Today’s Early Music Monday is all about words! Just as original pronunciation of Shakespeare’s English reveals rhymes and hidden puns and brings the language to life, playing early music with an understanding of styles and practices from that time brings the music to life and shows off details that would otherwise be missed.
Sprezzatura
An Early Music Monday post for Labor Day! Here’s the origin of the idea that a performer (athlete, actor, etc.) should “make it look easy” while doing something incredibly difficult. For an added bonus, it might help keep you alive in the always complicated royal court…
Julie d'Aubigny
17th-century swordswoman AND star of the Paris Opera? Fought duels with men in her free time (and generally won)? Early Music Monday continues! And you thought Gesualdo was the only salacious story from your music history class…
Solmization and the Guidonian Hand in the 16th century
Prepping for grad school exams and wondering how the Guidonian hand actually worked? Or solmization? Not really sure why “una nota supra la semper est canendum fa”? Early Music Sources put together a really fantastic video explaining all of that!
Songs of the Oracle - Lassus' "Prophetiae Sibyllarum" and Byrd's "Gradualia"
These program notes were written by Elise Groves for a program of Lassus’ “Prophetiae Sibyllarum” paired with selections from Byrd’s “Gradualia” presented by Tramontana in November 2015.
Orlando di Lasso was born in 1530 in what is now Belgium. Around 1542 he entered the service of Ferrante Gonzaga and spent time in Mantua, Sicily, and Milan. He then worked for Constantino Castrioto in Naples and for Cosimo I de’ Medici in Rome before taking a post as maestro di cappella at the Basilica of St. John Lateran in 1553. By 1555 he was in Antwerp, where his first collection of Madrigali, Vilanesche, Canzoni francesi, e motetti for four voices was published. In 1556 he joined the court of Duke Albrecht V of Bavaria in Munich. When Albrecht V reverted to Catholicism in 1563, Lasso (a Catholic, though not a counter-reformationist) took over leadership of the chapel and remained in that position for the rest of his life.
One of the most prolific and versatile composers of his time, Lasso wrote over 2,000 works in all of the vocal genres of the Renaissance. Flemish, Italian, German, and French publishers made his music widely available throughout Europe and also gave us several variants of his name. Lasso’s reputation and popularity far surpassed any of his contemporaries, owing to his incredible skill in composition as well as his enormous output and the success of his publishers. In 1570, Emperor Maximilian II conferred nobility upon him. He was knighted by Pope Gregory XIII, and was invited to visit Charles IX, the King of France, in 1571 and again in 1573.
The Prophetiae Sibyllarum were composed sometime between 1549 and 1556, and were included in a set of partbooks prepared for Albrecht V shortly after Lasso’s move to Munich. While the subject of the texts is sacred in nature, these pieces were not intended for use in a religious liturgy, and fall more into the category of “madrigali spirituale” (spiritual madrigals) than sacred motets. These pieces are best described as “musica reservata” – music with intensely expressive setting of text and use of chromaticism, usually written for performance by professionals to be enjoyed by connoisseurs. Although today these pieces are more frequently analyzed than performed, Lasso clearly intended them for performance by presenting them in illuminated partbooks.
Among Lasso’s works, the Prophetiae Sibyllarum stand out for their intense chromaticism. Expressive chromaticism in madrigals was fairly common in the mid-1500s, but the Prophetiae Sibyllarum took it to new heights. The voice leading, though unusual, generally remains within the standard rules and practices of the time. Lasso’s use of chromaticism in the Prophetiae Sibyllarum is more reminiscent of Gesualdo than other Renaissance composers. Like Gesualdo, he used chromaticism to highlight certain aspects of the text, in this case the mystical, unusual, strange, and sometimes ambiguous texts.
In 1545, humanist scholar Sixt Birk of Augsburg published eight books of Sibylline Oracles, newly rediscovered, containing 12 Christian-leaning prophecies dating from the 2nd-4th centuries. A new edition in Latin from 1555 is most likely what Lasso would have used for his compositions. The poetry itself is complicated, with incomplete thoughts, parenthetical insertions, and interrupted sentences, and Lasso’s masterful use of chromaticism and rhythm enhances the disjointed yet mystical character of these texts.
The sibyls were women, believed by the ancient Greeks to be prophetesses, who uttered divine revelations, usually concerning future events, while in a frenzied state. Early Christians regarded the sibyls as pagan priestesses predicting the coming of Jesus, and adapted the Sibylline texts into the larger body of early Christian writings. The authenticity of these Sibylline prophecies was so commonly accepted that in Michelangelo’s paintings in the Sistine Chapel the prophets of Israel and the pagan sibyls stand side by side.
The movements of the Prophetiae Sibyllarum mention twelve different sibyls:
The Persian Sibyl, also known as the Babylonian, Hebrew, or Egyptian Sibyl. In some sources, this sibyl is credited with the authorship of the Sibylline Oracles.
The Libyan Sibyl was named Phemonoe and was associated with Zeus Ammon at the Siwa Oasis in the Libyan Desert.
The Delphic Sibyl may or may not have been related to the well-known Oracle at Delphi. The sibyl was the sister (or daughter) of Apollo.
The Cimmerian Sibyl may have been a double name for the Cumaean Sibyl.
The Cumaean Sibyl was the most important Sibyl for the Romans. In literature, this was the Sibyl consulted by Virgil’s Aeneas before he went on his journey to the underworld. She wrote her prophecies on oak leaves and left them near the entrance to her cave to be scattered by the wind.
The Samian Sibyl was named Phyto and lived on the island of Samos.
The Hellespontine Sibyl was also known as the Trojan Sibyl. The collection of prophecies at Gergis was attributed to her and preserved in the temple of Apollo, later passing to Erythrae, before possibly passing to Cumae and eventually being sold to the king of Rome.
The Erythraean Sibyl was named Herophile and wrote her prophecies in acrostics. This may have been another name for the Cumaean Sibyl.
The Phrygian Sibyl may have been a double name for the Hellespontine and Erythraean Sibyls.
The Tiburtine Sibyl was named Albunea and was located in the ancient Etruscan town of Tibur. She was added to the group of Greek sibyls by the Romans.
The European and Agrippan Sibyls were added to the original 10 sibyls by Filippo Barieri in 1481, which prompted a new level of interest in the Sibylline Prophecies.
William Byrd was born in London and was a student of Thomas Tallis in the Chapel Royal. His first known professional employment was his appointment as Organist and Master of Choristers at Lincoln Cathedral in 1563. In 1573 he became a Gentleman of the Chapel Royal. Byrd and Tallis were shortly thereafter granted a joint patent for the printing of music and staff paper. For this, they used the services of French Huguenot printer Thomas Vautrollier, who had settled in England and previously produced an edition of a collection of Lasso’s chansons. They subsequently published Cantiones quae ab argumento sacrae vocantur in 1575. The collection was dedicated to Queen Elizabeth and included 17 motets from each composer – one for each year of her reign – for a total of 34 pieces.
Although the religious status of Byrd’s early years is unclear, by 1570 he was associating with known Catholics. Both Byrd and his wife were cited for recusancy (refusing to attend Anglican services), and having fallen under heavy scrutiny for his Catholic activities, his membership in the Chapel Royal was suspended for a time. Some scholars believe that the motets composed during this time show a persistent emphasis on themes of persecution, captivity, and deliverance, and that Byrd reinterpreted liturgical texts to serve as laments and petitions on behalf of the oppressed Catholic community.
Throughout his life, Byrd was frequently reported to the court and subjected to heavy fines for his failure to attend his local Anglican church. It is likely that his circle of friends and patrons among the nobility were instrumental in saving him from more severe penalties. In 1592, his prosecution for Catholic activities was halted by direct order of Queen Elizabeth herself. While the queen was a Protestant, she was a moderate one, and also a keyboard player and lover of music, especially that of Byrd.
By the early 1590s, Byrd had moved to Stondon Place, near his patron Sir John Petre. A fellow secret Catholic, Sir John Petre held private celebrations of the mass in his home at Ingatestone Hall. As with all forbidden practices, these celebrations and those who attended them were constantly under threat of discovery. About this time, Byrd began an incredible journey to write a complete cycle of music for the Catholic liturgical calendar. The first step in this project was the publication of the masses for three, four, and five voices between 1592 and 1595. The second step, the Gradualia ac cantiones sacrae, followed in two installments, one in 1605 and the other in 1607. Between the two volumes, there are 109 motets in three, four, and five voices. When Byrd encountered the same text in two different contexts, he generally made use of one setting for both occasions. To make this possible, pieces are usually closely related in key and vocal scoring and can be adapted as needed. In general, the motets of the Gradualia are shorter than Byrd’s other motets and feature more madrigalian word-painting.
The first book of the Gradualia covered the major feasts of the Virgin Mary, including the votive masses for the Virgin for the four seasons of the church year, All Saints Day, and the Feast of Corpus Christi. It is from this first volume that the selections on our program are taken. Rorate caeli, Tollite portas, Ave Maria, and Ecce Virgo concipiet were all composed for the Votive Mass of the Blessed Virgin Mary during Advent (as the Introit, Gradual, Offertory, and Communion, respectively). Gaude Maria Virgo is the Tract from the Votive Mass of the Blessed Virgin Mary from Septuagesima to Easter, Ave Maria – Virga Jesse is the Alleluia during Paschal Time for the Mass for the Annunciation of the Blessed Virgin, and the Nunc Dimittis is the Tract for the Feast of the Purification.
I love a lass... Alas, I love! - English madrigals and partsongs
These program notes were written by Elise Groves and Hilary Anne Walker for a program of English madrigals and partsongs presented by Tramontana in May 2015.
The term “madrigal” refers to two different forms, both Italian in origin. The 14th-century “madrigal” describes the poetic form favored by composers Jacopo da Bologna and Francesco Landini, among others. The first collection of 16thcentury “madrigals” was published in Rome in 1530, and following that publication, the madrigal quickly became the most popular secular genre of the 16thcentury. By the 17thcentury, the madrigal remained popular, but it had also taken on pedagogical importance. Those who studied composition with the great Italian masters would inevitably leave with a collection of madrigals in the Italian style. Because of this practice and the advances in printing that occurred somewhat simultaneously, collections of madrigals were quickly put into circulation not only in Italy but also throughout Europe.
In England, the influence of several Italian composers working in the court of Elizabeth I resulted in some early attempts to copy the Italian madrigal style, sometimes in Italian or in English translation of Italian madrigal texts. The text of “Lady, when I behold the roses” of John Wilbye is almost identical to that of Gesualdo’s “Son sì belle le rose” though the musical style is quite different. Musica Transalpina, published in 1588, was a collection of Italian madrigals translated into English, featuring pieces by Marenzio and Ferrabosco, among others.
English composers, armed with the developing English poetic forms, quickly took up the challenge to create a uniquely English madrigal. William Byrd, though better known for his instrumental and sacred music, experimented with secular genres, including the madrigal. Though he faced persecution as a recusant Catholic, Elizabeth I held him in high esteem and he wrote the first known madrigal in her praise – “This sweet and merry month of May” – in 1590. “Though Amaryllis dance in green” was originally composed as a consort song, but with the growing enthusiasm for madrigals, Byrd added text to all five parts and republished it in Psalms, Sonnets, and Songsof 1588. Byrd’s greatest contributions to the madrigal are not compositional in nature, but instead in his teaching of Thomas Tomkins, Thomas Morley, and possibly Thomas Weelkes. Tomkins would later dedicate “Too much I once lamented” to his “ancient and much reverenced Master Byrd.”
Some English madrigalists followed the Italian preference for more serious subject matter – courtly love, death, and pastoral imagery – and also followed the Italian tendency toward a more chromatic style with vivid word painting. Weelkes, Wilbye, and Tomkins were among these, exhibiting varying degrees of chromaticism and a definite preference for using not only counterpoint but also unusual harmonic shifts for expressive purposes.
Other English madrigal composers preferred lighter, more frivolous subject material, usually incorporating double entendre. Farmer’s “Fair Phyllis I saw sitting all alone”, in addition to being one of the best known madrigals of the English school, is an excellent example of this lighter style with clever word painting and the punning style which the English enjoyed so much. Orlando Gibbons, a colleague of Tomkins at the Chapel Royal, was more known for his sacred music than his secular compositions, but he turned to the madrigal for satire and social commentary. “The silver swan” published in Madrigals and Motets(1612) is a well-known and lovely example of the later English style, but the last line (“more geese than swans now live, more fools than wise.”) is sometimes viewed as his personal opinion of the state of musical composition in England.
Thomas Morley, another student of William Byrd, was more interested in the lighter aspects of the Italian style and tended to avoid overly dramatic effects and word painting. In his compositions, he can be accused of being more of a creative borrower than a composer, since almost all of his madrigals have roots in Italian model pieces. That aside, Morley’s setting of “It was a lover and his lass” is one of the very few known contemporary settings of Shakespeare, and Morley’s contributions to printing and publishing were integral to the popularity of the madrigal in England.
The Triumphs of Oriana was a collection of English madrigals edited by Thomas Morley and published in 1601 in honor of Elizabeth I. It was modeled on Il trionfo di Dori, an Italian collection from 1592, and included works by 23 different English composers, including Michael Cavendish, Thomas Tomkins, Thomas Morley, John Farmer, John Wilbye, and Thomas Weelkes. Every madrigal in the collection ends with the phrase “… then sang the shepherds and nymphs of Diana, ‘Long live fair Oriana’” taken from Croce’s Ove tra l’herbe e i fioriwhich originally appeared in Musica Transalpina, and was reworked by Morley as “Hard by a crystal fountain” for this publication. Following this model, Choral Songs in honour of Her Majesty Queen Victoria(1899) would later bring together 13 English composers, including Charles Villiers Stanford, to commemorate Queen Victoria’s 80thbirthday.
The madrigal enjoyed a relatively brief period of popularity in England compared to the rest of Europe, but madrigals were nonetheless a significant part of the larger tradition of part song writing for English composers. Part songs – songs for two or more voices without instrumental accompaniment – were an important secular genre long before the court of Elizabeth I. The court of her father, Henry VIII, included composer, poet, dramatist, and actor William Cornysh, and his quasi-round “Ah Robin, gentle Robin” is a lovely example of the pre-madrigal part song.
Eventually the madrigal was overtaken by the lute song, and no discussion of lute songs would be complete without mentioning John Dowland. Following several painful snubs by the English court, Dowland moved across the channel and spent the majority of his life in courts in Germany and Denmark. When Dowland published his books of lute songs, he improved upon the earlier system of part books by printing each song in the round. One page would show the melody line and the corresponding lute notation, and the facing page would show the other parts to be sung or played in the round, so that all performers could read from one book.
Later English composers continued the practice of writing part songs for both contemporary English poetry and poetry in translation. Robert Lucas Pearsall became a composer relatively later in life, after moving his family to Germany. There he was immersed in the German Cecilian movement, yet another in a long line of reforms which sought to make the music subservient to the text and contextual meaning in sacred compositions. Pearsall developed an affinity for Thomas Morley, and followed in his footsteps to borrow material, texts, and ideas for his own compositions, rather than focusing on his own compositional style. The tune of “Adieu! My Native Shore” was written by Renaissance composer Heinrich Isaac and harmonized by Senfl and Schein, but Pearsall adapted it with a few measures of his own composition to fit the lovely poetry of Lord Byron. Pearsall even borrowed from Morley himself for his setting of “Why weeps, alas, my lady-love”. While the composition seems to be Pearsall’s own original work, Morley’s own five-voice setting of the same text could not have been far from his mind. Pearsall’s use of suspensions in overlapping voices is also very reminiscent of older Italian madrigals, most notably those of Monteverdi, of which Morley was also fond.
In the early 20thcentury, Gerald Finzi, Gustav Holst, and others found great inspiration in the poetry of Robert Bridges, the poet laureate of England from 1913-1930. Finzi was an avid consumer of contemporary poetry; it is estimated his personal library contained more than 3,000 volumes of poetry, prose, and philosophy at the time of his death. Finzi’s use of rhythm and word painting is unique among later part song composers. While his pieces are certainly the most rhythmically difficult, he captures the intricate and complex rhythms of the English language better than perhaps any other composer, while still maintaining a beautiful flowing line. A wonderful example can be heard in his setting of Robert Bridges’ Clear and Gentle Streamwhere the traditional pealing tune of a clock tower is traded among voices when they sing about the “Minster tower”, thus the voices themselves become the tolling bell. Though Finzi had no formal musical training, he chose to study privately as a boy with Ernest Farrar, a student of Sir Charles Villiers Stanford.
Stanford, like Byrd before him, was a prolific composer, though his contributions to madrigals and part songs are perhaps less significant than his position as teacher to an entire generation of British composers, including Howells, Vaughan Williams, and Holst. As a faculty member at Cambridge University Musical Society, Stanford was responsible for not only raising the level of excellence, but also opening the Society’s doors to female voices.
Gustav Holst’s Four Songs, Opus 4, were composed while he was a student of Stanford at the Royal College of Music. The texts are a mix of English poetry, including a poem of Robert Bridges, and other languages in English translation; “Soft and Gently” is an English translation of the poem Leise zieht durch mein Gemütby Heinrich Heine. While Holst enjoyed a successful career as a composer and performer, he believed his role as a teacher was just as important. He dedicated 30 years of his life to teaching young women and firmly believed in making music more accessible for the amateur community to use for practical purposes like celebrations, ceremonies, and simple church services.
Holst’s emphasis on the amateur community reflects an important trend in the history of the English madrigal and part song. While Italian madrigals had been created specifically for professional singers to entertain their upper class patrons, English madrigals were written more with the entertainments of the growing merchant class in mind. Singing madrigals around a table became a popular pastime, and by the 20thcentury, madrigal societies and amateur choruses kept these pieces in the public performance sphere.
In addition to the fact that the English madrigal was intended for both amateur and professional performers, many of the composers were themselves trained in other fields. Pearsall was a lawyer who didn’t devote himself to studying composition until he was in his thirties and living abroad. Cavendish was a nobleman who occasionally composed as it suited him. Finzi had no formal musical degree, but proved himself to be a first rate composer. Because of this duality of professionals and amateurs, the English madrigal was frequently passed over by more “serious professionals” as being too trivial, simple, or frivolous. It has only been in the last several decades that English madrigals and part songs are once again being performed and appreciated for the incredibly expressive genre that they are – one which encompasses the full range of the human experience, from the most achingly painful to the silly to the most gloriously sublime.
Prière - 17th-century French music for voices and viols
These program notes were written by Elise Groves, Anne Legêne, and James Williamson for a program of French sacred music for voices and viols presented by Tramontana and Long & Away, a consort of viols in November 2014 and June 2015
The inspiration for Prière came in the summer of 2011, when Elise and Hilary first performed a portion of Charpentier’s magnificent Litanies de la Vierge as part of the International Baroque Institute at Longy. We could not be more thrilled to present this program of the music of Charpentier, Lully, Dumont, and Marais – all composers associated with the court of Louis XIV.
Marc-Antoine Charpentier received his early training from the Jesuits in Paris before venturing south to study with Carissimi in Rome. Upon his return to Paris in 1670, he entered the employ of Marie de Lorraine, known as “Mademoiselle de Guise”, a cousin of Louis XIV, as a composer and haute-contre. Her household included one of the largest private musical establishments in France, and he remained in her service until her death. In 1683 he entered the competition for four quarterly appointments as sous-maîtres of the royal chapel, a position that Dumont would go on to win. Unfortunately Charpentier became ill and dropped out of competition after the first round. After the relationship between Lully and Molière soured, Molière began collaborating with Charpentier on revivals of earlier plays as well as new works, all the while carefully constructing their work to abide by the restrictions put in place by Lully in his monopoly on theatrical composition in France. After Molière’s death, Charpentier continued writing for his company for almost two decades. He also held appointments at several Jesuit institutions, and in 1698 was made maître de musique at the Sainte Chapelle on the Île de la Cité.
Litanies de la Vierge and Annunciate Superi were likely composed in the summer of 1684 for the musical establishment of Mademoiselle de Guise. The scores for those two pieces even contain the names of the singers employed in the Hôtel de Guise at the time of the first performances. Mlle de Guise was an ardent admirer of Italian sacred music and a devout Catholic, and this no doubt influenced Charpentier’s compositional output and style.
During his lifetime, Charpentier was drastically overshadowed by the overwhelming popularity of Lully. Even after Lully’s death opened the doors for other French opera composers, the cult-like followers of Lully vehemently condemned anyone that may have been perceived as a threat to Lully or his ideals. With the exception of a handful of airs from Circéand the full score of Médée, none of Charpentier’s music was published during his lifetime, and he remained virtually unknown until the late 20thcentury.
Henry Dumont was a Belgian composer, organist, and harpsichordist. He, along with his brother, studied at the choir school in Maastricht and later the Jesuit college. He became organist at the church of St. Paul in Paris in 1643 and held that post until his death. In 1652 he was named harpsichordist to the Duke of Anjou, thus providing him with access to the French court. In 1660 he entered the service of the queen, Marie-Thérèse, first wife of Louis XIV, as her organist. Eight years later he became compositeur de la musique de la chapelle royale and finally in 1673, maître de la musique de la reine.
The majority of Dumont’s surviving works are sacred vocal pieces, as one would expect of a composer who spent so much of his career in positions related to the church. Dumont’s instrumental dances, including the sublime Allemanda Gravis, are found in his Meslanges à II, III, IV et V parties published in 1652. French composers were slow to take up the Italians’ innovations in continuo accompaniment, preferring old-fashioned polyphony that worked so well in matched consorts of instruments. By the 1650s, however, when Dumont was harpsichordist for the Duke of Anjou, tastes were beginning to change; his works are among the earliest French pieces published with figures in the bass.
Jean-Baptiste Lully was born in Florence. He was taken to France in 1646 as garçon de chambre and Italian teacher to Anne-Marie-Louise d’Orléans, another of Louis XIV’s cousins. He became known in her court for his talent on the violin. In 1652 he entered into court employment as compositeur de la musique instrumentale to Louis XIV, a position that involved writing music for the court ballets and dancing in them. He was invited to join the Vingt-Quatre Violons du Roi, but was unimpressed with their lack of discipline. He set up his own Petits Violons and trained them from 1656 to 1664. Meanwhile, Lully was gaining fame as a composer of ballet. He was appointed surintendant et compositeur de la musique de la chambre du roi in 1661 and by 1662 was maître de la musique de la chambre. Through the 1660s, Lully collaborated with Molière on a series of comedies-balletscombining spoken comedy with singing and dancing. The chaconne from L’amour Médecin, one such comedie-ballet, dates from 1665, roughly a decade before his wildly successful operas were performed.
Lully was initially resistant to the idea of French opera, but when his rival Pierre Perrin fell from the favor of the king, Lully was quick to take up his post and soon was granted the exclusive right to compose and produce opera at the Académie Royale de Musique. From 1673-1687 he produced a new opera nearly every year and fiercely protected his monopoly on that genre. Lully ruled with an iron fist. He imposed harsh limits on his rivals, preventing them from doing anything that might have threatened his own success. He insisted on “military precision” in his orchestra, and was adamantly intolerant of added ornamentation by either instrumentalists or singers. His greed, ambition, and ruthless plotting against other composers and musicians he perceived to be threats resulted in numerous enemies. His violent temper caused problems with the musicians in his employ. However, he paid his performers extremely well, and even guaranteed them earnings outside the opera as long as they were not working for any of his rivals.
In the 1680s, mirroring the preferences of the court, and in a desperate attempt to regain his former status with the king, whose tastes had turned away from lavish entertainment, Lully focused his attention on sacred music. Lully wrote relatively few sacred works, but the petits motets, three of which will be performed on this program, are a unique hybrid of Italian and French tastes. They were most likely composed for the nuns at the convent of the Assumption in rue Saint-Honoré. In 1687, while conducting a performance of his Te Deum before the king, he struck his foot with his conducting cane and subsequently died of gangrene.
Marin Marais received his initial musical training as a chorister at the parish of St. Germain-l’Auxerrois from 1667 until 1672, where his teachers included members of the Couperin family. In his late teen years he also studied for a time with the eminent gambist St. Colombe, an episode in his life that inspired the largely fictional book and film Tous les Matins du Monde. His fame spread far beyond the borders of France, where he was chamber musician to Louis XIV, and played in and later conducted the Opéra orchestra. Marais studied composition with Lully and remained loyal to Lully for his whole career. The finest viola da gamba player of his time, he published 5 books of viol compositions, a total of 596 pieces grouped into 39 suites, some of them for three viols. Some are easy to play, some fiendishly difficult. Beautifully engraved, they are still being re-published in facsimile, as one could not wish for a more pleasing, elegant, and nicely laid out edition. Marais gives fingering, bowing, and ornament indications, which still make these books extremely valuable as teaching material, besides being the absolute summit of typically French baroque viol music.
The music for three viols on tonight’s program comes from his fourth volume of viol music, published in 1717. This volume is organized in three sections: easier solos, quite virtuosic solos which include a number of his most famous works, and finally two suites for three viols, one in D and the other in G. The Caprice in G opens the second suite. It is in two sections, the first is lush and chromatic while the second is a brilliantly virtuosic fugue. The three pieces in D major come from the middle of the first suite. The Allemande, which was no longer dance music in France by the eighteenth century, moves between grandeur and tenderness. The Sarabande features luscious soaring lines and the Petit Paysane is a short, rousing vignette depicting a country festival. The combination of three bass viols is uniquely sonorous and Marais demonstrates his mastery of writing for the instrument throughout these pieces.
Ahi, morte! - Epitaphs and Laments of Monteverdi and d'India
These program notes were written by Elise Groves and James Dargan for a program of madrigals by Monteverdi and d’India presented by Tramontana in May 2014.
What is a madrigal, anyway?
The term “madrigal” actually refers to two different things, both Italian in origin. The 14th-century madrigal, favored by composers like Jacopo da Bologna and Francesco Landini, referred to the poetic form that many of their pieces followed. The madrigals of the 16th century were settings of secular poetry for three to six voices. These pieces employed polyphony, imitation, and later, chromaticism to emphasize the meaning of the text. As composers explored more daring ways of emphasizing text meanings, the madrigal shifted from a popular form of entertainment among amateur musicians to a complex repertoire reserved for professionals. To showcase their skilled musical institutions, the dukes of Ferrara and Mantua maintained a group of highly trained singers, both men and women, to perform polyphonic madrigals, one singer to a part, in the rulers’ private chambers.
The first madrigals appeared in Florence in the early 16th century. While none of the pieces in the first publication were actually called “madrigals”, they displayed the characteristics that would later be used to distinguish the madrigal from other genres. By the late 16th century, composers were beginning to experiment with more extensive word-painting and unusual chromatic relationships. Composers had become ingenious in their use of what would come to be known as “madrigalisms” – passages in which the music assigned to a particular word were set in a way to vividly express the meaning of the word. Such an example in this program can be found in “Sospir, che del bel petto” where the broken rhythms of “sospirata” resemble a sigh or a gasping for breath.
In the early 17th century, the madrigal continued to be popular, but it had diverged into several forms. Madrigals in the familiar polyphonic style continued to be an important genre and compositional exercise for Italian composers and all who came to study composition in Italy. Composers also wrote madrigals for a solo voice with instrumental accompaniment (monody), and also concerted madrigals, which d’India and Monteverdi both composed alongside their more traditional five-voice madrigals. Our program features madrigals from the early 17th century that are in the older polyphonic style but show clear influences from other forms that were beginning to take hold.
What was Monteverdi’s involvement?
Claudio Monteverdi (1567-1643) entered the service of Vincenzo I, Duke of Mantua as a viol player and singer in 1590. He would remain at the Gonzaga court in Mantua for the next 22 years, eventually becoming the maestro di cappella. After the death of the duke in 1612, Monteverdi moved to San Marco in Venice, where he restored the musical institution that had been failing since the death of Giovanni Croce in 1609.
Monteverdi’s prolific compositional output shows both the familiar styles of the late 16th century as well as the sometimes contentious style innovations of the early 17th century. Although he is often viewed as the transition between the renaissance and baroque, it is important to remember that he was one of many composers who wrote fluently in both older renaissance and newer baroque styles, as any successful composer in this time would have done. He was not bound by the rules and guidelines of compositional practice, but believed that music should “move the whole man” and therefore must match the words being set. This emphasis on using music to intensify textual meanings drew criticism from Giovanni Maria Artusi, a conservative music theorist. His criticism of the use of irregular dissonances and “modal improprieties” was directed specifically at Monteverdi but also at all Italian composers who were daring to explore these new techniques and place the words and their meanings first.
Monteverdi’s response, published in his fifth book of madrigals (1605), was to divide musical practice into two streams. One was prima pratica, or the older polyphonic style of the 16th century, which was characterized by strict counterpoint, prepared dissonance, the equality of voices, and the predominance of music over the text. The other was seconda pratica, or the use of free counterpoint and the use of dissonance in unusual ways so the text ruled the music. While effective for silencing the critics, for giving composers a defense for their daring new practices, and also for giving music theory students something to memorize for exams, this explanation implied a strict division where none really existed. The move from older polyphony into the new more expressive styles was a gradual transition during which composers wrote in a wide range of styles concurrently, depending on their needs and desires at the time.
How does the sestina fit in?
A sestina is a set poetic form consisting of six stanzas, each with six lines, followed by a stanza of three lines. There is no set rhyme scheme, but instead the final words from each line of the first stanza are used as the final words for each subsequent stanza, rotated in a set pattern. Traditionally attributed to the 12th-century troubadour Arnaut Daniel, the form was popular in Italy by the 13th century and continues to be used by contemporary poets. Historically, sestinas were written as a lament or a complaint, since the repetition of words can serve to emphasize and intensify feelings, usually those of anguish or grief.
Monteverdi’s motivation for composing this sestina setting is somewhat unclear. Some believe that it was written for his wife, while others suggest it was written for a favored singer, or merely written out of duty and not with any particular attachment. In 1607, Monteverdi’s wife died, leaving him with three children all under the age of six. After her death, Monteverdi returned to his father’s home in Cremona in a deep depression. He was quickly summoned back to Mantua to compose a new opera, L’Arianna, for the marriage celebrations of the Gonzaga heir, Francesco, to Margherita of Savoy. Tragedy continued to plague him when Catarina Martinelli, the young singer for whom the title role of Arianna was written, died of smallpox just weeks before the premiere. Monteverdi again retreated to Cremona and refused to return to Mantua for quite some time. The music composed during this period, including the sestina, reflects his emotional state with the use of intense dissonance and vivid depiction of anguish and loss.
The demanding poetic form of Monteverdi’s sestina, or “Tears of a lover at the tomb of his beloved”, elicits some of his most inspired music, with each stanza representing a single tear. The first stanza sets the stage for an exploration of grief in the moment when a lover bends over the grave of their beloved. In the second stanza, a haunting duet between two inner voices is repeated three times, increasing in grief with each iteration, before the remaining voices finally join in and bring it to a solemn conclusion. The third and fourth stanzas feature duets and trios as the lover expounds upon his grief and appeals to nature, to the heavens, and to anyone who will listen. In the fifth stanza, the lover invokes the muses with a series of musical sighs that pass from voice to voice and almost seem to interrupt the lamenting for a moment, transmuting the mood to one of wonder before returning to a haunting gesture of sobbing. The text painting in the sixth stanza is exquisitely beautiful and very effective, each voice building up and over the other until all activity is stopped by death and the tomb ("Ahi morte, Ahi tomba!") when the voices converge into a unison, and then silence. Then the final stanza arrives in the shape of monody-influenced homophony, almost as if the speaker is too exhausted for any more grief, and the sestina ends in dry-eyed calm.
Who was Sigismondo d’India?
Sigismondo d’India (1582-1629) can be grouped with Don Carlo Gesualdo and Luzzasco Luzzaschi as the composers who explored and perhaps even exploited chromaticism in the early 17th century. Very little is known about d’India’s early life. He was of noble Sicilian birth, and probably was a relative of Don Carlo d’India, a Palermo nobleman who was living in Naples in 1592. By 1606, when he published his first book of madrigals, he was in Mantua, where he may have met Monteverdi. In 1608, he was in Florence, where he sang alongside, and earned the admiration of two of the most celebrated singers at this time – Giulio Caccini and Vittoria Archilei. In 1611, he was appointed director of chamber music at the court of Emanuele I, Duke of Savoy, in Turin. He remained there until 1623, when he was forced to leave by vicious gossip or to avoid a scandal, depending on which account one reads. In any case, he settled temporarily at the court of Alfonso II d’Este, Prince of Modena before moving on to Rome under the patronage of Cardinal Maurizio of Savoy, his former patron’s son. His later years are as shrouded in mystery as his early life. In 1627 he competed for the commission to write music for the wedding of Duke Odoardo Farnese of Parma to the daughter of Cosimo de’ Medici, but that honor was eventually given to Monteverdi. He was given an appointment to the court of Maximilian I of Bavaria, but died before assuming the post.
His extensive travels throughout Italy gave him a thorough understanding of most of the major styles present in Italy at the beginning of the 17th century, and his masterful synthesis of these styles is apparent in his compositional output. He wrote in most of the major vocal forms of the time, including monody, polyphonic madrigals, concerted madrigals, and sacred motets. While he never ventured into the world of opera, his extended monodic laments can easily be considered dramatic scenes. He followed in the traditions of the monody composers in Florence, writing five books of monody for one or two voices and continuo, and introducing into monody the chromaticism that was well established in the polyphonic madrigal. In his five-voice madrigals, d’India followed the wild chromatic style of Luzzaschi and Gesualdo instead of the more restrained and monody-influenced style of Monteverdi. Like the other composers of his day, d’India alternated between genres. He wrote monody and polyphonic madrigals side by side, believing monody to be incapable of everything the polyphonic madrigal excelled at.
In his final publication in 1627, d’India lamented that composers increasingly tended to delight in facile melodies rather than attempt the ingenious elaborations of genuine counterpoint. For much of the 17th century, monody and the forms that followed (aria and cantata) focused on the importance of a single line and a clearly expressed text. It wasn’t until the 18th century and the high Baroque that composers once again turned themselves to the creation of exquisite counterpoint and polyphony.
How 900 year old Medieval chant teaches you to kick butt
This past weekend I wrapped up an amazing project - a production of Hildegard von Bingen's Ordo Virtutum with Ensemble Musica Humana.
Who?
Hildegard von Bingen was a nun who lived 1098-1179. She was a scientist, philosopher, political figure, and all sorts of things that women weren't really allowed to be, and she had crazy visions and composed music based on her visions. She also is responsible for writing the Ordo Virtutum - a musical morality play (a play that tells a story with a moral, like Aesop's fables).
What?
The Ordo Virtutum is the story of the journey of the soul ("Anima") and the battle between the Virtues and the Devil over the final destination of the soul. In the original version, there are 17 virtues (all sung by women), a chorus of men representing the Patriarchs and Prophets, a chorus of women representing other souls, and the Devil (a spoken male role). In the version I just did, we had a women's chorus of "Souls", a "Patriarch", a "Prophet", a "Devil", 4 Virtues ("Humility, Chastity, Knowledge/Wisdom of God, Victory") and of course, "Anima" - the soul. What makes the Ordo unique is that it is the earliest morality play (by at least a century), and it's the only Medieval music drama for which we know who wrote the music AND the words. Basically, it's really cool (in a nerdy sort of way).
The Story?
Here's the easy version... The Virtues show up and announce that they've arrived. The Patriarch and Prophet give them all high fives. The Souls wander in, lost as usual. Anima starts to realize that life kinda sucks. The Devil tempts Anima, somewhat successfully. The Virtues get frustrated when Anima gives in to the Devil. Then Anima comes back to the Virtues, admitting that she blew it and asking for help. The Virtues give Anima a serious pep talk. Anima finally stands up for herself and tells the Devil she's not into him anymore. Then (finally) Humility (she's in charge) tells Victory (the hit (wo)man) that she can go kick the Devil's butt. The Devil is bound and everyone (led by Victory and Knowledge of God) rejoices. Then Chastity and the Devil get into a spat, which Chastity wins. Because Jesus was born of a virgin. Make sense?
Enough background - on to the action... of memorizing!
Even with the shortened cast of characters (which also meant a shortened play), it was an hour long production. Of chant. Memorized. So... how do you memorize chant? Slowly. Usually when you set out to memorize something (as a singer), the accompanying music helps cue you on what comes next. Such is not the case with chant. There isn't necessarily accompanying music (more on that in a minute). So... relying on the music is not an option. Next = words! When you don't have music to memorize, you have to memorize the words. Like a monologue. Except in Latin. So, I made flash cards. I transcribed the 19 different chants I had to learn, cut them up, and started working through them. In order to make sure I learned them in the right order, I practiced singing them in order. Even if I would work on them out of order, I always ended my practice sessions by singing the whole thing, in order. Then I realized that I had to know which character and which line immediately preceded my responses. So I wrote the character's name and final 3 words on the back of each piece of chant. It was a good system! If I ever have to memorize an hour of chant again, there's the system!
Uh...on to the REAL action!
Rehearsals started on March 17th. We had 6 rehearsals (4 hours each), plus two dress rehearsals (4 hours each), and 3 performances. It was an amazing amount of work to get done in a small amount of time, but it really came together! Everyone came prepared with their chant all learned and partly memorized (full memorization was the goal, but it was just too much for all of us). We had a fantastic leadership team who gave us just the right amount of direction and free license with our characters. We even got to dance! And amazingly, after all those hours of rehearsal and repeating little bits of chant over and over and over and over again, it all came together!
That's nice. Why is "Victory" a "virtue"?
Some of Hildegard's "virtues" make total sense. Humility, Discretion, Chastity, Hope, Patience, Obedience, Faith, Heavenly Love... yeah, all of those "Virtues" can easily be viewed as "virtues". Those are reasonable character qualities for someone to want to develop. Some of the other ones make a little less sense. Contempt of the World, Fear of God, Knowledge/Wisdom of God... yeah. I can kinda get it, but it's not so obvious. And then there is Victory. As far as I can tell, Victory exists in the Ordo for one purpose - to step in as a "military" leader and conquer the Devil. She doesn't say much, though when she does it's awesome, high, and pretty much can bring the whole thing to a halt. She also doesn't get to act on her own. She doesn't get to decide when it's time to conquer the Devil. Humility has to tell her when it's time. So basically, she functions as Humility's hit (wo)man. And in that context, it all makes sense. Victory is the "virtue" of conquering. Of not being afraid and of taking charge of what needs to happen. Victory is the "virtue" of kicking butt in the proper time and context. Victory isn't warm and fuzzy. She won't hug you and tell you it's ok. She won't even tell you to stop being dumb with your stupid boyfriend (that's Knowledge/Wisdom of God's job). Victory just waits until everyone has had enough and then goes and beats him up. Victory doesn't rationalize or explain. She just does what needs to be done. She throws it down. She gets the last word. She's dangerous. And as one of the directors mentioned to me, she may still be covered in gore and hasn't wiped her sword off yet. Yeah... she kicks butt. As awesome as Victory is, that's something that can be hard to display on stage. She doesn't say much. It's all in her attitude. The most hilarious part, and yet probably also the most helpful part of Victory's journey came when someone (Matt) was watching me get ready for a dress rehearsal and started quoting Cool Runnings to me. (If you haven't watched Cool Runnings, do it. It's worth it.) "I see pride! I see power! I see a bada-- mother who don't take no crap off nobody!" I don't know if any description can sum Victory up quite as well. "No crap off nobody." Yup. Pretty much.
So why care about a medieval music drama?
Well, on a purely nerdy level, it's a really cool thing that it still exists and it's very seldom performed. And Hildegard is awesome and so is her music. Also, the production was really well done. The singers were amazing and the instrumentalists... oh the instrumentalists! There is no written accompaniment for the Ordo Virtutum. Just the lines of chant for the singers and dialogue for the Devil. So, the amazing instrumentalists improvised the whole thing. It's modal, so they just played things in the same mode as the chant lines and it all worked out. I make it sound way simpler than it actually was. They deserve a ton of credit for bringing the whole thing together and creating a sound world that made the singers' job SO much easier. The directing/staging/costuming/alltheotherstuff was so good and made for a really awesome production.
It's still an hour of chant that's 900 years old.
Well yes. You can't really pretend it's anything else. But 900 years isn't really that long when you consider how relevant the material is. Yes, it's a morality play steeped in Catholic imagery. Hildegard was a nun, so duh.
But think about the action...
Anima makes dumb choices. We all make dumb choices.
The Souls are generally confused. We've all been generally confused.
Anima finally decides to start making good choices but discovers that it's hard. We've all been there too.
Anima stands up to the Devil but realizes she can't do it on her own and asks for help. This is such a good lesson to all of us. We all need help from time to time.
And as far as the Virtues go...
The virtues can talk to the soul, but she makes her own choices.
They can't act until she asks for help. That's kind of like life too. You can't help someone who doesn't want to be helped. You can't change someone who doesn't want to change.
But as Victory taught us, when it's time to move, MOVE. Don't hesitate. Just throw it down.
Don't take no crap off nobody.
And that's a lesson that still applies to all of us, 900 years later.
Early Music and Movies
Because I am studying something a little more "off the beaten path", I often have to explain what early music is (as opposed to not-early music) and justify why one would even want to do it. Explaining this to other musicians is certainly an interesting task, but explaining it to non-musicians baffled me for quite a while. Finally I think I have found an explanation that works for everyone.
So let's start with a comparison: music is like movies.
Music has performers.
Movies have actors.
In both, the performer/actor is presenting something to an audience, hoping to move the audience in some way.
So far, so good? Awesome.
Movies come in different genres (action, horror, romance, comedy, sci-fi, etc.)
Music can come in different genres based on instrumentation and form (orchestral, solo, vocal, instrumental, etc.) or from different time periods or composers (romantics, classicists, impressionists, jazz, baroque, renaissance, medieval, and many of the more modern 20th and 21st century techniques).
Movies can involve many different actors (or groups of actors).
Music can involve many different performers (or groups of performers).
In movies, you do not always assume that an actor who is good in one genre of film would be good in another. For example, many people are fans of Adam Sandler's comedy work, but somehow I don't think he would thrive as well in a serious drama. There are always exceptions to the rule, of course. Robin Williams' comedy brilliance is well known, and his dramatic roles are also always excellent. The reason this works, though, is that he doesn't use the same delivery in a comedy that he does in a drama. The techniques of acting that he employs in Mrs. Doubtfire, for example, are very different from Good Will Hunting or Dead Poets Society.
In music, it should be the same, but it isn't always. For some reason, some musicians expect to play every piece in the same style, regardless of genre. Obviously, techniques appropriate to jazz do not always transfer to Beethoven piano sonatas, or vice versa. Fortunately, many musicians are wiser than this and recognize that each piece should be played in its own style with its own unique characteristics. Ladies and gentlemen - this is the premise of early music.
As I have often explained to my vocalist friends in other departments, one would never dream of singing Mozart and Wagner in the same style. Obviously, solid technique is a must for both, but the stylistic characteristics (and costumes!) are very different. Early vocal music often gets a reputation for being an excuse for bad technique, but this is such a misconception. Bad singing is bad singing, no matter what is being sung. There have been performances and recordings made of any and every piece of music with bad technique. That is not a phenomenon unique to "early" music. Good singing is good singing, no matter what the repertoire is. Honestly, some "early" repertoire is so outstandingly difficult that it is impossible to sing without solid technique. Early music isn't about good technique or bad technique any more than any other musical genre. I sing with just as much power and support as my opera colleagues. I sing with vibrato. I use different articulations and ornaments for colors and effects. Obviously, when I'm performing with a lute, my volume level is lower to accommodate the softer sound of the lute. When I'm singing a recitative (as I did this summer) accompanied by six harpsichords, an organ, a clavicytherium, and cello, more volume and power is required. Early music is about performing music before 1750 (or so, depending on who you talk to) and performing it in the proper style and, in many cases, on the proper instruments.
But back to the point about actors sometimes only being successful in one genre and sometimes being able to succeed in many...
In this area, musicians are the same. Some musicians can make a career of only performing one thing (Beethoven piano sonatas or Puccini operas), while others can be successful with multiple things. Many performers of medieval and renaissance music are also successful performers of 20th and 21st century music, including some very avant-garde styles.
One more comparison before I leave the movie analogy...
Sometimes, movies are bad.
Sometimes, musical performances are bad.
Yes, it happens. And it happens to everyone. No matter the genre of music or movie, bad happens. I have often heard "modern" musicians criticize "early" musicians for a bad performance, saying that "gut strings are just an excuse to play out of tune." Well, out of tune happens. It happens to everyone, regardless of gut strings or metal wound strings. Bad movies are made. Bad concerts are recorded.
Now, legitimately, if you look for it, there is quite a bit of distasteful early music that has been recorded. My music history listening CDs from college are full of terrible recordings of early music. I think it is a huge shame that whoever made the CDs chose to use such awful recordings, because all music deserves to be shown in its best light. There are absolutely mind-blowing performances of the madrigals of Gesualdo, early Italian Trecento repertoire, and chant. But the recordings on those CDs are full of bad technique, bad diction, horrible intonation, and all the things that would make anyone hang their head in shame. On the same CD are some fantastic performances of Schubert and Schuman Lieder. Possibly the person who put the CD collection together hated early music. Possibly they didn't have many recordings to choose from. Or they were cheap or lazy. I don't know. I know I can find amazing recordings of Hildegard von Bingen's responsories on youtube, along with clips from the latest Hollywood Blockbuster. I can also find terrible recordings, along with segments from laughably bad B-rate horror films.
Unfortunately, it is also true that many of us come to the earlier styles of music after having spent many years learning later repertoire. This is less of a challenge for vocalists, and more of a challenge for instrumentalists. Violinists may begin their training at a very young age, but a baroque violin is a different instrument than its modern cousin. Gut strings make a different sound, and the bow is held in a different way. Playing a piano is a very different experience from playing a harpsichord, even though both are keyboard instruments. Sadly, most people don't start on harpsichord or baroque cello or theorbo. Maybe one of the few instruments which has remained more or less unchanged is the recorder... and that is now being taught to hundreds of elementary school students as a "beginning instrument". Personally, I love the recorder. Everyone should learn to play the recorder. That said, treating the recorder as a children's instrument only, perhaps as a step-up to a clarinet (a "real instrument"), ignores the fact that there is an amazing repertoire for recorder that requires as much skill and virtuosity on recorder as one would expect from any other "professional" instrument.
With that said, it is incumbent upon those of us who are performing on early instruments or performing early repertoire to dedicate ourselves wholeheartedly to our performances. We should not be content with bad performances. If the pieces we are working on are badly written, we should find new ones. There is no excuse for poor performance, no matter what the repertoire. A bad movie is a bad movie, no matter the genre. A good performance is a good performance, no matter what pieces are performed.
Obviously, every person has their own personal preferences. I happen to love action and sci-fi movies. My husband loves comedies. I also happen to love the music of Hildegard von Bingen. I love early Italian baroque works. My husband loves playing orchestral music of Russian composers. I'm not a huge fan of horror movies. I also don't care much for Schoenberg. Everyone is entitled to their own preferences. Whether one happens to like early music is a separate issue from what early music is and whether a performance is good or not.
Hopefully you made it through the analogy!
The next installment: Everyone is an early musician (they just don't know it yet).