Baroque & Romantic

A comment on the differences between romantic and baroque music; it was originally written as a complement to a small music guide.

ROMANTIC MUSIC. It is true that the appeal is quite immediate. There is a lot of passion involved, it is extremely easy to understand it and the impact is often so brutal one wonders how can people not like it – take, as an example, the Scherzo of Bruckner’s 8^th Symphony: it is just impossible not to be haunted by the main theme. Or the beginning of Strauss’ Zaratustra, the beginning of Brahms 1^st Symphony, and many others. Even a Schumann lied – of the lyrical kind – is impossible not to move you. If you grow up with romantic music (as I did) it is impossible not to like it.

But, on the other hand, romantic music tends to go on forever and to oppose very different moods. An acquaintance of mine who is hooked on Vivaldi, Corelli, and such music, once told me he didn’t like the contrast between the fiery/ heroic and the candid innocence of most romantic music. I understand what he means. Most people brought up on pop/rock sneer on candidness and asexual innocence. And all the pomp leaves them indifference as they are used just to destructive rage. So, in a way, people brought up on rock-pop simply don’t get it – romantic music just sounds corny.

There is another factor here: modulation. I don’t know much about rock, but it seems to me that it seldom modulates at all. Modulation tends to be confusing to people unused to it and complicated harmonies are simply heard as meaningless.

And, finally, there is the rhythmic factor. Rock-pop are strongly isorhythmic, with very marked strong beats. With romantic music, the phrasing is often so long that there is just breathing and very seldom is there any pounding. Therefore, rockers just loose track.

BAROQUE MUSIC. Well, it is true. A great deal of baroque music is very boring. I like some Vivaldi (the early works) but on the whole, early 18^th Century music can be unsuferable. Corelli is very nice as background music, but I wouldn’t listen intently to the concerti more than once or twice. But, as it is strongly isorhythmic, has strong beats and shorter phrasing and much less modulation, rockers find it understandable. It has swing, short tunes and simplicity on its side; the emotions are often not corny at all – sheer joy or melancholy. And Biber or Schmeltzer (17r«th century south German) can be listened to in the same mood: marvelous tunes, predictable rhythms and clear harmony.

As a matter of fact one can listen to the Brandenburgs in this way. It is only if you dig further, when counterpoint begins to be clear, that the concerti reveal their true interest. For instance, the 3^rd movement of the 4^th Concerto is a real fugue. But most people just follow the upper, soprano, line (even musicians: for instance, that is how Goebel plays it). If you do that and have a romantic background, of course it is boring. If you do that and have a pop-rock background, it will be lovely.

Of course not all baroque music is simple, isorhythmic and short phrased. The early 17^th Century is quite different: counterpoint still had prominence, harmonies were very complex (in a modal context) and unexpected rhythms were the rule – just think of Frescobaldi and Froberger; and I’ll go further – you were intended to play *ignoring* the bars: just think of the French school Préludes non Mesurés which means that only the pitches were notated and the general flow of rhythm just suggested and not actually written down. Modulations do not exist in the romantic sense of the word – the tuning of keyboards prevented it (for musicians: when you have c, c#, d, e flat but NO d flat or d sharp you cannot modulate: music will be horribly out of tune) – but there are all sorts of dissonances. This kind of music if generally not understood either by romantic grounded or pop-rock grounded listeners. The conveyed emotions seem too weird, and one must really learn a new kind of language.

And, finally, the finer points of baroque music – counterpoint – are unintelligible to most people, both romantic and pop grounded. A Bach fugue, when listened ‘from the outside’ is just a piece of music with many repetitions. But when looked at from the inside, is totally filled with emotion. Now, in a Bach fugue, emotions are just suggested – he uses a kind of minimum element of emotion that one has to learn to decode. When you actually do it, it can literally bring tears to your eyes, spine chills as powerful as the most impressive romantics. I often think Bruckner, great as he was, doesn’t say, in pieces lasting for almost two hours, more that Bach does in 6 or 7 minutes.

Bach is the most pure case of emotional abstraction I know. I often compare him to Piet Mondrian, the painter, who was forever in search of the minimum elements of emotional/esthetical meaning. His paintings are rarefied, cold, out of this world. *Not* so with Bach. Emotion *is* present (and emotional contrasts are huge), albeit in a very abstracted way. You just have to get used to the language.

Finally, as a personal note. If I grew up in a romantic setting, how did I become so attached to Bach and all the rest? At my parents home there were many records by romantic and classical masters. I loved them to passion. But I also liked the one record of Bach music in the collection: the 2^nd and 5^th Brandeburg Concerti, played by Edwin Fisher. I especially liked the 5^th. Once, my eldest brother (there is a difference of about 12 years between us) called my attention to the counterpoint: “you see, there are several melodies at once”; it was not very clear because sound was very warm (old valves, of course) and not transparent at all. But I was hooked for life.

IN SEARCH OF THE BACH ORGAN

IN SEARCH OF THE BACH ORGAN.

From Schweitzer’s days – indeed, before that – there is a very pressing question when one plays Bach: what was the Bach sound ideal?

Of course, Bach wanted different things at different times in his life. But is there any organ he favoured over others?

Some very wrong opinions were influential (the Silbermans, the Schnitgers). During the organ reform movement opinion favoured a delicate sounding, brilliant and not very deep sound which let the polyphony shine quite clearly.

Now, we DO know Bach liked very powerful organs, with very low sonority and a lot of brilliance.

Recently the magnificent Altenburg Trost (where M.C. Alain recorded the Passacaglia) has come as a very likely candidate to the status of a good Bach organ. It is, indeed, powerful, very deep and very bright.

But there is indirect evidence that points to a specific organ that Bach may actually have designed (when the organ was completed, Bach thanked the authorities for following his advice): the Zacharias Hildebrandt organ built for the Wenzelkirche in Naumburg (3 keyboards and pedal, 57 registers, 16’ Hauptwerk, 8’ Ruckpositiv 8’ Oberwerk and 32’ Pedal).

Like almost all the Bach organs, it is located at East Germany. Therefore, funds were lacking for its restoration, although most of the original pipework survived.

This restoration was finished in December, 2000. I expected a host of records on it. But none appeared and I was afraid the restoration was a failed attempt or, perhaps, that the result was very disappointing. As a matter of fact, Peter Williams mentioned the ‘dull voicing’, a Westfallian characteristic, of Zacharias Hildebrandt (a close friend of Bach and invariably recommended by him); could Bach have liked an ugly and dull sound? It seemed possible, given the harpsichords he liked (not very bright) or the ‘lautenwerk’ (a harpsichord with gut stringing, supposed to imitate the lute).

I was, therefore, expecting to be disappointed.

Calcante Recordings (an American organ buff label) proposed a double CD with Bach works played in the renovated organ. As it is one of the very few recordings, I ordered it. Soon after I received a letter saying the disk was out of stock and that they would send it to me if it were to be released again. I naturally forgot about the issue: small labels don’t usually reissue CDs.

But Friday I received a package from the Organ Historical Society: I opened it, and there it was. I cancelled all social appointments I had for the evening and, as soon as I could free myself (9.30 pm!!) I rushed home for 2 hours and a half of THE Bach organ.

Now I’m not exaggerating: I was quite prepared for a disappointment. No records so far, only this one by an American unknown organist, Peter Williams and the Westfallian voicing… Well.

I was so impatient I just thrust the record into the CDP – I didn’t even bother to check the volume (which was quite high, as it happens).

I was greeted by a monster ContraPosaune 32’ and a very brilliant and powerful tutti that quite literally filled the room. The record didn’t use equalization, compression or any other trick: it was just taken from the church ground, as any person (but the organist, of course) would listen to it. It was quite an experience.

As the record went on, I could see the voicing is not at all dull; on the contrary, the organ is quite bright and quite dark at the same time; that is, the sound is very round BUT very brilliant. A kind of pumped up Silberman. The principals are very bright but very present, with a strange poignantly dark sound.

There is a huge gamut of possibilities for sound varying (which the organist, Robert Clark, doesn’t really exploit) and you can play with a single stop or will the roaring tutti without unsettling the wind.

It is very different from a Schnitger: it is fuller and has many more colours. It is also more powerful, because you can draw more stops together, and the 32’ trombone is much heavier than the Schnitger counterparts.

It is true it is perhaps not as delicately voiced as a Silberman but then it is quite another league of animal: it has more power, and many more colours; the plenum is much brighter.

All the pipes speak promptly: the 16 foot principal of the Hauptwerk is as fast as the 8 foot, which is very important for polyphony.

I won’t say it is the most beautiful organ I have ever heard – I retain a partiality for the Schnitgers – but it does give you an extraordinary insight into the Bach sound ideal.

You can get it here: http://store.yahoo.com/ohscatalog/bacatnaumcla.html

Mind you: no compression means it can blow your speakers if you overdo it!

Harpsichord or Piano and how to play Bach

This was first posted in the Naim music forum. I believe it is no longer available.

So much has been said that these comments are bound to be irrelevant. Anyway, let me first address some points made by Ross, which I think deserve attention.

1.Was Bach composing to illiterate folks?

That is a pertinent question, because an organist is supposed to play chorales in such a way that the audience - composed of all sorts of people - will identify the tune and get into the proper mood.

So, yes, Bach was supposed, at least when he was intoning a chorale, to play for illiterate folks. Did he do it? The answer is a resounding no. When he was a young organist he visited Buxtehude - famed for his extremely expressive writing and flamboyant ornamentation. Bach came back flabbergasted and tried to emulate him as best he could (his best was really not very good).

From then on the church goers failed to identify the chorale underneath all the ornamentation and claimed that he modulated far too abruptly. Did he comply? Yes; he ceased preluding altogether: he just played the notes of the hymn. That is: he tacitly said that if he was required to play for ignoramuses he wouldn’t play at all.

More. All his music is extremely complex. Even a simple cantata that may seem at first listen straightforward is a complex work of counterpoint. Sometimes, when he was pressed for time, not very artful or beautiful counterpoint but counterpoint nonetheless.

His keyboard suites - the so called ‘French’, ‘English’ (no one knows why: they are rather French and not English at all, if one is to go by Purcell’s ones) and his keyboard Partitas are different. Counterpoint is perhaps less rigorous (or altogether not important), but the music can be very hard to grasp indeed. For instance, the Gigue of the 6th English Suite was considered, even by Bach students (who had to actually play it - which is quite a treat), ‘difficult’, in the sense that one must really get into the work in order to like it. The Partitas were always considered ‘difficult’ music (except for the first one, regularly played by pianists but not really representative of Bach’s style). The only case where his suites are immediately accessible is the French ones. For instance, the 5th (G major) is marvelous from the first note (but there is a very strange ‘louré’, which most people don’t get off hand).

His organ music is usually rather difficult. The more crying exception is the famous d minor toccata and fugue which some think was not by him at all (I always thought so myself: to begin with the writing and playing technique has nothing to do with Bach). His last Prelude and Fugue (C Major - I mean only the Fugue, the Prelude is straighforward) is such a complex piece of counterpoint you cannot grasp it unless you read it - the theme comes, in the middle of the harmony, in stretti, augmentation and so forth, all in keeping with the crescendo in harmonic stress and almost inaudible given that it is meant to be played with the plenum.

So I think I made my point - ‘abundantly’, you would coldly reply, no doubt.

Shakespeare and contemporary productions. When it is well done, the modern ones can be marvelous, in the sense that they bring a lot of meaning into the play. As far as it doesn’t go against what Shakespeare broadly meant I can like it. The same with Greek Tragedy. Some of the best performances I’ve seen were modernistic. But once, in Greece, I watched a production where the actors got naked and began copulating on the stage (there were women and as you know, they did not perform in ancient Greece). Well… I’m not against copulation, but it did strike me that the Tragedy in question did not require, or even hinted, at such a scene.

Or take a German production of D. Giovanni, where the singers wore Walt Disney masks. D. Giovani himself was Mickey Mouse, and I think the Statue was Goofy - I really don’t know, because I lost patience and got out earlier.

So, being brief and lapidary (I hope) : all is allowed as long as the work itself suggests it.

But there lies the rub: how can we say what the work suggests? Remember the Sixtine Chapel. Before restoration Michelangelo was though as a dark, gloomy, Beethoven-like genius. And after cleaning all had to be rethought - Gesualdo, Monteverdi and others spring to mind, but definitely not Beethoven (or, at least, the 19th Century view of his music - but he himself cultivated that view).

3.What do we know about how Bach wanted his works to be played?

This is really two different questions. What did he want, and what does his music really mean?

We know something about his playing. He, himself, asked explicitly for a ‘cantabile’ style on the harpsichord. This is not easy to achieve, and it suggests some form of legato. But if you look a little deeper, and study the rare cases where he noted down the fingering of his pieces, what emerges is a series of phrases (probably taken at one breath - legato or almost legato) interrupted by places where you just must lift the entire hand. These places are where one would expect them - they occur at the beginning and ending of phrases we identify as such.

Further, when Bach was compared to another outstanding organist of his time, it was explicitly remarked that the other organist played everything staccato and if one was used to Bach’s legato (it is stated as such) one would be disappointed.

Now by legato, on the organ, one does not mean true legato in the romantic sense: rather that each note leads to the next, and to achieve this you have to take into account the reverberation of the church. Again, this brings us back to the ‘cantabile’ notion.

Also, when you consider his solo violin works (there are slurring marks), there are clear intentions that suggest that a very vocal, flowing and phrase-based kind of play.

And, of course, that would be self-evident when you consider his vocal works, where slurring is often noted down.

All this tells us is that, clearly, Bach liked a flowing way of playing.

Another characteristic of Bach is that he played quite fast; this is important because connected to the flow it means his music making must have sounded as a meandering sparkling brook. There are at least two sources supporting that, one of which by Carl-Phillip-Emmanuel himself.

And, the last, very surprising bit of information, comes again from CPE Bach: he says something like: ‘X can’t play my works because he can’t get the necessary fluctuation of tempo; whereas he plays my father’s works, which are much more technically demanding, rather well, because *all you need to do is play the right notes*.

Now I don’t believe this. Certain fugues play themselves, it is true. But take, for instance, the Toccata from the 6th partita. You can’t just play the notes (by the way, in some senses, that is how Gould does it). If you are in the least musical you’ll feel the movement and your playing will carry you into it. So what it means is that Bach can’t be played with huge shifts of tempo - but that, again is self evident from his compositional technique.

5.What does all this mean?

In my opinion, it means that the musical sense of Bach’s music stems from phrasing: flowing phrases that lead one into the other. That is perfectly evident when you try to play but also when you listen to a top notch interpretation. I will surprise some people here, but I will give as a perfect example of the perfect way to interpret Bach Murray Perahia’s English Suites. He does not play legato, but he does capture the flow that is of essence in Bach’s music, and which leads to tension and release.

Are there other ways of capturing this? Yes. Walcha did it, and he played rather stiff; Leonhardt does it, and he is rhythmically very free (to the point of almost alterating what is written) ; Marie Claire Alain does it and she plays tenderly; Christophe Rousset does it, and he plays flowing but crisply; Gilbert does it and he plays in very elegant curves. Scott Ross did it; Kempff did it. And so on. Of course Friedrich Goulda did not do it; and Gould did just the opposite.

Mind you: this is not ‘mere opinion’. If you are honest you will accept that it is informed opinion. I can’t show it more plainly here unless I begin mentioning particular bits of music, which means referring people to go and read the partitions.

There are other aspects of great importance with Bach, which I stated in a previous post. Namely, tension and release and structure (which is another way of saying about the same in the case of Bach). But all this is achieved by carefully controlling the beat, the touch and the rhythmical freedom of each section (by the way, Gould is NOT rhythmically very free: he does play what is written, with a few exceptions; so, Tom, no, that is not why I don’t like Gould).

But even is spite of all that it is possible to play being faithful to the spirit of the music and at the same time play in a totally non historic way. Take, for instance, the prelude and fugue in e minor (the smaller one - I don’t mean the little Preludes: they are not by Bach anyway). Bach almost certainly played it beginning in a toccata like manner and then freeing all the energy of the full organ in the double trilled chords over the thundering pedal notes. Now Walcha (second reading, stereo) plays it softly (no reeds, no mixtures, only soft open pipes) and rather detached. Does it work? Yes, all the terror and desperation are there. He just used different means to get there. Is this a valid interpretation. Undoubtedly.

Or take Stokowsky’s rendering of the Passacaglia. I don’t like it. But is it faithful? I think it is. What he gives us is, magnified under a Technicolor glass, the spirit of the piece.

How do you get the spirit of the piece? By its harmonic structure, its rhythmical characters and the nature of the voice flow. For instance, a very irregular rhythm, several discords, and disjointed voice lines suggest unsettlement. This is the case, for instance, of the great Choral Jesus Christus unser Heiland from the Organ Mass (Clavier Übung III). By the way, why do I claim this piece suggest unsettled emotions in spite of its name - Christ, our Saviour? Because it is *obvious*: music has that effect ion you: it can relax you when it is soft and predictable and progresses in conjoint notes, it can unsettle you if it goes the other way around; it may move you, stir you up, etc because of the movement, tension and excitement the patterns of sound suggest. So, in the case of this Choral, the explanation of the piece must be gathered: the manuals depict extreme disarray; but the pedals intones, in long notes, the melody ‘Christus unser Heiland’. The meaning is, therefore, obvious and in this case, believe me, you don’t need to know to tell apart a C from an A.

Now does disarray *always* follow from disjointed rhythms and large and unpredictable intervals? The ethno-musicological research strongly suggests that it does in all cultures. That is, there are invariants of musical meaning across cultures. Which is only natural: try to move calmly when you are in a frenzy, or try to be extremely brisk when you are very calm: you’ll feel your emotions changing (it may also happen that you just can’t make these kinds of movements).

So why is Gould wrong? Because, as many people have said, he plays almost in contradiction to what the musical patterns suggest and does not respect Bach’s importance of phrasing and flow. And his staccato is, therefore, completely wrong. Does it bring out the polyphony? I don’t think so, but let’s assume that it does: well, in that case we have better like Shakespeare being performed by screaming actors; the words come across in a more clear way.

Why are his Golbergs so famous then? Because, for once, in the last variations, he does capture all the frenzy and enthusiasm (the first versions) that is actually suggested on the page. But listen to his partitas after listening for a time to, say, Leonhardt’s version, and you will know what I mean. Or his 1st book (and even most of the second) of the WTC.

Or, to put it even more bluntly, listen to an aria from the Mass or one of the Passions and then listen carefully to what Gould does with similar melodies (the minore variations of the Goldberg and the Aria itself).

This will be, I hope, my last word on this subject. I think I cannot make myself any clearer.

Regards,

R d S

THE PIANO-HARPSICHORD DEBATE

THE PIANO-HARPSICHORD DEBATE: MY OPINION

I was planning to post about the piano versus harpsichord problem later. But as it is coming up again, and that some kind people expressed the sentiment that my opinion could have some merit (why the hell am I writing in this damn silly way?) here is what I really think on the subject.

The problem is different whether you are considering Bach or not. Couperin does need a late 17^th century French harpsichord, with strong and vibrant basses and a beautifully mellow middle. It is - I feel, unthinkable to play Froberger or Frescobaldi on the piano - and even the recent Hewitt record of Couperin (François I mean) on the piano, even if it is a Faziolli, is nice rather than convincing.

Why? Because this kind on music very strongly relies on two things no piano can do: brilliant chords that generate beautiful difference tones (that is: added brilliance and depth) and a perfectly transparent texture. Moreover, the music up to Fischer and Bach was played on unequal tuning which is quite alien to piano technique and extraordinarily beautiful on the harpsichord. This is because the harpsichord has so many overtones: with equal tuning the harmonics generated by the strings themselves clash with the chords and intervals; this is not a real problem in the piano because all pianos (from the start) were duller sounding than harpsichords and, therefore, one may quite satisfactorily use equal tuning (the octave is divided in 12 exactly equal semitones, which are, of course, different from the harmonic partials generated by each string, whereas in an unequally tempered keyboard you have to chose which intervals are right and which is wrong).

This has a very important consequence in music up to the end of the 17^th Century/ early 18^th Century. Some tonalities sound beautiful (c major, f major, d minor, g minor) whereas others sound upsettingly stressed and distorted (f minor, e minor, or b minor); more alien tonalities (with more sharps/flats) are totally impossible (a# major, for instance).

So, when a piece is written in f minor (as Louis Couperin’s Pavane, for instance) one should expect a kind of harmonic distortion that functions in the same way a very dissonant chord does.

The case of Bach is different. Not only he does not use the harpsichord possibilities to their limit (there are exceptions, and quite a few: the Chromatic Fantasy, several pieces from WTC I and, of course, the partitas and suites) but his music seems quite independent of the medium used. But I still prefer it on the harpsichord.

To begin with, the fast response of the harpsichord generates a lot of energy that allows middle voices to be heard clearly. That makes polyphony very understandable (as what we really listen to except in the upper and lower voices is the note attack). For instance, the Art of Fugue is clearer when played on the harpsichord (even if it has some parts in very long notes) than the organ.

All this seems to be pointing to the advantages of the harpsichord.

But pianists always say that it is quite impossible to make a voice stand out in the harpsichord because of the lack of dynamics. Now there is some dynamics in the harpsichord, but it is so subtle that pianists simply discard it. Moreover, the fact that the attacks are so clear makes it possible to play with the micro agogics: you can delay a note by a tiny fraction of a second (I mean by about 1/10 of a second, or more if you really want to make the difference clearly audible). In the piano this is feasible, but the effect is the one Saint-Sens explored when mimicking the elephant in Animals Carnival: it merely appears that you are not precise and are creating a muddle.

But I cannot deny that you can bring out a fugue theme in the piano - for instance, when the first note appears in the middle of a chord - whereas this is quite impossible to do on the harpsichord. This is true, but that is not the way polyphony works. Polyphony, one must never forget it, is a compositional technique, not a theme catching game. When the same theme appears over and over again (as, for instance, in the much cited Bach Doric fugue) it is completely impossible to bring it out every theme. And, for instance, in the c# minor fugue of WTC I, even with a piano, it is quite impossible to separate the theme and the second countersubject (or the third theme) when they appear in the bass in stretto (I can check where exactly, if requested).

That simply means that the harpsichordist knows it is there; other people will recognise that there is something familiar going on - they will recognize the general rhythmical structure and the harmonic content that results from the theme presence, and nothing more. This is true for every instance of counterpoint I know. The Art of Fugue is a good example, but better ones are to be found in Palestrina, Ockeghem and, of course, Machault (Ma fin est mon commencement).

What I mean is: when listening to counterpoint one doesn’t have to listen to every entry (as a matter of fact, it would be quite unmusical to do so): what is important is the overall thematic unity.

What about dynamic changes - I mean audible and progressive ones? Quite simply that is completely alien to the spirit of the music written for harpsichord. Take, for instance, the Angela Hewitt Well Tempered Clavier: she uses dynamics freely, and the pieces take a huge an Technicolor appearance that I find completely alien to the scores. Of course one may like it that way. But I personally frown a little: Bach is about tension and release, not about loudness. When Bach wants a louder sound he simply doubles the voices. Quoting again from the Doric fugue, there is a mysterious 5^th voice that appears, if I remember correctly in the tenor, doubling it in thirds. I always though that too much fuss was made about that: the reinforcement (in thirds) it is quite frequently used by Bach (Even in the Art of Fugue, where we are talking about rigorous counterpoint): This simply means that Bach wanted that particular bit to be listenable. Another good example, this time not from counterpoint is the WTC I b flat minor prelude: it has a powerful crescendo before a pause. Surely, one must play it on the piano (the clavichord in Bach’s day was only a cheap alternative - a study instrument; you just have to play one to understand why: when you play you listen to the sound; nobody else further than a circle of about two meters does). But a good harpsichordist (and a good harpsichord) can work wonders: just listen to Gilbert’s version, or even to the Leonhardt one (Gilbert’s harpsichord does have a lot of dynamics, whereas Leonhardt’s has only a slight possibility of accenting the attacks).

Also, it is quite evident that the thinning or thickening of harmonic structure is used precisely in that fashion. For instance, the great g minor fugue (from the organ Fantasia and Fugue) is a four voice fugue. Bach increases and decreases the number of voices therefore creating dynamic differences. The same happens with the Passacaglia (admittedly, that is not strictly speaking rigorous counterpoint, but it is counterpoint nonetheless).

Now I surely wished the harpsichord has a little more dynamics - to make a chord stand out, for instance, but you can fake it by means of articulation silences before the chord.

Lastly harpsichord playing (as organ playing) is not strictly speaking legato. That has two reasons. An old harpsichord has a lot of resonance. If you play a chord and then release the notes, you will listen to the reverberance within the box (old harpsichords had closed bottoms, so the case functions as a huge sound reservoir. In an organ, not only a pipe does not stop ringing after the key is released (but for a very short time and chiefly in the larger pipes) but the reverberance makes it imperative that you clear the way to the next note. As far as I know, except for very quick passages, there is no such thing as true legato on the organ. In the piano this does not happen: you damp the string and the sound stops. A détaché style of playing always sounds wrong to me (let alone the bizarre way of playing of Rosalynd Truck or Glenn Gould).

What about pedals, then? In old music one should avoid it at all costs, pianists usually say. I definitely don’t agree. This is because you often use what is commonly called overlegato in the harpsichord. That is, after the melody has passed over the notes, you leave certain of them put in order to strengthen the tone colour. I don’t mean you have to do it. But just play the first prelude of WTC 1 and you will understand the need. Moreover, a piano without the use of pedals sounds too dull - it was never meant to sound that way.

Further still. ‘Piano allows tone colouring whereas harpsichord does not’. That is totally silly. A double harpsichord usually has at least 3 registers. This allows, for instance, to play a sarabande (many from the English suites, the 6^th from the French ones, and the marvellous 6^th from the partitas) with all registers engaged, so as to be piercingly desperate, but without shouting. In the piano you must play them piano - which means they do not sound desperate but merely sad - otherwise you’ll get a very odd effect. That is to say, you can only have real brightness when playing forte (because the felts act more quickly on the strings and therefore they do not muffle the sound so much). This is a very severe limitation when playing period music: if you want brightness you must have loudness; whereas in a harpsichord you may have brightness and not a very loud sound (but beware: a good harpsichord has a lot of sound!).

My last word on harpsichord resources is the fact that you can actually play with the attacks. If you have both unisons engaged, if you press your finger slowly down (a very difficult thing to do, but Leonhardt masters that craft) the sound will be different from the one obtained when pressing fast.

Admittedly, I’m stressing the harpsichord capabilities and not the piano ones. That happens because I know the harpsichord very well and have not set hands on a piano for about a decade. Pianists will defend their instrument with better arguments because they know the instrument better. But I am not completely ignorant about pianos: I used to play a Steinway when I was young. So I know how magnificent an instrument it is.

My position is therefore very clear: I by far prefer a harpsichord version of harpsichord music than a piano one.

Of course some pianists can do wonders. One such pianist is Murray Perhaya (spelling?). I would say his best recording is the English suite series (far better, I think, than the Goldbergs [but then, I really never liked the Goldbergs; as an organist friend of mine doesn’t either, is there a problem for organists to like them?)]. His playing only relies on flow, tension and release. That is, I think, the essence of Bach’s harpsichord music. He achieves it masterfully. But did you all know that he has a harpsichord and practices his Bach touch on it?

Finally. I am definitely not against playing Bach on the piano. I quite like some interpretations. And I wait eagerly for Pollini’s version of the WTC (it has been announced). And also for the Perahya one (it has not been announced, I think). When a great artist really makes music alive I couldn’t care less for organological [=referring to instruments] considerations.

Truth is: no one really knows what kind of harpsichord Bach liked. Yes, he liked the Mietkes, but no one knows how they sounded. Most harpsichordists use a ‘Mietke copy’. But is it a copy of an unadulterated Mietke? Of course not. No one even knows if the original instrument had brass strings (a very mellow sound) or plain iron ones (a strong, brilliant sound). I personally like French instruments. They sound better than German ones. Period, as far as I am concerned.

The ‘Bach-organ’ is better known. It is thought to be illustrated by the Wenzelkirche in Naumburg (Hildebrandt, probably with a specification drawn by Bach himself). It sounds very well (a monster organ: quite outscores a big Arp Schnitger in terms of power and even brilliance). Also the famous Altenbruch Treutmann is thought as a Bach organ. It is a splendid instrument. What about the Silbermanns? Bach said that Gottfried Silbermann deserved his name because the organs sounded like silver. But that his mixtures, in big churches, were too low. I quite agree with that. Nevertheless, they are beautiful. We know Bach liked powerful mixtures and 32’ foundations in the pedals. Does that mean one can only play Bach in such organs? Not at all. I personally like Bach best in smallish organs in a rather dry acoustic. Counterpoint is clearer and all the toucher nuances are understandable.

So, even if I favour the harpsichord on musical reasons, I quite accept and even like piano performances. As far as the spirit of the music is preserved, I feel quite content.

One last comment. Most harpsichords are very badly rendered in most hifi systems. Either they are too bright, too closely miked, too harsh, and so on. A real harpsichord usually is a sweet sounding, crisp and very precise instrument. It is never really loud, but when talking to someone who is turning the pages for you, you definitely have to raise your voice. CDs usually take out some of the brilliance, although this is not crucial. The crucial point is resolution: a harpsichord (as, indeed, an organ) needs great harmonic resolution, otherwise it will sound hard. So you have to actually have listened to some harpsichords live to reach a decision.

Sentir a música.

O Silêncio e o Sentir

A música só ocorre porque há silêncio. O silêncio é um estado de não ser, um estado em que não há tempo nem espaço, nem alto nem baixo, nem cor nem forma. É nessa escuridão que um som, depois outro, vão definir uma ordem.

Há ordem no tempo: uma série de sons é percebida como estruturada em termos métricos, como quando, no tique-taque de um relógio, ouvimos agrupamentos que só estão na nossa mente. Um, dois, três, um dois três, um, dois três. Mas – e basta fazer um pequeno esforço – pode também ser Um, dois, um dois, ou qualquer outro padrão. Se as notas se sucedem com qualquer relação temporal que sirvam ao ouvinte para pendurar uma estrutura temporal, a indefinição do silêncio será substituída por um espaço estruturado.

Há ordem no espaço, também: há acima e abaixo, há subir e descer. É intuitivo, inato, considerarmos os sons mais agudos como mais «altos» e os mais graves como mais «baixos». Não há nenhuma maneira de cantar as notas dó ré mi fá sol e ter a sensação de que se desce.

Há ordem no nosso sentir, também. O nosso corpo, como o silêncio, estão em estado indefinido. Mas quando ocorre uma sucessão de sons com determinadas relações, sentiremos que há notas que correspondem à distensão e outras que correspondem à tensão. Num discurso melódico organizado haverá notas de repouso, notas que perturbam esse repouso e notas que ocorrem entre pontos de repouso e não repouso. O nosso corpo sente isso em termos de tensão – enquanto o repouso não vem – e de distensão.

Finalmente, enquanto que o silêncio não tem cor nem forma, um som tem sempre brilho e textura – o timbre. Um saxofone ou um clarinete têm um som de veludo, um oboé é acre e áspero.

Ouvir o silêncio

Muitos músicos afirmam, talvez de forma nebulosa, que a parte mais importante da música é o silêncio. Penso que isto significa que tem de se estar bem concentrado no silêncio para compreender até que ponto a música é um estruturador do nada.

«Ouvir o silêncio» é difícil. É como fechar os olhos perante uma imagem e preferir ficar na escuridão. Ouvir o silêncio é um acto voluntário e deliberado.

Ouvir o silêncio é saber contemplar o nada, saber olhar para onde nada está. É como sentir a solidão – de resto, o silêncio é uma forma de solidão – o que a maior parte das pessoas evita. Sentir a solidão ou ouvir o silêncio é sentir o próprio ser, no seu estado de abandono, enquanto esse ser não é afectado por nenhum estímulo proveniente do exterior. Estar só, ouvir o silêncio, é sentir o que somos quando mais nada é. Não se trata de um mergulho introspectivo. É apenas a capacidade de experienciar a ausência de ser. Ouvir o silêncio é saber estar em repouso e sentir esse repouso sem o rejeitar.

É nessa ausência de ser, nesse estado incriado que a música vai estabelecer um significado. Só nos conseguiremos entregar a esse novo significado se conseguirmos primeiro reduzir a nossa própria actividade a ponto de nos deixarmos ser movidos pelo som que passa a estruturar o que antes era apenas repouso.

Quando a música – na verdade, pode tratar-se de outra experiência qualquer – passa a estruturar o sentimento difuso de nada, o nosso corpo entra em vibração com essa experiência. Sobre as outras experiências a música tem a grande superioridade de ser inespecífica: não é, como no sexo, na fome ou no calor, uma experiência centrada e imediatamente identificável.

Quando uma sucessão estruturada de notas nos atinge o nosso corpo «vibra» de acordo com ela. A sucessão de notas define, como disse antes, pontos de repouso – ou de equilíbrio – e pontos de desequilíbrio. A nota mais «forte» (geralmente a mais pregnante, a que foi tocada durante mais tempo, com maior energia ou simplesmente mais vezes) cria um estado de equilíbrio, uma expectativa do seu regresso. Esse equilíbrio é violado pelas notas mais fracas que funcionam como sons que esperamos transitórios: devem reconduzir à nota forte. Se se cantarem duas notas (duas notas quaisquer) verificar se á que a primeira a ser cantada, ou a que foi cantada mais tempo, funciona como uma espécie de âncora, de base: a outra nota parece uma perturbação dessa nota inicial e só atingimos o equilíbrio quando voltarmos a cantar essa nota inicial. Havendo mais notas o sistema é mais complicado, mas funciona da mesma maneira: há um ponto de equilíbrio para que se espera que o «sistema» de notas evolua. Enquanto esse ponto de equilíbrio não for atingido sentimos que o «problema» não está resolvido.

O processo funciona exactamente como quando observamos uma árvore a ser dobrada pelo vento. A árvore tem uma posição «natural» que é modificada pelo vento, que a dobra, mas esperamos sempre que a árvore volte à posição natural. Se isso não acontecer, tem se a sensação de que a árvore ficou «estragada». Quer dizer, se a árvore mudar de posição os termos do problema inicial alteram se: não houve uma solução para o desvio inicial mas sim uma avaria do sistema.

Com a música passa se exactamente a mesma coisa: esperamos que ela volte, como a árvore, ao ponto de equilíbrio.

Temos então que a música funciona como a estruturação de um equilíbrio que depois é perturbado e finalmente resolvido. Há muitas maneiras de se atingir esse equilíbrio final, mas enquanto se lá não chega, o nosso corpo tem a sensação de que algo não está resolvido (é, de resto, este o termo que se usa em música: a resolução de uma modulação quer dizer, a resolução de um afastamento do equilíbrio inicial).

Claro que a música não depende só disso: há cor, textura, ritmo, mas todos eles têm de estar subordinados a esta resolução do desequilíbrio.

O corpo sinestésico

«Sinestesia» quer dizer «sentir com». Só são sensíveis à música pessoas que sintam que o corpo delas vibra sinestesicamente com a música, isto é, que os desequilíbrios e equilíbrios da música se sentem no nosso corpo. Há pessoas para quem os sons são apenas sons, da mesma maneira que há pessoa para quem as cores são apenas cores. Há pessoas para quem não é muito importante que os cortinados sejam azuis, verdes ou vermelhos, ou mesmo que não haja cortinados. Podem preferir uma das cores, mas não é um problema importante. Outras sofrem com as cores de certos locais: alguns sítios são abafados, outros deprimentes, outros parecem frescos, uns tranquilos, outros demasiado tónicos.

Com a música passa se o mesmo: há pessoas para quem certos timbres ou certas sequências de sons evocam imediatamente uma vibração especial; outras para quem essa relação é muito menos óbvia.

Fala se muito, nas ciências humanas, de «emoções». Acho que o termo confunde mais do que ajuda. Quando se ouve um som o corpo identifica o em termos da sua textura: é áspero, é doce, é brilhante, é opaco. Não há qualquer emoção nesse sentimento. Trata se apenas de percepção. Da mesa forma, certas sequências de sons provocam sensações corporais particulares – tensão, distensão, plenitude, exaurimento. É desses sentimentos e da sua estruturação que é feita a música e não de emoções como a alegria, a tristeza ou o misticismo. É certo que o resultado de uma música particular pode ser a alegria. Mas isso acontece porque há uma série de percepções corporais que a isso nos conduzem. O equilíbrio é claramente afirmado, os sons são distintos, as notas têm inícios e fins bem definidos, os timbres são brilhantes – há muitos exemplos disto na música instrumental de Handel. Em consequência disso sentimo nos alegres.

Ou, na «música triste», os sons têm inícios e fins «lentos», as notas descem, o equilíbrio é sempre «para baixo», os sons são pouco brilhantes e o volume de som é baixo. Finalmente, na música «angustiada», o equilíbrio parece quase impossível de atingir: sempre que se entrevê uma solução para o desequilíbrio verificamos que ele não aparece (exemplo típico disto é a modulação contínua em Wagner: fica se horas à espera do reestabelecimento da nota principal e o compositor tem um prazer quase mórbido em no la negar).

Quer isto dizer que, para compreender bem a música, precisamos de deixar de pensar que as emoções são a matéria primária do sentir: o que é primário são as sensações do corpo, não os nomes (alegria, tristeza, desespero) que damos aos nossos estados de espírito. Ser sensível à música implica ser sensível ao corpo e às suas sensações; na medida em que não se der nomes a essas sensações conseguiremos entrar no mundo mágico da música e afastamo nos do espaço contaminado das palavras.

Interpretar As experiências do corpo

Actualmente quando se diz «corpo» está se muitas vezes a pensar no corpo dos outros e da maneira como vemos o corpo dos outros. Na música (e, na verdade, em qualquer forma de arte) o que é importante é o que sentimos no nosso corpo.

Contrariamente à fome, à sede, ao sexo, a música não tem um local específico onde se sente e não resulta numa motivação clara: a música, por si só, não nos pode fazer sentir fome, sede, ou desejo. O tipo de resultado corporal da música corresponde, como disse, a estados gerais de actividade, distensão, força, equilíbrio desequilíbrio.

Digamos que a música provoca, nas pessoas que lhe são sensíveis, disposições para sentir emoções e não emoções específicas. Tenho consciência de que é difícil explicar o que quero dizer. Como já disse acima, a emoção é um conteúdo específico e a que damos nome. Na música há apenas tendências corporais – uma espécie de sentir primário, sem objecto. A música é a experiência de emoções não sociais por definição: tem que ver com o que sentimos em nós e não relativamente aos outros.

**

O corpo pode ficar tonificado, pronto para a acção, ou, pelo contrário, átono e em absoluta paz. Podemos sentir coisas como a repetição obsessiva de certas notas ou motivos musicais como agressões – como coisas insuportáveis – e podemos sentir uma melodia simples e que leve ao equilíbrio como pacificadora. É exclusivamente dessas pequenas coisas que é feito o significado musical. Há uma lógica corporal, muito semelhante àquilo que penso suceder na dança e igual ao que acontece ao nosso corpo quando falamos de qualquer assunto com outra pessoa.

Quando sentimos ternura os nossos gestos são macios, sem força, os nossos músculos estão em repouso. Quando alguém nos insulta retesam­ se­ nos os músculos, estamos preparados para bater. Se conseguirmos simular corporalmente uma sequência de estados corporais teremos exactamente noção dos efeitos que a música tem em nós.

Trata se, portanto, de uma sequência de estados posturais e é a essa sequência que se chama estrutura do discurso musical. Na música simples pode haver apenas um estado corporal ou postural. Nas músicas mais complexas o interesse vem da maneira específica como se seguem esses estados e das relações entre eles.

Uma complexidade adicional da musica vem do facto de que há muitos factores simultâneos a influir nos nossos estados posturais e corporais: como disse no início, o timbre, a intensidade do som, a relação entre as notas. O estudo desses factores nunca foi feito (ou pelo menos nunca foi bem feito), de modo que não sei dizer qual o efeito de cada parâmetro no nosso corpo. Posso tentar analisar o efeito de cada parâmetro no meu corpo, mas isso ficará para outro sítio.

O que é importante agora é compreender que a sequência dos estados corporais é absolutamente livre na música. Enquanto que, numa conversa com outra pessoa é difícil passar da cólera à ternura, na música é perfeitamente exequível passar de uma tensão muscular extrema a uma atonicidade quase absoluta. Da mesma maneira, é possível passar da maior excitação à maior tranquilidade.

A gramática das sequências

Isto significa que não há sequências de estados corporais errados nem certos. Mas não significa que cada época não tenha escolhido o tipo de sequência de estados corporais aceitáveis ou inaceitáveis.

Mas vai longo. COntinua, como se dizia antigamente.

http://br.geocities.com/rsnsaraiva/musica.htm

PARA REVISÕES DE REPORTÓRIO E DE DISCOS

Coisas de órgãos

I have been giving a great deal of thought to organ compositions and intonation. Most of our ideas about how an organ should sound like stem from Bach’s music. This is, of course, wrong because we do not exactly know what kind of organ Bach preferred. Even so, there are certain characteristics that an organ must have in order to accommodate Bach’s music. They are, I think, the following.

Wind. The organ must be loud, therefore it must have good wind reserves. In addition, the wind must be stable. This is necessary for fugues, for triosonatas and for preludes. Chorales are less demanding in that respect.

Color. Most sources suggest that Bach liked a great deal of coloring, but we do not know what specific colors Bach had in mind. Almost certainly these included flutes, salicionals and borduns at 8 foot. Flutes of 4, 3 and 2 are suggested by the Bad Berka design. And certainly the sexquialtera is a necessary stop.

Plenum. This is one of the very few things in which we are informed. Bach stated that “good lungs” were necessary and, for Mühlhausen, specifically requested that it should be possible to draw all the registers. We also know that Bach liked low sound. Therefore, a plenum of 16+32 is likely. The keyboards must, of course, be coupled.

Keyboards. Certain evidence suggests that the Central Germany tendency during Bach’s times was veering toward a concentration of stops in fewer manuals than before. This is, probably, the consequence of stronger wind, but Bach’s music suggests very few keyboard changes. Usually, a plenum keeps to the end of a piece, perhaps with the addition of reeds in the end (and this holds better to earlier works – the Passacaglia, the great a minor prelude and fugue – than to later ones, although the great e minor fugue perhaps suggests a change of manuals.

All this suggests a strong organ, capable of a strong plenum without wind instabilities and several more delicate stops for use in less heavy registrations.

This kind of organ feels natural when one plays Bach. The manual 16 foot seems mandatory for the intonation of many fugues and for many (most) preludes. A 32 foot foundation seems natural. All this means a strong, bright and solid sound.

When playing Buxtehude everything changes. Not only the color is quite different (reeds, aliquots) but the plenum is different: more distant, more cavernous. Playing Buxtehude on a Silbermann seems impossible to me.

French music naturally relies on French organ specifications, and the same is valid for Iberian and Italian music. The case of Iberian instruments being naturally closer to me than the others, I will analyze it.

Iberian organs. What strikes me with Iberian organs is their intense poetry. All seems to come from a cold mist. In part, this is because most pipes are open, but the voicing is the most important aspect. Iberian organs tend to have a very pronounced attack. It is not brutal, but it is almost always there. One can also modulate it when playing because of low wind pressures. It is perfectly possible to play a tento with the principal alone and achieve an extremely poetic effect.

The principals are so different from the German or French ones that one is almost tempted to use the Iberian word – flautado which means “fluted” – as it is more appropriate. The plenum is just a continuation of the flautado 12 (the principal 8). When one adds the octave, then the superoctave, and then the mixtures, one has a crescendo of brightness and “penetranz”, but never a crescendo of aggression. Mixtures, up to the end of the 17th Century are never too bright (besides, they usually have fewer ranks than most), although there may be many mixtures, ordered in sharpness. However, to my knowledge, the sharper mixtures only occur when the church is big enough to have a 16 foot manual (which is usually open).

Most organs do not have a 16 foot register in the manuals. This is natural, because the fluework is extremely polyphonic and a 16 muddles polyphony in most cases.

Wind is usually unstable, more or less as in all 17th Century organs. This furthers the delicacy of the principals which may be said to be almost fragile. The result is an extremely delicate sound that seems to ring in the air as waves of gold and green, gold and red, silver and blue and many other colors. There is nothing quite like it.

Wind instability, strong attacks and fluework delicacy serve polyphony. The fact that playing a musical pattern in the bass has an audible effect on the treble, contrary to what is often said, has an enhancing effect on polyphonic clarity.

There are usually few flutes. They may be conical, chimney and, sometimes, gedeckts. All are sweetly bright. They can perfectly well be mixed with the principals, although it usually is not necessary.

This kind of sound is impossible to achieve in an organ that can play Bach. The sheer strength of this kind of organ renders the intricate polyphony less audible (as I think also happens with Bach’s fugues) but, more important, make it impossible to capture the ethereal quality of most Iberian counterpoint (Cabanilles may be an exception, but I say this perhaps because I do not know Cabanilles’ music well).

One might say that the most important repertoire for the organ is Bach, so any organ must be able to play that, even if this implies a compromise on other repertoire. But I strongly disagree. Old polyphonic works are not less beautiful or less complex than Bach’s organ music.

In conclusion. Thinking of what I wrote, I see I said nothing new: old organs are beautiful, the repertoire must be played on suitable organs. And yet, I mean much more than that. I mean that Iberian organs are quite distinct from German organs and that they are perfectly their equal.

The problem is, one cannot build an eclectic Iberian instrument. For instance, it is just not possible to build a 3 manual organ in which the 3rd manual is “Iberian”. It would never mingle with the more robust, less colorful, sound of “German” or “French” sounds. What is more, adding a Pedal 16 foot reed seems not natural at all. Perhaps a delicate Fagott might do the trick, but it is so foreign to the Iberian sound that it would be almost ugly. Also, a sexquialter would sound out of place. I would venture to say that the very beautiful effect of a flute battery (8, 4, 3, 2), although foreign to the Iberian concept, might work. Also, thin and delicate voiced regals and reeds might mingle well (bear in mind that Iberian reeds are a relatively recent development and were not used in polyphonic music: they are usually strident and blasting in sound; that is why I think a softly but richly voiced regal would work well).

Would it be possible to “play Bach” on such an organ - I mean, the development of the Iberian organ, with pedals and a 'solo' keyboard I outlined above? I would say yes, at least fugues. We are used to the heavy pedals of German organs, but it must be stressed that a strong pedal does not usually enhance polyphonic clarity. In Bach’s music this is very evident, as in many cases the manual voices “climb up” during busy pedal melodies, obviously in an effort not to confuse what is already a rather muddled sound.

If we think on terms of abstract polyphony, in many cases, the simple addition of a strong 16 foot bordun to the manual pulldown is enough to make fugues sound well. In smaller churches it is even possible to use only 8 foot range in the pedals and keep the 16 foot for especially emphasis. As an example of this, playing the Art of Fugue with a different pedal combination usually makes polyphony much less clear than just using whatever was chosen for the manuals (it is true that there is much voice crossing, but the same is true for the upper voices).

Bach’s fugues are very expressive, but they do not rely on organ color. They sound beautiful in whatever combination of instruments one uses. In fact, Bach’s fugues may be registered almost anyway: the interest lays in the voice movement and the resulting harmonic and melodic effects. This is exactly the same as with the tentos of Iberia. The Iberian organ sound being what it is, music would shine through a very different light.