionary in countless ways, not the least of which is its separation from the Western tradition.

Debussy, one of Messiaen’s biggest influences was interested in the gamelan but Messiaen took the idea even further, abandoning the logic and continuity characteristic of the Western tradition in favour of creating spaces for mental excitation or reflection. This fascination with meditation and abstract thinking was borne of deep religious beliefs. He resisted the label of mystic, preferring instead to say that he was merely illuminating the teachings of the Church. All of his work from 1945 to 1962 deals with religious subject matter.

An undying love
At its heart, Turangalîla-Symphonie is a love song. An intensely cerebral, cacophonic ode that tests the limits of human sensory perception granted, but a love song nonetheless. Although definitely miles away from the usual songs we associate with love, the Symphonie is an aural reflection on full emotional gamut inherent in colossally magnitudinous affairs of the heart.

Turangalîla is a combination of two Sanskrit words: turanga, meaning time and the more difficult to translate lîla, meaning love but also the play that is life and death. The composer explains further by saying, “Love is present here in the same manner [as superhuman, overflowing, binding and unlimited joy]. This is a love that is fatal, irresistible, transcending everything, suppressing everything outside of itself.”

The filter through which Messiaen presents this love is the ancient legend of Tristan and Iseult. It is not a literal telling of the story however and he took pains to caution commentators against the “distinctly shaky and often ridiculous” assignation of literary meaning where there is none. Most famous as the subject of a Wagner opera, the legend has been circulating throughout Europe since the 12th century. The details of the story change depending on the country but a basic synopsis is:

Tristan goes to Ireland to bring back Iseult for his Uncle Mark, King of Cornwall to marry. On the way back to Cornwall, Tristan and Iseult accidentally drink a love potion that makes them immediately mad for each other. King Mark marries Iseult as planned but Tristan and his love continue their under-the-radar affair. What happens after the royal wedding depends on which country’s version is read but usually Tristan ends up dying alone after he falsely assumes that Iseult deserted him.

The religious connection in the Symphonie is the idea of romantic love as a metaphor Christ’s love for the church or the Virgin Mary. This is the traditional interpretation of the Song of Songs, with the juxtaposition of Mary’s purity and the erotic themes of the poetry forming the cornerstone of Marian devotion. None of these texts are used directly in the Symphonie however like many religious philosophers before him, Messiaen made no distinction between the two types of love.

Reception
No matter how you slice it, Turangalîla is not an easy listen. It is long, loud and lacks any clear narrative, instead relying on 4 themes that reccur throughout. Messiaen composed deliberately, taking great care to assemble themes in ways that were, to him, perfectly logical. The effect however, particularly for someone who is not familiar with Messiaen’s other works, is one of an ADHD child unable to stay focussed long enough to complete a thought.
When the work premiered on 2nd December 1949 at Symphony Hall in Boston. Most of the critics were baffled by what they heard. The New York Times critic, Olin Downes, compared the concert to a Hollywood spectacle, adding that the fifth movement was, “the best and the most fun of the ten-movement symphonic circus. It is cunningly contrived to entertain and excite after much pretentious obscurity.” An employee of the Hall, obviously familiar with that infamously unfortunate premiere of Stravinsky’s, said he didn’t like the piece but was more disappointed it wasn’t bad enough to start a riot.

Making sense of it all
Big challenges mean big rewards however. After the second or third listen, the multiple colours, themes and rhythmic characters become more comprehensible. In that sense, it is much like an American trying to work out the cricket, they usually don’t get very far after one day’s play.

There are two ways to listen to this symphony. You can either surrender yourself to being swept away by the work’s aural and philosophical grandness or try to make head or tails of what’s happening structurally. While an analysis of the piece’s inner workings has filled up many a book, a good place to begin is with the identity of each of the four cyclical themes.

The first cyclical theme, called “statue” occurs right at the beginning of the piece and is a series of heavy thirds played by the trombones and tuba. “Flower”, the second theme, is played pianissimo by a pair of clarinets, which reminded Messiaen of two eyes reflecting each other. Next comes the love theme, “the most important of all.” It is presented in many different guises appearing in full for the first time in the sixth movement. The final theme is a chain of chords that, “echoes the formulae of an alchemist’s doctrine ‘dissociate and coagulate.’ ” It is more difficult to pick out than the others but bookends the eighth movement.

Because of the large forces required and the difficulty of the parts Turangalîla-Symphonie is not often performed. The irony of that is, of course, that it is much better appreciated live than via a recording simply because being physically surrounded by the sound world Messiaen created is an important part of the experience. In the words of American music critic Michael Walsh, “It’s a holy terror but a hell of a good time.”

About the ondes Martenot

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Gubaidulina’s music is truly her own and and defies comparison with existing material. When asked the influence of other composers on her style, she responded, “there were periods of attraction to Wagner, the Russian school, Josquin, Gesualdo and the Second Viennese School but the figure to whom I experience a constant devotion is JS Bach. His works are still a great source of learning for me.” Like her influencers, she is endlessly fascinated by numerology, the manipulation of mathematical sequences, most notably the Fibonacci series and deeply embedded religious symbolism.

It is this sort of abstract, almost mystical approach to faith that underpins of all her compositions. Gubaidulina firmly believes that music can and for that matter should, be of significant spiritual importance. She says, “the whole world is threatened by spiritual passivity, an entropy of the soul, a transition from more complex energy to a simpler form…amorphousness. What puts the brakes on that process is the human spirit and in part, art and that is a matter for serious music.”

Much of her time is spent developing musical symbols to represent the religious ideas of the cross, the Crucifixion, the Resurrection and the Transfiguration. In many ways, the Passion 2000 Project was tailor made for her as it gave her an opportunity to explore these ideas in conjunction with her interest in musical images of the Apocalypse and Last Judgment.

The intersection of the Passion story and the Apocalypse is relatively uncommon in music but has been much represented in art; most famously by Giotto in Padua (Capella degli Scrovengni) and Michelangelo on the dome of the Sistine Chapel.

Johannespassion is an immensely complicated work that showcases the composer’s encyclopaedic knowledge of Scripture, theology and the icons of the Russian Orthodox faith as well as her intense interest in symbolism at both the macro- and microcosmic levels. Gubaidulina’s fascination with mysticism and ritual is also reflected in the composition. There is not the space here to delve deeply and discover every nuance but a relatively general overview will at least provide some insight into her outlook of the Passion.

There were some difficulties involved in setting a Passion according to the rules of the Russian Orthodox church. The primary one was that Church does not allow instruments in church services or any ecclesiastical rituals. Custom avoids any reference to representation by persons or anything of a theatrical nature. Like Protestants, the art of direct experience takes precedence over the art of representation. Unlike Protestants however, Russians view music as an external, technical mediator between God and man rather than a facilitator of worship. This means, of course, that there is no tradition of Passion setting in the Orthodox church. Gubaidulina got around this by viewing the Passion not as a representation but rather a “markedly calm report performed with composure (as is only meet for an ecclesiastical ritual)”

Gubaidulina regards Johannespassion as her magnum opus so it was conceived on a truly grand scale. The work is scored for full symphony orchestra plus auxiliary instruments in every family. It requires two choirs, one twenty-four voice chamber choir and a larger eighty-voice choir. Although there are five soloists, only the tenor and basso profundo are used prominently. Basso profundo is a typically Russian sound and Gubaidulina uses the soloist as a cantor throughout the piece. Despite the large forces, the orchestration is often sparse. The soprano soloist is only needed for one number out of the ninety-minute piece and the alto soloist gets only marginally more material.

Gubaidulina chose St John’s Gospel because it allowed her to present two texts of equal quality. She felt it was desirable to, “sense not only a single hand, but a single spirit in both texts.” The combination of St John’s Gospel, Revelation and various other passages of Scripture swell the libretto to 3000 words; three times the length of Water Passion.

The method used in previous chapters to discuss in extra-textual interpolations in the previous chapters is wholly inappropriate for Johannespassion. Gubaidulina uses fragments of texts from many different portions of the Bible and trying to sort out the meaning of each one in context of the Russian Orthodox faith exceeds the scope of this study.

The discussion of the key events of the Passion from previous chapters is also extremely difficult. The text is written in Cyrillic characters in the score and even though there is an English translation provided in the libretto, differences in syntax between the two languages make it impossible to decipher what is being sung at a specific point in time.

Gubaidulina clearly feels the weight of the material she is setting and tries to convey that through the ritual of the Russian Orthodox Church. The result is a slow, sombre affair that is prone to becoming bogged down by its own intensity. Even with the score in hand it is difficult to wade through the intricate layers of symbolism. It must have been massively overwhelming to try and digest the work in one sitting at the premiere.

Like this? Why not try:

• Wolfgang Rihm: Deus Passus Resources
• Wolfgang Rihm: Deus Passus
• Passions Old And New

Tenebrae read by Paul Celan (English)

Tenebrae by Paul Celan (auf Deutsche)

Like this? Why not try:

• Wolfgang Rihm: Deus Passus
• Sofia Gubaidulina: Johnnespassion
• Passions Old And New

There are very few texts that can provide more opportunity to explore extreme emotions than the Passion of the Christ. German composer Wolfgang Rihm rose to the challenge and produced a work that empathizes with a suffering God as well as rails against him for his inability to prevent suffering in the modern world. Rihm says, “the Passion is the space in which the suffering God occurs. However, the suffering that has been and still is being thrust into the world in the name of the Christian faith must also be held to account from the vantage point of this space.”

Rihm chose St Luke’s Gospel in particular because it was the one that he felt was “least tinged with anti-Semitism” He felt that it would be impossible now for a German composer to use any of the other Gospels. St Luke’s account differs very little from the ones of St Matthew and St Mark but it has historically been the least favoured among composers of Passion settings. The Gospel details two scenes, the Way of the Cross and Jesus between the thieves, that are not mentioned in the other Gospels and contains three of the Seven Last Words from the Cross.

The bare bones are all that remain in Rihm’s version of the Gospel. He pares away all extraneous information, adjectives and third person interjections like “thus spake” or, “he saith” and leaves only dialogue and skeletal narration. Used less judiciously, this technique could render the story as dull and lifeless but Rihm clearly knew what he was doing. Far from a mere simplification of the story, this reduction frees the Passion from the elaborate prose and rhetoric common to those who use religion as a tool of manipulation. The final version, stripped of any dressing, gives the bare minimum of information required to tell the story but ends up being all the more poignant as listeners are free to form their own conclusions.

Throughout the Passion, Rihm is trying to sort out the paradox of violent acts committed in the name of God. His treatment of the text illustrates that beneath all the baggage attached to faith and the Church as an institution, Christ’s suffering has real meaning that is still relevant for today.

He interpolates only one additional passage of Scripture, Isaiah 53:4-5
. (Track 1) These verses are often used when talking about the Passion because they are the prophecy for which the Crucifixion is the fulfillment. Handel included these verses and two additional ones from Chapter 53 in the third part of his Messiah. In Rihm’s setting, the verses follow the moment of highest dramatic tension. Jesus has died and the crowd has dispersed leaving his ravaged body to hang alone on the hilltop. The text from Isaiah provides a respite from the drama and is a place for the audience to reflect on the brutal nature of Christ’s death.

For the final fragment, Rihm chose to set Tenebrae by Paul Celan (1920-1970). (Track 2) The Romanian born Celan was the leading German language poet after the Second World War. He felt that German language had “passed through the thousand darknesses of death bringing speech” and his writing was focused on purging and remaking the language. Celan was no stranger to the inconceivable cruelties borne by Jews during the war. He lost his parents in a death camp at the start of the war and spent three years in a labour camp himself, managing to survive until it closed in 1943. Written during the war’s immediate aftermath, Tenebrae is a sort of reverse prayer in which the poet rails against God for the horrible injustices witnessed by those imprisoned in the camps.

The anger and bitterness expressed in the poem is in harsh contrast with the hope of Resurrection alluded to in the previous Passion fragment. )Track 3)This juxtaposition of hope and futility makes one wonder if Christ’s suffering was worth it since it appears to have done nothing the ease human pain

To begin his setting, Rihm skips the first three events in St Luke’s account and starts immediately with the Eucharist. (Track 4) Stripped to its bare bones, the text is set without dramatic repetition in a sound world that is reminiscent of Berg.

Christ’s ascent to the Mount of Olives and his Agony in the Garden are compressed into one fragment. (Track 5) The influence of Bach is heard section as Jesus’ words are set in a canon between the tenor and baritone soloists as well as numerous sequences with three quavers leading into the next measure.

The fragment featuring Jesus’ betrayal is quite fascinating. (Track 6) The words, “Judas, betrayest thou the Son of man with a kiss?” are set in a proper chorale. The sudden unambiguous pitch centre and tonal harmony stand out against the more atmospheric fragments that came before. Rihm illustrates the bitterness and disappointment of being betrayed by an intimate friend by having the bass instruments resolve the cadence a half step above the anticipated tonic whilst the upper voices complete the pattern as anticipated.

Peter’s denial of Christ is full of early Baroque resonances. (Track 7) The two most prominent are the chromatic descending line of the lament aria and the use fourth species counterpoint. The descending line in an lament symbolizes death and is a sort of cantus firmus from which the melody is derived. In this fragment, there is no bass line as such so Rihm places the descending phrases in the melody instead. Peter’s accusers are allotted elongated lyrical phrases whilst his responses are short and agitated. The words of Peter’s last accuser are treated with species counterpoint and are sung as a duet between the solo soprano and tenor. Although the some liberties are taken with the intervals of the cantus firmus, the rules of counterpoint are followed fairly stringently and the section ends in a perfect fifth.

Rihm continues his use of counterpoint in the fragment describing Jesus’ trial. (Track The tenor and baritone soloists illustrate the authority and learned nature of Pilate’s position by presenting his judgment in a mirror canon. As Pilate declares that he cannot condemn Jesus, the choir begins to whisper Barabbas’ name. The word is difficult to understand but the hard ‘b’ sound and elongated ‘s’ sound is menacing as portrays the crowd’s aggression. When Pilate tries again to let Jesus go, they begin to alternate “Kreuzige!” (Crucify) with Barabbas. The addition of the hard “k” and “tz” sounds almost seems to intimidate Pilate into submitting to the wishes of the crowd.

Christ’s last words from the Cross are delicately packaged. (Track 9) The three female soloists weave together as one voice and the exquisitely subtle changes in timbre amplify the peaceful nature of the fragment. The line is lyrical and melismatic, getting more rhythmically and melodically intricate as the fragment progresses. The string complement supports the soloists with steady quavers and harmony changes every two or three measures. Rihm adds an extra bit of shimmer by scoring small obbligato passages for cor anglais and oboe.

Deus passus is the other composition from the Passion 2000 Project that alludes to the Resurrection. Like the Water Passion, the connection is very subtle. The text is set very simply as fourteen bar aria for soprano and mezzo soprano to share. It is unaffected and is a gentle prelude to the understated anger and confusion of Tenebrae. (Track 3)

It is not difficult to understand why Rihm chose to imitate Bach in so many ways. since the two share the same cultural heritage and language. Rihm uses the composition as a vehicle to explore suffering, both human and divine as he is tries to work out a place for God in a world full of conflict. Deus passus is still hopeful despite the confusion of Tenebrae. In his composition Rihm shows that beauty and suffering can co-exist in the same space and that perhaps both are necessary for a full human existence.

Like this? Why not try:

• Wolfgang Rihm: Deus Passus Resources
• Sofia Gubaidulina: Johnnespassion
• Passions Old And New

YouTube

Like this? Why not try:

• Osvaldo Golijov: Pasión según San Marcos
• Passions Old And New
• This Week’s Feature: Passion Setting 20th Century Style

It was quite important to Golijov that he present a dark Jesus to as a contrast to the white Jesus that dominates the Western art and music canon. Growing up Jewish in an officially Catholic country left Golijov with a burning curiosity about the dichometric nature of institutional Christianity. In an effort to relate the Passion through the icons of Latin America, Golijov dispenses with the traditional Western orchestra and replaces it with a reduced Latin horn section, accordion, guitar, percussion six violins and six celli. Along with a full choir, there are several male and female soloists, each specialising in a particular sort of Latin singing.

Golijov chose St Mark’s Gospel because he, “knew always that St Mark was safe for the Jews.” St Mark is thought to be the first of the Gospels to be written and used as a reference by the other writers. Like St Matthew, it only contains one of the Seven Last Words from the Cross and is rich in narrative detail. There are some obstacles to be overcome when setting St Mark however. The story is not laid out as one linear event but rather as individual episodes thus making the grouping of events somewhat challenging. To combat this, Golijov has divided the text into thirty-four episodes, the shortest of which lasts a mere thirty-six seconds.

Although Golijov did not model his composition on any existing Passion, his work begins, like Bach’s St Matthew, with an instrumental prelude. The texts that accompany the prelude are taken from the bookends of Jesus’ ministry and illustrate his highest and lowest points. The first text is from his baptism at the very start of his ministry and the second is his last words on the cross.

It is the excerpt of Lamentations however, that is particularly poignant. It is almost certainly a reference to the horrors experienced by Latin Americans at the hands of dictatorial regimes fully endorsed by the Catholic Church. Mothers all over the continent are united with Mary by the grief brought on by torture and murder of their sons.

In addition to the biblical interpolations, there are four others that use material from Latin poets and musicians. The first one, I wish to forswear (Aria of Judas) is a passionate flamenco sung by Brazilian jazz contralto. Judas remorse is not mentioned in St Mark’s version but Golijov uses an anonymous text and a flamenco melody is based on a song by Spanish singer Niña de los Peines to illustrate it. The second interpolation is a hymn of thanks for the Eucharist and is a set of choral variations based on Psalms 113-118 scored for women and drums.

The next interpolation is a poem by Galician writer Rosalía de Castro (1837-1885), called Lúa descolorida (Colourless Moon) This section is subtitled Aria of Peter’s Tears because St Mark writes that after the cock crew, Peter overcome by guilt and remorse and broke down and wept. Once again, grief is expressed by a female soloist. The hauntingly lyrical solo line is supported by the string section and one is reminded of the oratorio arias of Handel.

“I cannot finish it with his last scream–I just cannot do it–so I need a sense of transcendence. It has to be something that makes sense out of all those hallucinatory few days“. Golijov struggled to come up with an appropriate ending to his setting but eventually settled on the Kaddish

There is an interesting bit of scoring in the section where Jesus is betrayed. The narration is divided between four tenor soloists and set to a Cuban swing rhythm. The choir repeatedly interrupts the narration after each clause with the phrase, “Whomsoever I shall kiss, that same is he!” drawing attention to the fact that Judas used the most intimate of gestures, one reserved for close friends, to identify Jesus to his enemies. The swing rhythm seems somewhat out of place here as it lends a sort of party atmosphere to the scene. Perhaps it would not seem so to those of Latin origin, but it is difficult to associate the disappointment of betrayal and frenzy of the crowd with a score marked funky.

Golijov’s decision to Jesus sentencing as an instrumental movement is somewhat perplexing. The crowd is in a complete frenzy at this point, shouting for Jesus to be crucified and demanding that Barabbas the thief be released instead. One would think that this point of the story would be rife with opportunities for lively rhythms and interesting manipulation of text but instead Golijov chooses to write less than two minutes of uncomplicated rhythm at a moderate tempo with no aural text.

Throughout his setting of the Passion, Golijov tried to write the way Bach would have if he had lived in 20th-century South America. He adopts very little of traditional German Passion writing in terms of form, style or harmony but keeps the spirit of the early Protestants alive by writing a Passion that connects with people in their own language. Pasión según San Marco is truly a passion of the people and although it questions the behaviour of the Church as an institution, it is ultimately about hope and the will to continue despite hardship.

Visit the resource page to see video of a performance and interviews with Osvaldo Golijov.

Tomorrow’s installments are Wolfgang Rihm Deus Passus and Sofia Gubaidulina Johannespassion

Like this? Why not try:

• Passions Old And New
• Osvaldo Golijov: Pasión según San Marcos Resources
• This Week’s Feature: Passion Setting 20th Century Style

Best known for writing the score for the film Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon, Chinese-American composer Tan Dun has been making a name for himself over the past twenty-five years with multimedia compositions that strive to fuse the natural world with modern technology, East with West and high art with low.

Of his music, Tan says that “I don’t really have any great interest in the East and West as a dialogue. What I am interested in is trying to find a single language and distinctive style that is made up of many cultures and that can reach many different diverse cultures.” His re-dressing of the Passion is at once simplistically beautiful and patronizingly simple.

Out of all the Gospels, St Matthew is the one most suited to Passion setting. It provides the richest variety of incident and divides easily in to two parts balanced equally in length and dramatic intensity. It is somewhat surprising then, that Tan was so liberal in his editing of the text. There are eighteen separate events in St Matthew’s text but Tan chooses to use only seven. The text is reduced even further within those events as only the spoken words of Christ and his disciples and a bare minimum of narrative material are included. Although this dramatic reduction is intended to represent the simplicity and unclutteredness of popular Buddhism, it is dangerously close to being a highlights-only version that sacrifices depth in its hurry to be unaffected.

Traditionally, the Passion story begins in the twenty-sixth chapter of Matthew with the Last Supper. Tan however, goes all the way back to the third chapter and begins with Christ’s baptism. As its title suggests, the setting is united by the image of water. He says,

So many cultures use water as an essential metaphor — there is the symbolism of baptism; it is associated with birth, creation and re-creation. If you think of the water cycle, where it comes down to earth and returns to the atmosphere, only to return — that is a symbol of resurrection. I think of resurrection not only as a return to life but as a metaphor for hope, the birth of a new world, a better life.

St Matthew contains only one of the Seven Last Words from the Cross so Tan augments the section containing Christ’s death with “I thirst.” and “It is finished.” from St John. In the final fragment of the Passion after Jesus has died, Tan quotes, “a time to love, a time of peace, a time to dance, a time of silence….” from the third chapter of Ecclesiastes.

In addition to the biblical interpolations, Tan wrote seven short texts of his own. All of these are assigned to the chorus and are sung to a sort of chorale tune comprised mainly of both horizontal and vertical perfect fifths. The interval is the most stable after the octave and Tan uses it everywhere as a metaphor for serenity and purity. There are flagrant deviations from traditional Baroque voice leading as Tan has the chorus singing entire lines in parallel fifths. The repeated text and tune unite the work in the same fashion as the chorales in Bach’s setting.

The Eucharist, or Last Supper, is the traditional starting point of a Passion setting. The opening interpolation is sung unaccompanied by the choir in fifths. None of the traditional solo roles (Jesus, Pilate, Evangelist) are assigned to a specific soloist although in this instance, Jesus is being represented by the bass. The music framing the words of Christ is restricted to a pentatonic scale (A, B, D, E, F#) and imitates of the improvisatory nature of Eastern musics.

After Jesus tells the disciples that one of them will betray their master, they panic and demand to know if it they who will do it. Tan represents the panic and confusion quite effectively by having the men of the chorus ask, “Is it I?” in unison rhythm but on a pitch of their choice. Judas is represented here by the soprano soloist, the second time in the setting that Tan gives the role of the antagonist to the woman .

Judas’ betrayal of Jesus in the Garden is one of the tensest moments of the story. Tan responds to the tension by using the tritone exclusively for both the narration and Judas words which are represented alternately by the men of the chorus and the soprano soloist. After this interesting initial treatment of the text, Tan seems to stumble somewhat and sets the words Judas utters after he kisses Jesus (Teacher, may peace be with you) to the same theme he used when Jesus was in the Garden. This incongruous use of motive is puzzling, neither the text nor the speakers are related, and makes one wonder if perhaps Tan just ran out of original material.

The moments surrounding the request for the release of Barabbas are the unquestionably the most compelling of the setting. At the beginning of the score, each chorister was instructed to bring along two flat, smooth stones from a stream or river. The movement begins with the choir rubbing and banging the stones together in rhythm. Solo cello and violin join in with the same rhythm, replacing their bows with guitar picks.

The symbolism of the stones at Jesus’ trial is almost frightening. Death by stoning is agonizingly slow and was the preferred method for killing heretics and adulterers in Jesus’ time. The stones also recall Jesus’ admonishment that, “ He who is without sin cast the first stone” and is sharply juxtaposed with the bloodlust of the crowd. Unfortunately, this engaging beginning is followed by writing that is gimmicky and shallow; unable to fulfill the potential of the opening.

The death of Christ is the culmination of all the hatred, back stabbing and denial of previous incidents and is the event to which all others are subordinate. Bach takes advantage of the obvious dramatic intensity and stretches the event over 196 bars. Tan manages it in 49.

Jesus’ death is the traditional ending point of a Passion setting because it was part of the Good Friday service. The Water Passion is one of the two works in the Passion 2000 Project that breaks with tradition and deals with the Resurrection. It is implied rather than stated in the penultimate interpolation: “A sound is heard in water, the sound of innocence, in darkness, in three days the everlasting waters, tears, are crying for rebirth.”

In this interpolation, a fundamental event of the Christian faith is nearly rendered impotent as it is couched in mystical, New Age/popular Buddhist terms. Following this, is the Ecclesiastical interpolation that many audience members, especially Americans, would recognize this text as the political protest song Turn, Turn, Turn written by Pete Seeger and popularized by The Byrds in the 1960s. It is this sort of writing to the lowest common denominator that prompts critics to dismiss him as a self-indulgent sycophant.

The movement begins with the water percussion beating a steady rhythm over which the chorus sings the “A sound is heard in water….” Each phrase is identical and ends with a perfect fifth. The soothing sound of the water percussion; rising, repetitive motives and text; prevalence of perfect intervals and an extended crescendo result in an incredible five minutes of emotional manipulation. One cannot help but achieve some sort of catharsis as the trance-like rhythm grabs hold. It is brilliant scoring on Tan’s part as it ensures the listener will leave the concert hall feeling good about their experience.

It is difficult to ascertain what exactly Tan is trying to say about the Passion story as it appears that his primary concern is international recognition and record sales. Perhaps Tan is saying that the Passion can no longer stand on its own but rather needs fancy lighting, extended vocal technique, superstar soloists and slick packaging to stay relevant. It certainly illustrates the dilemma of the modern church, which is trying desperately to find ways to keep people coming.

Tomorrow’s Passion setting: Pasión según San Marco by Osvaldo Golijov

Like this? Why not try:

• Passions Old And New
• This Week’s Feature: Passion Setting 20th Century Style
• Sofia Gubaidulina: Johnnespassion

Polyphonic settings of the Passion were first introduced in the 15th century but did not grow in popularity until around 1560. It was the custom to set the entire text polyphonically except for the part of the Evangelist, which was always in plainchant. A lack of delineation between the crowd and principal characters was the main weakness of this type of setting and greatly limited the dramatic quality of the story. Highly elaborate and melismatic writing was part of the Roman tradition and the settings were never meant to have a direct impact on the people. To emerging German Protestants however, personal impact was of utmost importance.

Lutherans On Board
Without a doubt, the most significant event to affect Passion writing was the Protestant Reformation. Although it seems obvious, the importance of this event to Passion writing cannot be over-emphasized. Scripture and hymns were presented for the first time, in the living tongue of the people. Music immediately became subordinate to the text as people began to expect that they would be able to hear and understand the words during Mass. Accompaniment was clear and simple, often with only one note per syllable and the complex rhythms of the polyphonic tradition were streamlined so as not to be distracting.

During the 17th century, interest in Passion setting waned in Catholic countries and it became a distinctly German Protestant activity. Protestant reformers regarded music as an integral part of church life and as a result, a large majority of German composers found themselves employed by the Lutheran church. Many of these composers had been educated in Italy and gradually began to introduce secular elements from the Italian school into the liturgy. The fledgling genre of oratorio had a distinctly sectional structure and was adapted quickly to Passion setting. This was an important development because the oratorio style provided a framework for the interpolation of non-biblical texts which in turn facilitated congregational participation. These extra texts were often set to chorale melodies already familiar to the congregation and were intended as a space for reflecting on the preceding biblical text. Bach uses this technique in his St Matthew Passion and sets meditative text to the tune of O Sacred Head Now Wounded seven times; exactly half of the total number of chorales in the Passion.

The next major development in religious composition was the introduction of instruments. It opened up countless new avenues of expression. Composers could now use combinations of instruments to lend colour to a solo vocal line, add strength to the choral parts by doubling or add interest by writing obbligato parts. Just as the oratorio style had been adopted in Passion writing, another Italian invention, opera, was gradually being incorporated into sacred compositions. The inclusion of recitative dramatically altered the presentation of the character parts (Jesus, Evangelist etc.) because they were now written in way that mimicked actual speech. Although Passions were never staged, the soloists now had a much expanded scope of expression available to portray the drama. In addition to the recitatives, composers also wrote sacred arias to provide another place for reflection on what has just happened. Chorale melodies illustrated what the congregation should be feeling and arias were a vehicle for the characters to express their reaction to the drama.

Bach’s St Matthew’s Passion is a culmination of 1500 years of passion writing. Despite being thought of as stuffy and old fashioned by his contemporaries, Bach displayed his complete mastery of Scripture, theology, hymnody, choral writing, orchestral writing, timbre and texture. The sheer number of forces required is enormous even by 19th-century standards. Bach requires two four-part choruses, and extra soprano chorus, two orchestras and two organs as well as a viola da gamba, two recorders and three different kinds of oboe. In addition to the standard tenor and bass soloists representing the Evangelist and Jesus, Bach stipulates that there be soprano, an alto, tenor and bass soloist from each chorus, bringing the total to an astounding ten. The work contains a large number of meditative interpolations and is as a result much more meditative in nature than Bach’s earlier setting of St John’s Gospel. Without resorting to hyperbolic superlatives, it is fair to say that BWV 244 is one of the most elegantly crafted compositions of the Baroque era and indeed, it is a credit to Bach’s skill that it is still one of the best loved pieces of Western art music 270 years on.

Beyond Baroque
The single most important difference between the Baroque Passions and those of the the 20th century is their purpose. During the time of Heinrich Schütz (1585-1672) and Bach, Kapellmeisters could be expected to set the Gospel accounts annually for use during the services of Holy Week. The settings were meant to be support the liturgy and illustrate the text rather than entertain the congregation. Bach’s employers at Thomaskirche instructed him to, “arrange the music that shall not last too long, and shall be of such a nature as not to make an operatic impression, but rather to incite the listeners to devotion.”

In contrast with