Enargeia – Visions in Performance

The ‘enargetic’ approach to the arts may be described as rhetoric of presence and display, or aesthetics of evidence and imagination. Visual imagination plays a major role in the concepts of effect in oratory, poetry, and drama of … the Early Modern Age, above all in the works of William Shakespeare.

Heinrich F. Plett Enargeia in Classical Antiquity and the Early Modern Age: The Aesthetics of Evidence (Brill, Leiden 2012)

Alessandro Turchi ‘Bacchus & Ariadne’ (c1630).

Enargeia (Greek εναργεια, in Latin evidentia, in 17th-century English visions) is one of many artistic and performance concepts taken into 17th-century aesthetics from Classical Antiquity. It is of fundamental importance in the performing arts, but there has so far been almost no attempt to study its historical meaning in order to shape a modern approach to the practicalities in performance in Early Music and period drama.

As a literary device, Enargeia seeks to heighten emotional effect by intense, richly detailed visual description, so that the listener sees what is described, as if it is there, before their own eyes. Perhaps the best-known examples are Shakespeare’s detailed descriptions of imagined scenes, performed on the bare stage of the Globe Theatre. Enargetic writing is often introduced by the cernas (you see) formula – Behold! Ecce! Siehe! Ecco! – or by deictics – Here! There!

In music, Enargeia is realised by composers ‘painting the words’ with high notes for paradiso, low notes for inferno etc. Such ‘madrigalism’ is scorned by modern musicologists, but was fundamental to the period Art of composition: it is far more effective in performance, than on the page, especially when coupled to historical Action and baroque Gesture.

According to the anonymous (c1630) Il Corago here, Enargeia is also expressed by the changing tone-colours of the singer or speaker, a subtlety difficult to acquire and easily lost, unless vocalising prioritises transmission of the text over beauty of sound, constant vibrato, or maximum volume.

Enargeia presents emotions as if in passionate story-telling, reminding us of the importance of narration and messenger-scenes in early opera, and of the original designation of Monteverdi’s Orfeo as favola in musica: a Story in Music. 17th-century libretti often link visual details of the imagined scene to actual sights close by the theatre, helping the audience make the visionary connection between art and reality.

Enargeia is central to the period theory of emotional communication. Visions are created in the audience’s minds by poetic imagery in the sung/spoken text, by watching an embodied performance, and by the visual spectacle of stage set and action. Meanwhile, music creates emotional sound-effects that underline those same Visions, articulating changes from one Vision to another.

It is these fleeting Visions in the minds of performers and audience alike that inspire changes in the balance of the Four Humours, producing the physical signs and feelings of emotion.

My investigation of Enargeia followed on from the previous project of Text, Rhythm, Action!, in which we studied the performance priorities of the period, priorities which differ sharply from those of today’s early music practitioners. That study redefined the practical processes of performance and revealed the fundamental importance of Visions.

This ongoing investigation of Enargeia looks beyond the act of performance itself to examine pre-performance processes of libretto-writing and musical composition (processes which in this repertoire are nevertheless shared with improvising performers), real-time synthesis of vision and performance, and postperformance outcomes, the effect of enargetic Visions on audiences.

Significant themes that have emerged are Mindfulness – the need for performers to remain ‘in the moment’, synchronising their reception of Visions from the Text with their projection of those Visions in Action, that synchronisation controlled by musical Rhythm – and Detail.

According to the Rhetorical requirement for Decorum, attention to detail and coherence of small detail with the ‘big picture’ are vital. This suggests a contrast between Romantic ‘artistry’ and Early Modern ‘Good Delivery’. In earlier repertoires new Art is created by passionate attention to small detail, rather than by a blinding flash of ‘genius’ or by some invented, foreign concept, applied with a broad brush.

Thus Leonardo da Vinci enargetically uses highly detailed observation and scientific investigation to produce utterly new concepts (e.g. helicopters) as well as emotionally powerful art (the Mona Lisa).

Many period texts link Enargeia (vivid description) with energia, the lively Spirit of passion, an animated energy that is transmitted especially from the performer’s eyes. Both energia and Enargeia associate passion in musical performance with inspirational vision.

As with Text, Rhythm, Action!, investigation of, training in, and performances using Enargeia – Visions in Performance are expected to reveal new insights not so much from the discovery of hitherto unknown source-material, but rather by close reading of known sources within the new contexts established by TRA and other recent research; by the thorough and uncompromising application of period philosophy to the practical necessities of rehearsal and performance; and by reflective analysis of the results.

My vision is to extend the concept of Historically Informed Performance beyond period instruments, techniques and performance styles, to encompass also the emotional framework within which the act of performance takes place, and within which an audience receives that performance.

In today’s Early Music, a musician might well play baroque violin with period technique and style, but within a 19th-century framework of emotional performance, in which the audience is expected to admire the performer’s ‘emotionality’ and ‘expressiveness’. In contrast, Enargeia offers us a detailed view of a period framework within which a performer’s emotions and their transmission are of less interest than the poet’s Visions and their reception, i.e. the audience’s emotional reactions.

We musicians and musicologists need to re-focus our questions, away from self-centred “How did the performer do?”, and towards our audiences: “How did it feel to you?”.

My approach so far has been to investigate the historical theory of Enargeia, in order to develop rehearsal methodologies, workshopped with students and tested in professional productions of early music-drama with live audiences. As we progress, the focus is gradually shifting from experimental & educational projects to cutting-edge international-level professional productions of major repertoire in mainstream venues, a shift already accomplished in the context of Text, Rhythm, Action!, with award-winning results at international levels –read more here.

Andrew Lawrence-King

The Wrong Trousers: can new training re-purpose Early Music skills for Historically Informed Performance?

There are significant differences in music-making, not only between mainstream and Early Music approaches, but also between today’s Early Music and what musicians of former centuries actually did back then.

Most of us recognise that Historically Informed performers should renounce any claims to ‘authenticity’: we will never know everything about earlier styles of performance, and there are some historical practices (e.g. producing castrati to sing soprano) that we would not wish to repeat, historical attitudes to race, gender or religion that have no place in modern-day society. But whilst researchers continue to unearth and decipher ancient sources of new information, there is already a considerable gap between what we know about Historical Performance Practice and what we do in the standard practices of Early Music today.

In the context of modern-day performances of 19th-century repertoire, Clive Brown referred to ‘the yawning chasm between contemporary practice and historical evidence’. His critique was aimed not at mainstream musicians, but at the current Early Music approach, and it could apply equally well to many performances of renaissance and baroque repertoires.

The search for Authenti-City: abandon hope, all ye who enter here!

In my very first post back in 2013, I compared the hot topics of modern-day Early Music debates – vibrato, pitch, temperaments – with (more inspiring) historical priorities proclaimed by Caccini:

Music is Text and Rhythm, with Sound last of all. And not the other way around!

Caccini ‘Le nuove musiche’ (1601)

More on Caccini here.

‘The historical priorities are Text, Rhythm, Action – and the audience’s emotions. Text (not vibrato), Rhythm (not rubato), Action for the Audience (not how the performers themselves feel).’ Read more here…

In this article, I make two (interlinked) case-studies of modern-day practices that are so familiar as to be almost beyond question, but that we all know to be un-historical. Beyond calling out ‘Mind the gap’, my purpose is to consider how the musical skills we have acquired to handle an anachronistic approach might be adapted to facilitate performances that better apply the historical information we already have.

The only essential pre-requisite is having the courage to try something different from what is experienced in nearly all modern-day performances, from what is heard in nearly every recording. Read on, if you dare!

Are you brave enough to go off the rails?

Vocal Scores

For renaissance polyphony and baroque opera, singers nowadays use scores, as opposed to the individual parts used for nearly all repertoire pre-1800.

‘Pulchra es’ from Monteverdi’s (1610) Vespers: Cantus 1 part-book incipit

Our best consort singers have acquired high levels of skill in score-reading. This skill facilitates ensemble unity, entry making, pitch finding etc, and underpins two commonplace directorial interventions: at phrase ends, unifying the duration of final notes and/or pronunciation of final consonants; adjusting the ensemble balance from phrase to phrase by having individual singers switch from one part to another.

I was privileged to observe one of the UK’s most experienced Early Music singers, tenor John Potter, coaching vocal ensembles in the subtle interactions of one-voice-to-a-part consort singing. He encouraged singers to scan the score, and “wait for your colleague to sing his bit, before you move on to sing your bit”. Even when there is a conductor, today’s elite vocal ensembles acheive their high-precision unity of timing by such ‘give and take’ between individual singers, combining attentive listening with skilled score-reading.

That is all very well, but none of it is historical. Not only did Monteverdi’s singers not have scores, but Zacconi (1596) describes clearly that “vertical alignment”, the unanimity of timing seen in modern scores and demanded by record producers, was not desired circa 1600. Rather, each individual singer was allowed the liberty of arriving late on an expressive note, whilst the underlying Tactus continued steadily: like Ella Fitzgerald syncopating around a steady beat. Read more about ‘Making Time for Beautiful Singing’ here.

And when we stop to think about it, it is unlikely that musicians of the period would have prioritised ‘consistent vocal balance’ (is that even desirable?) over the traceable self-consistency of individual polyphonic strands within the strict rules of renaissance counterpoint. Rather than switching parts to boost a quieter voice, perhaps the other singers listened harder, or sang more softly themselves.

Singing from individual parts creates a different set of listening skills within the ensemble, and imposes new demands for rhythmic clarity: your colleagues don’t know what you are supposed to sing, so you have to communicate the underlying Tactus, whatever the superficial notes might be. And once you add the period practice of spontaneous Divisions (melodic ornamentation in shorter note-values), then even the partial scores that the continuo might have (for example for the Monteverdi (1610) Vespers) will not show visually what is actually happening aurally.

‘Pulchra es’: differences between score for BC and individual part-books



In fact, the continuo scores for some solo moments in the Vespers are significantly different from the vocal part-books, even before the singers add spontaneous Divisions and Zacconi-style delays. If the continuo attempt to “follow”, placing their bass-notes as seen vertically underneath the appropriate solo-notes as heard, a train-wreck inevitably ensues [ok, there were no trains in 1610, but you know what I mean]!

Reading from scores, those with long notes end up ‘following’ the voice with the most activity, whereas historically, it was the voices with notes in Tactus-values (minims and semibreves) that determined the rhythm: fast-moving Divisions must fit in (read more about Passaggi).

Historically, soloists were guided by the accompaniment [see Peri (1600) here]. If this seems controversial (and it is controversial in mainstream choirs and most of today’s Early Music), compare it to jazz, where the rhythm section keeps the groove steady whilst soloists syncopate, “having fun and improvising counterpoint” [Agazzari sopra’l basso1607, more on Agazzari here]

Conductors

Conducting in Early Music is the elephant in the room, the emperor’s new clothes, the glaring anachronism that no-one dares name, the dinosaur waiting for an incoming comet of historical information.

Period treatises, eye-witness reports and iconographical evidence [see also Peter Holman’s recent book on the subject] show beyond all possible doubt that before c1800, ensemble music was not conducted in the modern sense, but was guided by Tactus (which is quite different, read more about Tactus here and in many articles within this blog).

That ‘yawning chasm’ between modern-day habits and historical practice is seen all too clearly in the current phenomenon of the ‘director from the keyboard’, who conducts modern-style whilst using a harpsichord or chamber organ as something between a fig-leaf and a very expensive music-stand.

Working with conductors, today’s Early Music performers have developed the skills to follow a varying beat and – when the going gets tough – to stay together by reference to the score. In particular, continuo-players have learnt to play without committing themselves to any clear rhythmic impulses, in order to follow soloists and/or accommodate themselves to a conductor’s interpretation of the beat. Deprived of their historical role of ‘guiding the whole ensemble’ (Agazzari 1607) and ‘directing the singers’ (Gagliano 1608), today’s continuo-players amuse themselves with divisions and embellishments, often simultaneously (but not quite together) amongst several performers, a horror condemned by Agazzari as ‘soup and confusion’ or a ‘flock of noisy sparrows’.


Historically, there was Tactus-beating for solo lute-songs, vocal consorts and polychoral ensembles, but no hand-waving at all for opera and dramatic music (in genere rappresentativo). The steady down-up of Tactus-beating imitates the stability of the cosmos and creates Time itself (according to Aristotelean philosophy, read more here). Just to read Zacconi’s list of Tactus qualities will assure any consort-musician that it differs fundamentally from modern conducting:

Tactus is regular, solid, stable, firm… clear, sure, fearless and without any perturbation

Zacconi ‘Prattica di Musica’ (1592/1596)

Transferrable skills

Of course, we can get Early Music onto the stage (or into the recording studio) fast, by using vocal scores and modern conducting. But if we want to apply Historical Information to our performance, there needs to be time for experimentation, acquiring new skills, and consolidating experience in unfamiliar modes of musicking. Indeed, this kind of re-imagining how to make music is what HIP is all about.

Nevertheless, it is especially challenging to deal with individual ensemble members’ fundamental habits of ensemble practice. How much easier just to conduct everything, just to continue with those social media debates about vibrato, pitch and temperament!

If tomorrow’s Early Music is to be Historically better Informed than today’s, we must invest time in experiment and training for subtly different musicianship skills. This cannot be done within a normal rehearsal: we need to create un-pressured time and a safe space for individual musicians to let go their normal habits and take the risk of trying something fundamentally different. But perhaps we can progress more quickly by re-purposing the (slightly off-target) skills we already have…

Today’s Early Musicians are highly skilled at following a visual beat (no matter how unreliable or unsteady!), at listening to each other with reference to a vocal score, and at using aural cues to follow wayward soloists.

Visual beat

Historically Informed Tactus-beating is both a visual cue and an embodied practice: musicians need to become familiar with both aspects. We can practise with the whole group simultaneously beating Tactus: relaxed arm hinged at the elbow, palm outwards, down for one second, up for one second. There is no leader, no followers, the group mission is to remain together.

We can play through some (not too demanding) ensemble music, with each member of the group taking their turn to beat Tactus, whilst the others play to the beat. The role of the Tactus-beater is not to “interpret the music”, but to give the steadiest, most equal beat they possibly can. A wise coach can use this exercise to re-balance relationships of “leaders” and “sheep” within the ensemble…

Working alone, a musician can synchronise their Tactus-beating, and (later) their playing/singing to a home-made pendulum. A 1-metre length of string will produce a 1 second beat (Mersenne, 1636). Notice that the movement of a pendulum, and the feeling this movement creates, is quite different from the sharp click of a metronome.

The chandelier in Pisa cathedral where Galileo supposedly first observed the steady beat of the pendulum effect.

Just as jazz singers swing their arms and/or snap their fingers, not to conduct each other, but in order to inhabit, embody, to make physical the shape of Time itself, the groove of Music, so these simple exercises help us internalise the slow, steady beat of Tactus. Some musicians may need frequent reminders and extra practice, to think and move in a slow minim = 60 pulse, rather than sub-dividing into today’s more typical crotchet = 120.

See the Tactus Workshop Manual for more suggestions.

Listening without a score

We listen in a different way, when we do not have the visual reference of a score to guide us. When I teach a master-class, I always listen to the piece the first time without looking at the score. This places me in a similar position to an audience-member, who should understand the performance aurally, without a score, perhaps without any previous knowledge of the work.

For Early Music consorts, listening without a score invites us to maintain ensemble unity by understanding the underlying Tactus, since we cannot know the significance of individual notes (which might anyway have been ornamented or otherwise changed spontaneously). Playing/singing to colleagues who have no score challenges performers to show more clearly how those individual notes relate to the underlying Tactus, shaping long-notes across several Tactus beats, lightening-up fast-moving ornamentation so that it flows without disrupting the Tactus beat, articulating syncopations appropriately so that they are correctly understood.

An elementary, but surprisingly powerful exercise, is to ask the whole group to beat Tactus (without seeing a score) whilst one person plays/sings their individual part (this also works for solo pieces, e.g. a harpsichord or harp solo). Everyone becomes more aware of Tactus, more skilled at maintaining it in spite of aurally suggested changes (this is the Tactus-beaters’ role) and at avoiding unwanted changes (this is the performer’s task).

When this becomes too easy, then the performer can be invited to add divisions and impromptu variations, and/or to apply Zacconi’s expressive delay, the accento. Read more here.

Meanwhile, everyone is getting more (much needed) experience of the visual and embodied practice of Tactus. Period musicians would have been beating Tactus all their lives, from their first lessons to learning new material as full professionals even as elite soloists and ensemble directors. For Early Musicians today, Tactus cannot be learned by studying historical treatises, not even by reading my blog! You have to Do It Yourself.

Another way to add complexity is to combine two performers, whilst the majority of the group continue to beat steady Tactus. This builds the habit of trusting the embodied movement of Tactus, not following wayward aural cues. The crucial assumption is that the music continues in steady Tactus, rather than ‘follow anything that moves!’.

Alternating playing/listening exercises between different members of the group prepares for the next level.

Directing

Who directs, and how? Historically, and (it would be desirable) also for our modern-day Early Music, the role of coaching an ensemble and making artistic decisions (maestro di capella) should be distinguished from the role of administering the Tactus-beat (summinstrar il tatto). Coaching and making artistic decisions happens in rehearsal. In performance (including playing-through during rehearsals) the primary task of the Tactus-beater is to maintain a steady beat, and not to be swayed by any temporary aural deviations.

This does not mean an aggressive tug-of-war between leader and followers, but a mutual recognition of the cosmic, humanist and practical significance of the Tactus (i.e. the doctrine of the Music of the Spheres, in which the entire universe is turned in slow steady rhythm by the hand of God, the primum mobile).

The perfect movement of the heavens is reflected in microcosm in the harmonious nature of the human body, and imitated in earthly music-making.

If your pulse stops, the music also dies…

Nevertheless, there is freedom for an individual performer to depart momentarily from the Tactus, providing they rejoin it promptly. Zacconi expects accento-singers to be back on Tactus-track by the next beat.

Taking turns to beat Tactus, and with the director/coach observing, ensemble members can experiment with maintaining unity by visual cues from the Tactus-beater, by their own embodied experience of Tactus-beating, and by listening to aural cues that indicate the underlying Tactus (not the movement of individual notes).

Listen to the bass (in polyphony), to the continuo, to a simple or slow-moving part, to what appears to be ‘accompaniment’ rather than to ‘soloists’. Basses, continuo-players, performers of simple slow-moving parts and anyone who might be (temporarily) ‘accompaniment’ must learn to maintain Tactus reliably, to guide and direct the whole ensemble, and (a tough call) not to ‘follow’ the soloist, a fast-moving or complex part.

This ensemble skill of maintaining Tactus rather than following soloists takes a lot of practice. The aim is to go beyond any initial stiffness or sense of confrontation, and find a flowing, embodied sense of rhythm in the slow steady Tactus beat. The mantra is: “soloists are free to depart from the beat, but the beat will not change to accommodate them”. Be inspired by Ella Fitzgerald.

As the whole ensemble gets good at this, soloists can throw in deliberate ‘bending’ of the rhythm, around the steady beat. Indeed, soloists should only ever bend the rhythm deliberately, not by accident or mis-management. If a tricky moment cannot be performed accurately, then it needs more practice. It’s always worth learning a crucial turn of phrase precisely as notated, before adding any rhythmic alteration. (See Caccini for suggestions of rhythmic alteration to short notes, within the steady Tactus).

Solo players, who often have to present a complete polyphonic texture within a single instrument (harpsichord, lute, harp, even violin in J. S. Bach’s Partitas), need to learn first the basic skill of maintaining Tactus whilst they play a single line. The temptation is for the beat (maintained perhaps by the foot if your hands are busy) to follow the performance, but it should be the other way around! Use a pendulum if necessary, to control this.

The more advanced skill is to have Tactus in the bass, in the continuo, in the accompaniment, direct the solo line in Measure. This requires significant mental re-organisation and artistic re-prioritising. When you can do this well, then you can add Caccini-style or Zacconi-style rhythmic alterations to the solo line, whilst keeping the accompaniment steady.

Aural training

Students – and many experienced performers – like to learn from aural examples. But we have very few aural examples of Tactus in today’s Early Music that we can imitate. This well-documented historical practice is not yet reflected in most modern-day recordings or concert performances. Nevertheless, we can still benefit by learning from, and practising with, aural examples.

Make your own home recording of the accompaniment of your piece, check that it really is in Tactus (this is itself an educational exercise, which may need repeated attempts!), and then play the solo line along with your own Tactus-measured accompaniment.

If you are making a lock-down-style multi-track ensemble recording, record the bass first. Or even create a “Historical Click Track” (to be removed from the final mix), not with a click, but with an aural signal that is more akin to a pendulum swing. For example, just say ONE…. TWO with a sustained, slow-articulated ‘one’ and a crisper ‘two’ (the sounds of the English language work well for this). Or a drum track, DUM-bak.

Many modern-day performances use a slow, resonant large drum to create a steady groove, and the steady-calm-strong feeling of renaissance rhythm (think Pavan, for example). I would say that this feeling is historically appropriate, and certainly following an aural cue works well for today’s musicians. Nevertheless, period evidence shows that pavan percussion was a more active rhythm in shorter note-values on a small, less resonant, tabor-like drum. See Arbeau Orchesographie here. The slow-steady-calm-strong beat is the appropriate feeling for historical Tactus, but we need to create it for ourselves rather than relying on the wrong kind of drum!

But we could use that modern pavan-drum as a training aid for high-style polyphony, or seicento monody, to instill that sense of Measure, of reliable Tactus that is needed even when the beat is not dancing to the beat of shorter note-values. This distinction (Tactus in long note-values for serious music, happy dances with regularity extended even to short note-values) is what lies behind Peri’s remark about differing circumstances in which the soloist should not, or should ‘dance to the rhythm of the bass’. More about Peri’s Tactus bass here.

Pre-requisites

In order to begin this development, and move today’s Early Music one step closer to Historically Informed Performance, individual musicians need to hone their Tactus skills, their ability to control rhythm with a slow, steady count. And conductors need to learn the essential historical skill required for their role: a simple down-up beat maintained equally and reliably, without any pertubation (Zacconi, Il Corago c1630 etc).

In Monteverdi’s (1610) Vespers, we would not play continuo on a Steinway, we would not play baroque violin with a modern bow, we would not admit a cornettist who had not learnt the basic fingering-system of his instrument. Why should we accept conducting that eschews the fundamental period technique of the Tactus-hand, that is Historically Un-informed about the historical role of Tactus-beater?

A key pre-requisite for better Informed Performance is proper Historical training for Early Music ensemble directors: no more dinosaurs, no more modern-interpretative-dance in front of a keyboard instrument!



Time-beating lays down the tracks that the perfomance will follow. As Early Musicians, we can make Historically Informed decisions about how to lay down those tracks, and we can follow those tracks in newly-discovered and period-creative ways, offering our listeners a thrilling and surprising ride. Until then,

Mind the Gap!

Laying down new tracks?
Who follows what?
The chase-scene from ‘The Wrong Trousers’

You can watch a video of the train-chase scene that inspired the title of this post here I hope you’ll enjoy the sequence where Gromit the dog lays down new tracks to shape his own journey, despite fierce resistance from the villainous penguin, FakeHip McBaton (or whatever the baddie’s name really is).

Passaggi: Della Casa & Bovicelli on the True Way to make Divisions

When we study Ornamentation c1600, it is an over-simplification to view Divisions (also known as Diminutions, passaggi – replacing a long note, or a phrase in long notes with many short or very short notes) as ‘Renaissance’, Graces (effetti – trills etc applied to a single note) as ‘Baroque’. Caccini’s Le nuove musiche (1601) read more argues against pasaggi and in favour of effetti, but his written-out musical examples include substantial passaggi. Monteverdi’s (1607) Orfeo (see The Orfeo Page by Il Corago) famously presents an aria passeggiata at the heart of the drama, when Orpheus attempts to persuade Caronte to grant him admission into Hell. Conversely, there are 16th-century indications of expressive vocal effects being applied to a single note (see Zacconi on the accento, here).

But it is useful – I would say, essential – to keep the distinction between these two types of Ornamentation constantly in mind. Divisions fulfilled one of the three aims of Rhetoric by delighting the ear – delectare. But they risked spoiling communication of the text – the aim of docere. And they were regarded as emotionally unpersuasive – ruining the aim of movere gli affeti (moving the emotions). Significantly, Caronte is ‘delighted’ by Orpheus’ passaggi, but is not moved to pity. Graces, (effetti, vocal special effects), were used sparingly, so as not to compromise transmission of the text. And effetti were so closely linked to emotions (affetti) that the two words came to used almost interchangably: effetti produce affetti. Only when we understand this difference between pasaggi and effetti can we make appropriate choices of when to apply each type (see Ornamenting Monteverdi here).

Too often, we attempt to add Ornamentation in rehearsal, a day or so before the performance, encouraged, guided or resrained by the Musical Director. But Divisions require specific techniques of execution, and skills of invention/application, which cannot be acquired in a few minutes of rehearsal time, with the whole ensemble sitting there waiting for you. You need to prepare in advance. And if you intend to improvise, even more advance preparation will be needed.

Studying Ornamentation by ear is certainly a valid historical approach – many period sources recommend this – but CDs are not primary sources. Learning from CDs carries a high risk of copying everyone else’s mistakes and misunderstandings. If you want to learn by ear, then record yourself (or a trusted teacher) performing examples from period treatises, and listen to those. And this is a good moment to recommend Helen Robert’s Passaggi App, which brings the historical method of aural study into the 21st century.

Certainly, you can only learn about Divisions by practising how to do them, in advance. This article introduces two essential late-16th-century sources, and summarises their approach.

Dalla Casa was a cornetto-player at St Mark’s, Venice. His (1584) Vero modo di diminuir (True Way to make Diminutions) focuses on wind instruments, but is also offered to keyboard- string- and bowed-string-players and to singers. A particular feature are settings for viola da gamba that move around within the polyphonic texture, ornamenting any of the voices or adding an extra voice., in a style called viola bastarda. Bovicelli was a boy-chorister and later sopranist at Milan Cathedral. HIs (1594) Regole, Passaggi (Rules, musical Divisions, Ornamented madrigals and motets) concentrates on vocal Divisions. The first part of his Rules deals with the sung text, often displacing syllables from the original underlay to make more graceful Divisions. The second part deals with the notes: the arrival on the written note is often delayed.

Dispositione – technique

Bovicelli does not offer any advice to help singers acquire the dispositione – what we would nowadays call ‘vocal technique’ required to execute these ornaments. For wind instruments, Dalla Casa describes and gives musical examples of various tonguing syllables, and modern-day singers might try these with the voice. Otherwise, the best period advice comes from Caccini, who identifies the single note trillo (speeding up from slow to fast) as the gateway to any kind of ornamentation.

I coach singers to put Caccini’s method into practice, by repeating the same note on the syllable a, going from slow to fast. We can understand his ribattere con la gola (literally, beating with the throat) as creating fast repetitions by relaxing the throat whilst maintaining steady support from the diaphragm. Don’t try to sing loud, but rather cultivate a feeling of fun – Bovicelli describes such fast singing as the Art of playing around with nature.

Once you can switch the fast notes on and off, on a single pitch, step two is to move the pitch up and down. And step three is to synchronise the changing pitches with the ‘beating’. This is the same challenge of synchronisation that awaits wind-players (fingers and tongue) or bowed strings (left and right hands).

Dalla Casa similarly leads his wind-players through divisions in crome – quavers (8 to the semibreve – whole-note beat), semicrome semiquavers (16), treplicate triplet semiquavers (24 to the semibreve) and quadruplicate (32). His ‘true way’ leads to Mixed Diminuitions applying all four note-values.

Both writers provide countless short examples of Divisions, taking long notes across each interval (second, third, fourth etc) upwards and downwards and dividing the first long note into many shorter notes. These short examples are to be learnt, applied and imitated, and the student can combine several of them to create longer divisions.

Dalla Casa: Example of semibreve ascending by step divided into semiquavers

Such combinations of many individual divisions are demonstrated in the books by ornamented settings of complete pieces, madrigals by Rore, motets by Palestrina and Vittoria. We are accustomed to hearing these sacred repertoires nowadays with the “pure lines”, extreme legato and stand-alone conductor of the 19th/20th-century aesthetic. Bovicelli refers to performing divisions not only as da concerto – as concert-pieces – but also da capella – in church. Just imagine the effect of this soprano-line in Palestrina’s Ave verum corpus

Style in peformance

In Early Music studies, we try to avoid the modern binary of Technique/Interpretation. Nevertheless, these two sources offer valuable advice for good style in performance, discussed as portar la voce or portar la minuta – delivering (literally ‘carrying’) the voice, or the Division. Bovicelli’s Rules gives many specific style indications, all worth studying in detail. Dalla Casa’s Preface to his second book is short, just four paragraphs. The first paragraph offers his work to all kinds of musicians, and repeats his preference for Mixed Diminutions, and there is a paragraph each for the Viola da Gamba and the Human Voice.

The longest paragraph emphasises the importance of ‘Performing the Divisions in Tempo

Del portar la minuta a tempo.

Our modern-day understanding of tempo as the ‘speed of music’ differs from the period concept in which musical tempo means Time itself. Time is measured by a human estimate of how long one second lasts, it is notated by the written note-values within the duration of a semibreve, it is shown by the slow steady beat of Tactus. For Zacconi Time, Measure, Beat and Tactus (tempo, misura, battuta, tatto) are synonymous (read more here). Dalla Casa’s words and musical notation confirm a semibreve beat, notated with the mensuration mark C/.

For Zacconi, Time is the Soul of Music, and Dalla Casa gives tempo similar importance in his music of Divisions.

“About delivering the dimunition in time.

“I say it is a difficult thing to deliver the diminution in time, and this is the most important for everyone who follows this profession of making diminutions with all kinds of instruments. Therefore let each person take notice in their study to beat Tactus, and never to study without this regulation, and to accustom themselves to the beat; because doing otherwise would not be a good thing. And take notice of the four note-values, that the semiquaver (as is known) is performed twice as fast as the quaver, i.e. 16 to 8; the triplet-semiquavers – treplicate – are performed as 24 to 16, which is a third more than the semiquaver; and the demisemiquavers – quadruplicate – are performed still once again as fast, i.e. 32 to 24. Everyone should take note to accommodate themselves to the Tactus, and beat their diminution note by note; like this for those who play a wind instrument and also for those play keyboard instruments, and not to rush ahead as many wind-players do who make runs with a dead tongue (slurring), without tonguing the diminution, in order to make it easier; or those who cannot keep a brake on their tongue, as with reverse tonguing (see the Preface to Book 1) which is difficult to brake. Therefore let everyone beat the diminution note by note, and deliver the four note-values with their proper timing, if they want to do well.” [Dalla Casa]

Beating ‘note by note’ refers to the Tactus-value of the semibreve in the original composition: there is no suggestion of beating time for every 32nd note! Bovicelli also recommends nel Passeggiare star obligato al tempo giusto – to keep to the correct Time when making Divisions. Within the semibreve beat, quavers can be taken long-short:


Caccini (1601) suggests short-long:

Bovicelli shapes a long run of semiquavers elegantly, by sustaining the first note:

Hold the first note, then run!

In modern-day performances, we often hear the contrary, where performers rush the beginning of the division and then wait before moving to the next note. But Bovicelli mentions several times that it is more graceful to flow directly from the fast notes into the following principal note: often, he adjusts the underlay, or continues the run into medium-fast notes to get a smoother transition.

Another option is to hold the top note:

Sustained notes in the midst of short notes can be given a tremolo, marked as /\ :

The general tendency is for ornaments to go from slow to fast – this habit is instilled from the first exercise that Caccini teaches, and Bovicelli applies it to a two-note trill gropetto that crams in more and more little notes before arriving at the following principal note. The effect is that – as the notes go faster and faster – the subsequent arrival feels ‘delayed’ – rafrenato.

The much-desired quality of leggiadria (lightness) comes from the contrast of sustained long notes and lightly-touched short notes. We can summarise this principle as “long notes long, short notes short”.

“But in this, take note, that the more you hold the first note, and the second is faster, the more gracefulnessis given to the voice. This gracefulness cannot exist, if the notes all have the same value. For leggiadria of singing, as we said above, is nothing other than the varation of notes of greater and lesser value, as you will also see below.” [Bovicelli]

Caccini is guided by the same principles of gratia and leggiadria in his examples of rhythmic alteration within the steady Tactus.

Bovicelli requires that Diminutions suit the character of the words, whether bold or tender.

A

“Just as it would be most reprehensible for a composer, if the words are sad [this must be a typo for meste] , to set them with happy notes, or to set sad notes under happy words: similarly in singing we must as much as possible imitate the words: that is, sad words must not be decorated with Passaggi, but set (as we might say) with accenti and a tenderly emotional, lamenting voice; if the words are happy, use Passaggi, and give them extra vivacity, making varied notes (dotted notes, leaps, diverse note-values), as you see.” [Bovicelli]

Ave! means ‘Hail!’ – As a cathedral chorister, Bovicelli is probably thinking of the liturgical texts Ave Maria, gratia plena, or Ave verum corpus (see above).

Bovicelli’s linking of bold texts with passaggi, tender words with accenti is supported by Zacconi’s advice to avoid accenti where the words are powerful (read more here). And Bovicelli’s ’emotional voice’ voce flebile hints at Caccini’s oft-repeated recommendation of crescendo and/or diminuendo on a single note as the most effective way to convey emotions (read more here).

Zacconi explains that the expressive accento produces a delay in the arrival of the second note, but the Tactus itself (and therefore the accompaniment) is not altered (read more here). And after being late on one beat, the singer is expected to be back on the beat for the next semibreve. Bovicelli and Monteverdi notate similar delays and anticipations for solo singers.. Their clear explanations and precise notation seem to clarify Caccini’s evocative but enigmatic use of the terms sprezzatura and senza misura which [in the context of expressive syllabic setting, as opposed to melismatic Divisions] he links also to a ‘cool’ style of voice-production, something ‘between singing and speaking’. Read more here.

In contrast to the soft flebile effect and ‘cool’ rhythm of accenti for tender words, Bovicelli characterises Passaggi as on the beat semibreve by semibreve, impressing the audience ‘stupendous’, ‘marvellous’ and ‘having fun’ scherzando. This is supported by Aggazari (1607), who describes two ways of improvising from a bass-line: his ‘fundamental’ style is continuo accompaniment, and he characterises the ‘ornamental’ style as ‘having fun and improvising counterpoint’. Read more here. In circa-1600 music-drama, an aria passeggiata (a strophic song over a ground bass, with elaborate passaggi) heralds the entrance of some god or mortal with superhuman powers: Caccini’s sorceress who makes the moon fall from the sky; Peri’s dolphin-riding super-hero-singer Arion (both in the 1589 Florentine Intermedi), Orpheus arriving at the gateway to Hell in Monteverdi’s Orfeo (1607).

Tactus for Divisions

It is clear that Divisions are not performed with the malleable tempo and vacillating rhythm of 20th-century rubato. Both Bovicelli and Dalla Casa insist on Tactus. Indeed Tactus is so essential that it is the only question of style in delivery (what we would nowadays call ‘interpretation’ as opposed to ‘technique’) that Dalla Casa addresses. Nevertheless, that Tactus might be faster or slower in particular circumstances. Whilst discussing disjunct quavers, Bovicelli informs us that the Tactus for passaggi was slower in a chamber performance – da concerto – than in church – da capella.

“… singing not in church, but in concert, where the Tactus should be slow.” [Bovicelli]

There are other period sources that indicate a slower-than-usual Tactus for passaggi. We gain a very different impression when we read their remarks, not in the context of 20th-century rubato, but in the light of Zacconi’s, Dalla Casa’s and Bovicelli’s insistence on Tactus. Read more in my next article: How il Signor Organista waits for il Cantate.

How il Signor Organista waits for il Cantante?

Making Time for beautiful singing: a lost practice

From renaissance to early Baroque

Published just before the year 1600, Luduvico Zacconi’s monumental treatise on Practical Music Prattica di Musica (1592/1596) here – straddles the divide between the prima prattica of Palestrina’s renaissance polyphony and the emerging new style, Monteverdi’s seconda prattica of dramatic solo singing accompanied by basso continuo. The virtuoso singers of the first ‘operas’ of the early seicento – Jacopo Peri, Vittoria Archilei, Giulio Caccini, Francesco Rasi etc – were trained in the 16th-century traditions of eleborate ornamentation – passaggi – and of cantar con gratia (singing with grace; i.e. beautiful singing), a concept of vocal beauty described in detail by Zacconi.

A fundamental, but unwritten, element of beautiful singing, analysed by Zacconi and carried forward into dramatic monody, is a way of ‘adding beauty and decorum’ with certain ornaments ’caused by sustaining and delaying the voice’. Read more about Zacconi’s accento here

Whether in renaissance polyphony or in baroque monody, the fact that such frequent ‘delays’ were introduced by individual singers begs the question: how was ensemble-unity maintained? Nowadays, singers of Palestrina, Vittoria and Lassus are not permitted to decide for themselves when to add a beautiful delay to their particular voice-line, even if modern conductors sometimes slow down the whole ensemble (which is not what Zacconi describes).

Giovanni Pierluigi da Palestrina (c1525-1594)

Singers of Monteverdi often expect the continuo to follow their free rhythm, but this is contradicted explicitly by Agazzari (1607: continuo instruments ‘guide/drive’ the entire ensemble) & Gagliano (1608: continuo players rule/direct the singers), and implictly by Peri (1600) (more about Peri’s bass-lines here).

Claudio Monteverdi (1567-1643)


And Zacconi himself describes the Tactus as ‘regular, solid, stable, firm… clear, sure, fearless, and without any pertubation’. So how can we reconcile this steady beat (somewhere around 60 bpm) with the requirement for ‘beautiful delays’ from this or that singer?

Zacconi’s answer offers exciting new possibilites for renaissance polyphony and – hallelujah! – an end to the arguments between singers and continuo-players which have rumbled on for the last half-century of HIP Monteverdi, even to the point that some modern-day performers treat Rhythm and Rhetoric as the opposing horns of a dilemma.

Singers can sing off the beat

In Chapter XXXIII, concerned with delivering the Tactus, Zacconi confirms what we have already understood from his remarks on cantar con gratia, that singers can delay their pronunciation of a certain note, for the sake of vocal beauty, and that this is always a possibility. Discussing the accento, he warns singers not to delay too often, but the word sempre (always) in this chapter confirms that delays were nevertheless very frequently employed (see how and when to do this, here).

Tactus (and continuo) continue steadily

Zacconi instructs ‘the person delivering the Tactus’ clearly. Whatever delays the singers might introduce, the role of the Tactus-beater is to maintain the steady beat, and to bring the singers back onto that beat. In renaissance polyphony, the Tactus is delivered with an down-and-up movement of the hand. In baroque monody, there is no visual tactus-beating, and the role of maintaining Tactus, of guiding and directing the whole ensemble, is taken by the continuo.

We might think of this as the ‘Ella Fitzgerald rule’. Like the rhythm-section of a jazz-band, the role of the continuo is to maintain the steady swing, whilst the singer floats elegantly around the reliable beat.

There is more to it than this, of course. Frescobaldi describes how the beat itself can change, in specific situations, between sections of a piece (more Frescobaldi here). There may be reasons to take a generally slower Tactus, or to slow down the Tactus where there are elaborate passaggi. Caccini describes how singers can stylishly enhance rhythmic contrasts within the steady pulse of the Tactus (more Caccini here). Zacconi associates delays with gentle Affekts, and requires the singer to re-connect to the Tactus soon afterwards. Delays would seem to be associated with the Good syllable.

Chapter LXIII characterises certain delays as a fundamental element of good singing, and chapter XXXIII specifies how to manage these delays within the steady swing of Tactus. Zacconi provides us with a penetrating insight into the general sound, the rhythmic feeling and the ensemble communication that operates throughout late renaissance and early baroque music-making.

Implications

Zacconi’s sound-world is very different from what we have become accustomed to in modern-day performances and recordings of circa 1600 repertoire. Polyphonic lines are not always vertically aligned – soloists might not be “together” with the continuo, a vocal ensemble might not pronounce consonants unanimously. But – like good jazz – it has a strong sense of swing, and everyone knows where the beat is, even if they choose not to be on it.

There are profound implications for continuo-playing. We have brought up a generation of continuo-players with two impressive, but un-historical skills: fitting-in discreetly with the results produced by a modern conductor, and following solo singers. We need to retrain continuo-players to show the Tactus boldly and clearly, and to guide and regulate, to maintain steady swing, whatever the singers might do over the top. In short, we need continuo-players to acquire the skills and habits of a good jazz rhythm-section. More about Monteverdi, Caccini and jazz here.




And to make this work, we probably need to remove that gross anachronism in today’s Early Music, the modern conductor. Otherwise, we might as well accompany Monteverdi on a Steinway piano.

Meanwhile, which renaissance vocal ensemble is ready to attempt Palestrina with passaggi and accenti, with beautiful delays AND with steady Tactus? I’m very eager to hear this.






Cantar con gratia – a forgotten ornament?

How to ‘add beauty’

Around the year 1600, singers were expected to deliver more than just the bare notes written by the composer. There was a well-established practice of dividing up long notes into elaborate swirls of short and very short notes – passaggi. The new aesthetic of solo song accompanied by a plucked instrument favoured short-range vocal effects – effetti – the one-note trillo, the two-note trill and turn grupetto etc. These effetti were intended to convey emotions – affetti – and were used sparingly: period sources show less frequent application of effetti than we hear in most modern-day performances. The change from old-style polyphony and passaggi to seconda prattica monody and effetti was gradual, so that these four categories overlapped considerably during the early seicento.

But in his (1596) Prattica di Musica (Libro Primo, Chapter LXIII) here Ludovico Zacconi describes in detail a way to ‘sing gracefully’ that is not merely an ornament, but rather an essential characteristic of fine vocal delivery. First he emphasises the importance of pronouncing the words schiette, intelligibile & chiare (cleanly, intelligibly and clearly), and intoning the musical notes accurately (giuste – in tune) and briskly (allegre), not forced or slow. Loud high notes should not be shouted; it’s better to take a high piano notes in falsetto (fingerle – fake them) than to strain. All this takes about a quarter-page.

The remainder of the chapter (more than 2 pages) is introduced as a detailed analysis of how to carry the voice across intervals of a third or more, a particular skill in repertoires that generally favours movement by step. Zacconi’s goal is the ‘grace and poise … demonstrated by the ability to perform effortlessly, and with agility, adding beauty and decorum.’ (si ricerca gratia & attitudine…quando in fare un attione dimostrano di farla senza fatica & all’ agilita, aggiungano le vaghezze e’l garbo).

‘This can be recognised as akin to the difference between seeing on horseback a Cavalier, a Capitan, or a ditch-digger and a porter; and with what ease an expert and fine standard-bearer handles, displays and moves the flag, compared to a shoe-maker. (In questo si conosce quanta differenza sia nel vedder star a cavallo un Cavaliere, un Capitano o un Zappaterra & un Facchino: & con quanta leggiadria tenghi in mano, spieghi e mova lo stendardo perito & buono Alfiero: che vedendola in mano a un Calzolaio…)

Highlight by delaying & sustaining

Intervals of a third or more ‘are delivered with certain accenti caused by some delays and sustaining of the voice’.

(Le dette figure s’accompagnano con alcuni accenti causati d’alcune rittardanze & sustentamenti di voce) The term accento does not mean ‘accent’ in the usual modern sense of a sharp, hard intensification of the start of a note – Zacconi is looking for a ‘beautiful… sweet’ effect, and his accento is not applied to strong, powerful texts. Nor is it a particular way of pronouncing words, a ‘foreign accent’. Nor does it mean the accented syllable of the word – the period terminology for this crucial concept is the Good or Long syllable. Nevertheless, we would expect to find the accento on a Good syllable.

Rather, accento means a “turn of phrase” in poetry or music, a brush-stroke in fine art, or a “highlight”. We recognise this meaning in the lines ‘O let me hear Thee speaking / in accents clear and still’ from an 1869 hymn by John E Bode. And we hear it also in the Prologue to Monteverdi’s (1607) Orfeo: ‘I am Music, who with sweet accents can make tranquil every troubled heart’. Io la Musica son, ch’ai dolci accenti so far tranquillo ogni turbato core.

Zacconi’s characterisation of the accento as a fundamental element of vocal delivery explains why scholars have struggled to understand it fully in studies of treatises on ornamentation. Bruce Dickey’s excellent survey of Italian ornamentation in The Performer’s Guide to 17th-century Music (1997) here admits that ‘the actual form of the accento is somewhat elusive’ but continues to give several illuminating examples from Zacconi, emphasising that the period intention is ‘rhythmically vague and subjective’. Zacconi’s description of ‘delays’ and ‘sustaining’ defines the essential nature of this practice, giving a broad hint that we should include such rhythmic subtleties in our realisations of accenti from ornamentation treatises.

Zacconi states explicitly that this accento is an unwritten obligation: ‘the composer who writes the notes is only concerned with managing those notes according to what is convenient for harmonious progressions; but the singer who delivers them is obliged to perform them with the voice and make them resound according to Nature and the decorum of the words’. Il cantore nel sumministrarle e obligato d’accompagnarle con la voce, & farle rissonar secondo la natura & la proprieta delle parole. We should expect to hear these accenti frequently across intervals of a third or more, even though we do not see any indication in the written composition. Although Zacconi warns against excess, and mentions particular words that are unsuitable for accenti, it is clear that they were used more often than not.

Actually, there are some notations of accento-like delays in dramatic monody, in the published scores of the first ‘operas’. And this customary practice from the 1590s would have been part of the training and vocal habitus of the singers who performed in genere rappresentativo (in theatrical style) during the following decades. ’17th-century ornamentation practice is a blending of traditional of traditional practices bequeathed from the 16th century and innovative techniques developed in connection with the new monodic singing style fashionable after the turn of the century.’ [Dickey 1997]

Although we can certainly apply accenti to early-17th-century dramatic monody, the context in which Zacconi writes is prima prattica polyphony.

Nowadays, the best-known ensembles for renaissance a capella polyphony – many of them English and strongly influenced by their singers’ training in Oxford & Cambridge college choirs – maintain an aesthetic of “pure vocal lines”, homogeneity and legato that has its origins in the late 19th century. We rarely hear Palestrina, Lassus or Victoria with florid divisions, and the highlighted delays of Zacconi’s accento are unfamiliar even to historically informed performers.

Even though he warns against excessive sustain, the subtle delaying effect that Zacconi finds so beautiful must also strike modern ensemble-directors with alarm: how can the singers keep together, if one or another part frequently sustains the written note to arrive late on the next one, and even ‘highlights’ this effect? The insistence on vertical alignment that has been a central tenet of modern-day Early Music (particularly amongst CD-producers) seems to be contradicted by this unwritten, but fundamental and obligatory element of period practice.

How to carry the voice

Since Zacconi’s context is vocal polyphony, it is well worth considering text (which he has emphasised in the previous paragraphs). In the transcriptions that follow, I have added a plausible text to Zacconi’s untexted examples. My assumption is that the note that takes the accento also carries a Good syllable. The shift in text-pronunciation produced by these accenti further highlights the effect of delaying.

We can expect that instrumentalists would have imitated singers in all these unwritten subtleties. ‘Singers… were the model for instrumentalists as well, who were to imitate the human voice as much as possible’. [Dickey 1997]

I have also added examples from Monteverdi’s (1607) Orfeo of written-out accento-like ornaments, and of situations when an accento might possibly be applied.

‘s (1607)

Subtleties

The accento is not applied to Ut-mi, nor between two hexachords sol-mi (e.g. G – B natural). But it can be applied to the major third fa-la (i.e. F-A, C-E, Bb-D, depending on which hexachords are available).

As Dickey (1997) remarks, the rising-third accento is similar to the intonazione on a good-syllable initial note, described by Caccini and notated by Cavalieri. In both practices, accento and intonazione, the central semiquaver is touched only very lightly.

Zacconi’s notated durations are approximate: the desired effect is ‘delightful and sweet’. The delay should not be excessive or heavy. The accento is subtle, beyond the limits of notation.

‘I’ve put a dotted quaver and semi-quaver so that singers see how to ascend; because there are some who – even though these beauties should seem natural – in pronouncing them, pronounce them so slow and late that by their languor they make a strange effect and do not give any good satisfaction to the ear. These are things that are difficult to demonstrate and make understood in writing. It’s necessary for the alert and diligent singer to adjust them according to what their own ears tell them is delivered well or badly.’

The accento should not be applied to every possible note.

‘This way of singing is a delightful and sweet way, and sweetness – although a friend to nature – is also cloying, and used too many times will produces disgust and boredom. Therefore it is not a good idea to use them always, in order to avoid giving listeners disgust and dissatisfaction.’

Accenti for seconds

Nevertheless, Zacconi moves on immediately to show how to apply accenti even to the the interval of a second, i.e. to notes that move by step! However, he rules out mi-fa and ut-re ascending, similarly avoiding fa-mi and re-ut descending.

My underlay is conjectural – other solutions are available! Where I have indicated alternative rhythms, the ideal may lie in subtlety of rhythm somewhere in-between the two notated versions.

Accenti for fourths & fifths

For wider intervals, Zacconi requires a different style. The running semiquaver in the middle of the previous examples only works if it runs to an adjacent note, not across a leap. Again, Zacconi struggles to describe in words the subtle effect that he intends: ‘the little notes in the middle are pronounced beautifully without making them resound like a real note.’ Nel mezzo pronuntiarli con la voce quelle vaghezze senza farle rissonar per figure.

Whilst the accento delays the composer’s second note, the whole thing (i.e. both written notes) fits into the regular Tactus. ‘From beginning to end, the notes do not have more duration than they normally require’. Dal principio al fine non habbiano piu valore di quello che per natura ricercano.

Zacconi adapts his running formula for a rising fourth to give an alternative for a rising second mi-fa.

Zacconi concludes: ‘All these examples can be adapted and used as models for further possibilites. But as I have said, it is difficult to make these things understood without a sung example. For this reason, I will skip many vague things that might be said around this subject to say only this: when the Singer hears the beauties of a performer (I’m not talking about gorgie and passaggi…) he should try to imitate them as far as possible.

‘Singers should be warned that in imitative polyphony- fughe or fantasie – one should not delay any note, so as not to break and spoil the well-ordered imitation. Rather one should sing on the beat – equale – without any ornamentation.

‘There are also some notes that for the sake of the words do not need any accento, but only their natural and lively force, as when one has to sing Intonuit de Celo Dominus; Clamavit; Fuor fuori Cavalieri uscite; Al arme al arme [God thundered from heaven; he cried out; Go out, go out Cavaliers; To arms, to arms] and many other things.The discreet and judicious singer must decide’

This should remind modern readers that the accento is not a sharp accent, nor bravura display, but a sweet and subtle beauty.

‘On the contrary, there are other words that from their own nature demand these beauties and these lovely accenti, as when one is to say Dolorem meum; misericordia mea; affanni e morte [my sadness, have mercy on me, sorrow and death]. Without any further sign to the singer, these indicate how they must be sung.’

This instruction reinforces the impression that accenti are used very frequently, even if not always.

Other ways to beautify

The accento gives a subtle, soft highlight by delaying the main note. Zacconi now considers how to enliven the written notes, with simple divisions, which do not require the full inventiveness and technical proficiency of more extended passaggi.

‘We can also break up the notes with vivacity and force, which makes a very grand good effect on the Music’.

My assumption would be that these divisions would usually produce no shift of word-underlay, and certainly not the delaying effect of the accento. But in Zacconi’s second example (four notes descending by step), a lively effect might be created by anticipating the new syllable, placing it on the previous short-note.

Zacconi comments that these are just a few examples, many others could be given. Nature itself is the best teacher, and this is just an ABC for beginners. But since some students leave school not knowing these beauties and these accenti, Zacconi wants to get a few things down on paper for those who don’t have any decorum, or any good way of singing. He writes them down, not because they should be notated, but so that they can be added with the voice.

‘Finally, I must say that masters who teach these accenti and beauties should be warned to control the scholar so that they do not apply them too often, as if they would be done always. Because just as too much sugar spoils a fine, delicate meal, similarly so much sweetness and beauty placed together produces boredom and disgust. And for this reason we add so many dissonances to the Music, just because they redouble the sweetness of the consonances.’

Significance

Published at the very moment that the Baroque aesthetic of dramatic monody and continuo emerges from renaissance polyphony, and positioned in this crucial treatise as the first step towards beautiful singing (with a quick reminder to take care of the text, not to shout, not to strain) this chapter has enormous significance for today’s Historically Informed Performance. But it has been almost totally forgotten.

Although Zacconi warns us not to use the accento on every possible occasion, and limits it to words that do not contradict its natural property of sweetness. it is clear that around the year 1600 it was used very frequently indeed. In training and in performance, our modern-day Early Music seems to have lost sight of this fundamental element of beautiful singing – and playing.

It is also clear that the essential features of the accento are sustain and delay, even in polyphonic music. So how is ensemble synchronicity to be managed, if any voice might introduce a delay on any note (even if not on every note)?

Zacconi’s answer to this practical question of timing calls for a revolution in our understanding of ensemble music-making in this period, and – at last! – an end to the early 21st-century struggle between proponents of rhythm and of rhetoric. See my next post.

After this article about a forgotten ornament, you might like to read about another ornament, that perhaps we wish we could forget. Yes, THAT ornament.

Of course, there are plenty of alternatives available from historical sources, but if we are looking for better cadential ornaments, might we be asking the wrong question? Read more about ornamenting Monteverdi here.

Looking for a Good Time?

This article is a personal summary and commentary on the Colloquium presented online on Sunday May 2nd 2021 by Aapo Häkkinen and Domen Marinčič and hosted under the aegis of the Helsinki Baroque Orchestra in collaboration with the Slovenian Academy of Sciences and Arts – more details, and a video of the live event, here. Where I have reproduced citations given by presenters, I ask the reader to bear in mind that I was taking hasty notes from a live talk, and to consult the video and the original sources for authoritative details.

The event’s subtitle Tempo Rubato – Use, Flexibility and Modification of Time deserves further comment (see below), appearing to threaten a presentation of only one side of a debate which – like discussions of Vibrato in Early Music – all too often features campaigning for fixed personal opinions, rather than investigation of historical evidence. But as various speakers gave their papers, there was ample consideration of temporal structures, and if anything was missing, it was investigation of how rhythm might be ‘malleable’ (to use a word that emerged during the event).

In general, questions of What and When were examined carefully, and Jed Wentz gave an impeccably concise and impressively persuasive account of ‘How to do Affekt‘ in the mid-18th century: otherwise, questions of how to apply the rich information provided were left for another occasion.

One such future occasion might be my presentation on Music of an Earlier Time for Amherst Early Music, which will offer participatory exercises exploring how the period philosophy of Time can be applied to practical music-making, using historical terminology, conceptual frameworks and embodied practices: Saturday June 5th 2021, read more here.

The event image was an 1851 illustration of the motto Tempus fugit (Time flies). The metaphor dates back at least to Classical Antiquity, and is cited in the opening phrase of the first ‘baroque opera’, Cavalieri’s Anima e Corpo (1600) read more here. The context of this motto, in Virgil’s Georgics (29 BC), Cavalieri’s drama, and in general (including this 19th-century illustration) is memento mori, a reminder that our life-time is short, with the implied challenge to use time well.

Other images from earlier periods address the specific question of the relation of Time and Music (significantly, Movement is usually – always? – also featured). One of my favourites is Poussin’s Dance to the Music of Time (c1635), rich with iconographical symbolism: you’ll notice Time playing his music on Earth, but don’t miss Apollo’s Time-Chariot in the sky above.

I also have a favourite early 20th-century image which would seem to express most aptly the ‘malleability’ of Tempo Rubato in this period, Dali’s The Persistence of Memory (1931). And indeed the first paper at this Colloquium examined the strong focus on metronomic precision in this very period, but with little mention of the strong advocacy of Tempo Rubato in precisely the same period.

Terminology

Rubato?

We should take great care with the term Rubato. Paderewski’s views on Tempo Rubato were first published in 1909: the term is also strongly associated with Chopin (1810-1849). In a very quick online search, the earliest dictionary reference I found was 1883.

The standard work on the subject is Hudson Stolen Time. Hudson (from page 43) declares Tosi (1723) to the be the first to use the term, in the phrase rubamento di tempo, and in the context of the aria patetica (passionate aria): Tosi specifies that this happens ‘exactly on the true motion of the bass’ (as translated by Galliard in 1743). Hudson cites Roger North’s terminology of “breaking and yet keeping time”, found in several sources, the earliest being an untitled MS c1695, shortly after Tosi’s visit to London.

It is clear that these citations c1700 refer to occasional freedom for a soloist to anticipate or (more usually) delay, whilst the bass continues steadily. Galliard’s mid-18th-century footnote draws attention to Tosi’s repeated insistence on regard for, and strictness of Time, and to the ‘singular’ [rare, unusual, isolated] application of ‘stealing the time’: again we read that “the bass goes an exactly regular pace” and that the soloist “returns to exactness, to be guided by the bass”.

The bass goes an exactly regular pace (Tosi/Galliard 1743)

Hudson also cites Quantz Versuch (1752) illustrating eine Art vom Tempo rubato, again with anticipations and delays to the solo flute, whilst the continuo-bass remains steady.

Froberger’s c1710 marking a discretion and the notation of preludes non mesurées show that some music was indeed unmeasured, and more work is needed to explore how such music would have been realised, for example by careful examination of sources that combine specific note-values with (seemingly contradictory) indications of being ‘un-measured’. See my take on Senza misura in baroque music, here (scroll down the article until you see the Cuisenaire Rods!)

Even with an improved understanding of how to play unmeasured music, the case has certainly not been proven that such an approach should be applied to measured music. Indeed, the quality of being ‘measured’ is the essential defining quality of most early music. See Time: the Soul of Music, here.

Use?

Before 1800, the concept of ‘using Time’ seems to be found exclusively in the context of how one makes best use of one’s lifetime, rather than in music-making. Thus Herrick’s (1648) Gather ye Rose-buds while ye may / Old Time is still a-flying concludes …. use your time for love and marriage, following the motto carpe diem. In the musical context, Time is characterised as measuring music, indeed for Zacconi (1592) the terms tempo, misura, battuta and tatto (Tactus) are synonomous.

But the word ‘use’ also had a particular meaning in the context of 17th-century Arts. ‘Art’ itself was defined as a collection of rules, a set of organising principles. What we nowadays mean by ‘art’ – those mysterious, ineffable beauties that transcend everyday experience is renaissance ‘Science’. In this period terminology, ‘Use’ is the nitty-gritty of what was actually done in practice – we might almost think of it as ‘technique’. In general, period sources tell us more about period ‘art’ – the rules – than about period ‘use’ – how to do it. More about Science, Art, Use here.

In this particular sense of ‘techniques related to Time’, the ‘use of Time’ is a fascinating topic for historical investigation: we should be careful not to equate this with any period assumption that Time was a commodity available for musicians to use as they chose to.

Historical discourse rarely (if ever?) characterises Time as ‘flexible’, before the period Paderewski, Dali and Bergson, whose interlinking of psychological Time and Freewill dominated the philosophy of culture in the early 20th century. Read more here.

Modification?

Although ‘modification’ of Time has come to be an accepted phrase in modern-day discussions of Metre in Music (see for example George Houle’s essential book (1987) here), this is not historical terminology nor a period concept of the relationship between humans and Time. There is no doubt that something of this nature was practised – as Domen Marinčič showed in his presentation – but the period phraseology was of “guiding” or even “driving” Time: the Italian word guidare is also used for driving a chariot. We can catch a glimpse of the period concept when we consider the myth of Phaeton, who seized the reins of Apollo’s time-chariot, but was unable to control it and crashed spectactularly. Early Music welcomes careful drivers…

Careful consideration of terminology is vital, if we are to avoid imposing modern-day assumptions when we glibly apply modern-day vocabulary to earlier periods; and if we wish to understand how the rules of period ‘Art’ were embedded in historical philosophies, in order to appreciate how those old rules felt ‘natural’ to musicians back then.

Tempo?

In discussions of Historical Performance Practices related to Musical Time, there is also a need to distinguish clearly between two – interlinked – questions: tempo as the ‘speed’ of music; tempo as the regularity or otherwise of rhythm at any given speed. In both these aspects, tempo is closely related to Affekt. And underlying all of this, but not addressed in this Colloquium, is the question of Time itself, since Science, Philosophy and general perceptions have changed significantly over the centuries that separate Aristotle, Newton, Einstein and Hawking.

Alexander Bonus on ‘metronomic’ Tempo

This paper was concerned with the use of the metronome to establish rhymthic regularity, not with questions of ascertaining musical speed. Although Maelzel’s metronome was patented in 1815, and Loulié’s chronometre was describle in 1696, AB made the point well that the use of machines to train musicians to play in ‘metronomic rhythm’ became prominent only in the early 20th century. He did not address the prominence of discussions of Tempo Rubato in this very same period: surely these two phenomena are closely interlinked.

AB’s message seemed rather to be that ‘metronomic’ playing is undesirable, but is a phenomenon of the 20th century. It is hard to disagree with those points, although I readily confess that I greatly appreciate the excitement and emotional power of late 20th-century rock music (but my favourite vintage pre-dates the routine use of click-tracks in popular music, and this may well be crucially significant).

AB was greatly concerned that “the belief that tempo is defined by clock technology” is “so central… to performance… even to the reading of notation”. I would agree that this is largely a 20th-century phenomenon, as is the contermporary (over-) reaction against any kind of rhythmic regularity. Both are a feature of modern-day Early Music, and that is regrettable in both instances.

Citing Hofmann in 1905 “keeping of absolutely strict time is thoroughly unmusical and deadlike”, AB also gave highly negative spin to such phrases as “the inexorable beat”, and “the beat is the steady pulse”, even to the whole notion of musicians being beholden to “external tempo”, to rhythm “not depending on the will”,

Here AB went too far, in trying to limit regularity to the 20th-century alone. The inexorable character of Time itself is expressed by Virgil (the tempus that fugit – flies – does so inreparabile, unrecoverably), and the steadiness of the renaissance Tactus beat is strongly characterised in many period sources, for example Zacconi.

Zacconi’s person who administers the Tactus’ would create an ‘external tempo’ for all other members of an ensemble. And the ancient concept of the Music of the Spheres, still current in the 17th century, implies that human ‘free will’ is a lower priority than the divine perfection of heavenly music, which we should imitate in our earthly performances. According to the religious views of the time, “free will” is in general a concept fraught with dangers.

The concept of the Music of the Spheres also connects good music-making to physical, spiritual and moral health. AB noted that in 1895 regular rhythm “equates to good, healthy behaviour”. No doubt, Dowland would approve.

AB also mentioned a crucial distinction: in 1889 “by accurate rhythm is not meant metronomic accuracy”.

Here is the gateway towards a much more productive approach than mere trash-talk about metronomes. In what way was Zacconi’s and Dowland’s measure ‘equal’, and precisely where was there room for what we would nowadays call ‘freedom’?

Julia Dokter on German organ music c1700

Julia Dokter’s presentation outlined the central conclusions of her book, published in the last few days, Tempo & Tactus in the German Baroque, here. Her approach was an exhaustive survey of theoretical sources, applied to case-studies of various musical compositions, all within a specific genre. She was most properly cautious about extending specifics from this particular repertoire and genre to other countries, periods or genres. Nevertheless, the concepts she introduced seem to reflect fundamental practices related to musical time in this period. Notably, her results were strikingly parallel to those presented in Aapo Häkkinen’s paper, addressing another repertoire and with different methodology.

JD focussed on Tempo transitions, informed by three types of period notation: time-signatures, note-values and tempo-words.

Looking at Baroque time-signatures, as they evolved from renaissance mensuration marks, she first cited Michael Praetorious in the early 17th century, explaining two notational systems for duple metre: Motets in C/ time, counted as two semibreves; and Madrigals in C time, counted as two minims. These two notations are NOT proportional: the minim-beat in C is neither twice as fast, nor the same as the semibreve-beat in C/. Rather, the difference is ‘about one and a half’: we should bear in mind that the period concept of a ‘half’ is not necessarily as strictly 50%, but rather more loosely as some part less than the whole and more than nothing. So we beat C/ somewhat slower (and that beat represents semibreves), and C somewhat faster (and this beat represents minims). This is similar to what we read in Zacconi, who warns that the Tactus-beater should not mistake his mensuration marks and give the beat at the ‘other speed’, as this would probably crash the entire ensemble.

JD explained that this is consistent with a general principle in Baroque practice, that time signatures denominated in smaller note-values (i.e. 3/8 compared to 3/4) have a slower Tactus, so that the small note-values go faster, but not twice as fast. Her later examples extended this principle to a general principle that passages in very small note-values would be assumed to require a slower Tactus – in order to be playable at all!

JD applied another early 17th-century practice, the triple-time proportions of Sesquialtera (slow), Tripla (medium fast) and Sestupla (very fast) to her case-studies in high Baroque organ-music.

Her conclusion is that there were effectively two systems of notation (and execution) of duple Tactus, each with its three associated triple-time Proportions. Similarly, each faster Proportion might be only somewhat faster, not necessarily twice as fast as the slower Proportion.

So whether in duple or triple, smaller denominations of time-signatures and smaller note-values in what JD calls the ‘surface activity’ both suggest a slower Tactus. The result is faster surface activity, but not so much as twice as fast.

This is a principle we see at work as early as Monteverdi’s 1610 Vespers, where at Et exultavit in the Magnificat there is the marking va sonato tardo, perche li doi tenori cantano di semicroma (will be played slowly, because the two tenors are singing semiquavers).

Nevertheless, as became clear in Domen Marinčič’s presentation (below), this period principle is contra-indicated by other early 17th-century indications also observed by Julia Dokter in the later repertoire, that changes to faster surface activity may require a faster Tactus, to heighten the contrast.

JD noted that the “demise of the Proportional system” described by Kirnberger in 1776 can already be seen in the music of J.S. Bach c1740. As C becomes a quadruple metre, with four crotchet beats (whereas c1600 it was a duple metre with two minim beats, see above), the old system of proportions collapses. I would add that the emergence of fashionable French dances, many of them in triple metre but with subtly different speeds, rhythmic structures and subjective affekts, also contributed to the slipping of the gears of the old Proportional system.

Nevertheless, JD proposed strict proportions for JSB’s Eb Major “St Anne” Organ fugue (the associated Prelude has passages in alla Francese ‘overture’ style), with the constant beat transferring from semibreve to dotted minim to dotted crotchet.

I would add to this, citing Carissimi’s comment in Ars cantandi published in German translation in many editions around 1700, about the affektive quality of proportions:

The triple-metres all agree with regard to quantity, division and proportion, as is easily understood, but in the slow or fast quality, known by the Italians as tempo and by the French as mouvement, they are utterly different.

Carissimi Ars Cantandi (1692 etc)


Here Carissimi contrasts the quantitative – “mathematical” – elements of beat (constant), note-values (consistent between different triple mensurations), proportion (simple ratios of the underlying duple metre) with the affektive quality that results. Although the duration of any given note-value (e.g. a minim) is the same in Sesquialtera, Tripla or Sestupla, the contrasts in harmonic motion and surface activity create very different feelings for triple metres of three semibreves, three minims, or twice-three crotchets. And this qualitative, affektive element is ‘known by the Italians as tempo and by the French as mouvement‘. And in German, Bewegung.

So we are considering not only speed of beat, and the surface activity within that beat, but also the affektive quality that results. Read more on Quality Time here.

Depending on context, we may choose (or be encouraged by tempo words) to exaggerate contrasts by over-doing Proportional changes (see DM below). Or we may need (with the support of tempo words) to reduce the contrast as calculated mathematically, whilst (presumably) still acheiving an effective contrast of Affekt.

In the conference, JD expressed the opinion that – in the later repertoires she studied – tempo words that appear to suggest heightened contrast merely warn against a more common practice of automatically reducing contrast. DM gave clear evidence – mostly in earlier repertoires – that tempo words exaggerate the expected contrasts. I would suggest that we have evidence to show that proportions could be precise, lessened or heightened in various contexts, and that tempo words help us judge which way to go, with affektive contrasts as the end-goal, and playability as an inevitable limitation.

Domen Marinčič on variations in Tactus speed

Domen Marinčič summarised his excellent paper on Now faster, now slower, citing sources that incontravertibly show changes of Tactus speed, starting with Vicentino (1555) changing measure according to the text. He suggested that this practice of changing the Tactus was only one of many options, such as “agogic freedom”, “rubato”, “managing rhythm expressively”, but he did not cite evidence for or discuss in detail these other options.

Whilst Mersenne (1636) gives a default tempo of around one beat per second (i.e. a one-metre pendulum), DM reminded us that Mersenne also considered the pendulum an ineffective tool, since so many different lengths would be required for the slightly different speeds that are required. Nevertheless, DM’s suggestion that it is left up to performers to choose their own tempo is unsatisfactory: the period discourse asssumes that there is a correct tempo, and the performers’ job is to find it, not choose their own. Of course, we don’t always have enough, and clear enough, information to find the tempo for sure, but nevertheless, that is what we are supposed to try to do!

I would add here that Frescobaldi gives us a practical method for finding the correct tempo, a method that is quite different from the mathematical calculations and abstract musical analysis that we tend to use nowadays. Frescobaldi’s instructions are to play the music through (in some default tempo, presumably considering a standard Tactus and the apparent surface activity): as one listens, one will understand what Affekt the music has. And for how to proceed from Affekt to execution, see Jed Wentz’s paper (below). More on Frescobaldi Rules OK?, here.

Frescobaldi also gives us vital information and essential practical advice. The information is that even ‘difficult’ music with changes of Tactus is facilitated by using a Tactus beat. This contra-indicates any assumption of general rubato in this repertoire, replacing it with highly specific instructions for when and how to change the beat. The practical advice is therefore to study by physically beating Tactus with the hand, and play keyboards etc whilst physically beating Tactus with the foot. Tactus is not just a theoretical concept, it is an embodied practice.

DM cited Glareanus increasing the speed (not necessarily in strict mathematical proportion) by changing mensuration mark. Banchieri beats both C and C/ with a minim-beat, but at different speeds. Other sources change the note-value associated with the Tactus beat (e.g. Zacconi, who also changes the beat-speed accordingly). Praetorius uses a variety of time-signatures to indicate different tempi. An Entrée in L’Amour Malade has exceptionally many changes of time signature, and therefore, tempo.

DM pointed out exampes in very well-known repertoires where even highly respected modern editions have ‘rationalised’ or suppressed differences in time signatures that would seem to indicate tempo contrasts: between successive Minuets and Bourées in J.S. Bach’s Cello suites, and the Minuets in the first Brandenburg Concerto. This idea was echoed, from a very different approach, in Jed Wentz’s paper.

I urge readers to consult DM’s published article here.

Discussion

In discussion amongst the presenters, AB reiterated his central points, that the intense application of the metronome to music education, the mimicking of the ticking metronome as the model of rhythm, and the concept that a mechanical standard should be followed, are all 20th-century phenomena.

JD added a fascinating observation from her comparisons of sources of J.S. Bach’s works, that the composer seems to have changed his priority from trying to notate speed, to trying to notate Affekt. This fits well with Carissimi’s ideas of durational Quantity and affecktive Quality (see above).

JD also suggested that strict mathematical proportions might be just the outline structure and the theoretical basis: “in practice, it becomes more malleable”. In the sense that the proportional change itself might be slightly greater or less than the mathematical ratio, this suggestion is thoroughly supported by period evidence, including many citations presented during this event.

A written comment by an online listener expressed disappointment at so much talk of notation and structure, opining that all this had been heard before from Willem Retze Talsma in 1980, and interested to hear about “freedom, departing from those “absolute” tempi… that is the accelerando and ritardando from the basic tempo, gradually”.

Certainly, all the evidence heard during this Colloquium fitted excellently with the notion of well-structured Tempo Giusto, though with different quantitative speeds according to mensuration marks; and with systems of Proportional relationships for triple metre, but with the possibility of ‘tweaking’ those mathematical ratios one way or another in particular circumstances. No evidence was presented at this event for any general “freedom”, nor for gradual changes of accelerando/ritardando. Indeed Frescobaldi clearly states that changes of Tactus are executed by suspending the Tactus momentarily in the air, and then starting the new movement resolutely. Based on all the evidence I have seen, my coaching mnemonic for ensembles and students is “use the gear-shift, not the accelerator/brake”.

I had the opportunity to meet, hear and talk with Talsma in the early 1980s, and this was my first encounter with the concept of Tempo Giusto. Of course, the ‘double-beat metronome’ theory for Beethoven etc has by now been totally exploded more here, but my research findings utterly support the fundamental concept of a (more-or-less) fixed speed (but ‘fixed’ subjectively, not with any kind of clock) in mensuration mark C [although this changes during the 17th-century from a duple to a quadruple measure, see above]. Indeed, Beethoven himself comments on this concept, wishing to be free from it (and thus confirming its strong presence until then).

But, in spite of the remarks of the online listener, the application of Tempo Giusto nowadays differs sharply from Talsma’s version in the 1980s, in that we measure the ‘correct tempo’ with a slow Tactus, avoiding the ‘sewing-machine’ effect of Talsma’s measuring of small note-values. During recent decades, there was even an idea that counting in ever-larger note-values might be better and better (still supported by Robert Hill amongst others). Roger Mathew Grant’s excellent book on Beating TIme and Measuring Music (2014) shows that measuring (by the Tactus hand) was done at a particular note-value (c1600 the minim in C, and the semibreve in C/; c1700 the crotchet in C).

Inja Stanovic‘s paper on the technologies of early recording, though valuable and interesting, seemed to me to belong to another occasion. Of course, the recording industry has had a most powerful effect on modern-day Early Music, supporting it immensely, especially with the arrrival of the CD in the 1980s. But my personal experience is that the technologies of the late 20th century had less influence on performer choices than did record producers. Almost invariably, young HIP ensembles making their first recordings were supervised by more senior ‘classical’ producers, and the process was dominated by seeking to control tuning, vertical unanimity of rhythm, and the avoidance of any surprises. We used to joke that our task was to play until something woke up the producer and he called “Cut”.

By the time a new generation of producers with Early Music experience emerged, the expectations of record companies, the listening public, and even of performing musicians, had been firmly set in a certain path. Seriously, we can well consider how today’s Early Music might have turned out, if all those thousands of CDs had been commanded by jazz producers, who might have prioritised groove and swing over vertical unanimity, drama and emotion over bland smoothness.

One of the presenters (AB?) cited Roger North’s remark that chronometers are very ‘whimmish’, that there is nothing better than a roll of paper in the [human] hand. Daniel Friderici (editor of the 1625 print of the Finnish Piae Cantiones, more here, and recent Finnish recording here) was also cited “some beat time like a clock, and this is an error”. All this encourages us to investigate precisely how the practice of Tactus-beating differed from clockwork, given the overwhelming weight of evidence that the character of the Tactus was steady, equal, unchanging etc.

Jed Wentz on ‘the Art of Acting’ (1753)

This was an inspiring and well-structured presentation, summarising Aaron Hill’s instructions to mid-18th-century actors on how to acheive the appropriate body, facial and vocal expression for a particular Affekt. JW began with Kirnberger’s re-iteration of the doctrine of ‘moving the Passions’ i.e. that motion and emotion are connected (in German, Bewegung and Gemüthsbewegung], with Bewegung as ‘what the French call mouvement‘ i.e. musical Tempo (see my remarks on Carissimi, above): “and the composer must properly hit on this Movement, according to the nature of the feeling” – Die Kunst Part II page 106 – and my thanks for JW for his exemplary citations during a speedy online session). “This is a study that lies outside the music.”, a study which “the composer shares with the poet and orator”.

Hidden in these citations is a vital point: whilst both composers and performers must employ the art of Rhetoric, they each have different responsibilities. The determining of Tempo (in response to the Affekt of the text) is the responsibility of the composer, who notates it as precisely as the period systems allow (and though more precise indications by chronometres were available, it seems they were not wanted): the performer’s responsibility is to understand the composer’s notation and follow it. We read in Quantz that the performer should also be like an orator, and Quantz’s highly detailed instructions on how to do this do not suggest altering the notated tempo, or any kind of general rubato, but rather explain how to structure musical time with a ‘pulse’ around 80 bpm.

JW cited Coeffeteau’s requirement in A Table of Human Passions (1621) page 17 that there should be ‘perceptible changes to the body and voice” of the person feeling the emotion. JW then showed the methodology of theatrical director Aaron Hill, who also produced Handel’s Rinaldo in 1711, as published in the first (posthumous) edition of his Art. The actor should not attempt to ‘imitate a passion’ (by speaking his lines) until “fancy has conceived so strong an image or idea of it…. as to move the same impressive springs within his mind”. Imagination must conceive a strong idea, which (by the action of Energetic Spirits of Passion transmitting from the brain to the body) impresses its form on the muscles of the face; instantly the same impression is felt in the muscles of the body; and the those muscles (whether ‘braced’ or ‘slack’) transmit their own sensation to the sound of the voice and the disposition of the gesture.

Extending the ancient doctrine of the Four Humours, Hill categorises 10 Dramatic Passions (and Love, the ancient Quintessential, can be mixed with any of these): Joy, Grief, Fear, Anger, Pity, Scorn, Hatred, Jealousy, Wonder, Love. JW referred to Hill’s concept of the “quality of the eye”, and the sequence of this technique: reflecting on the idea in the mind, feeling it idea in the body; a physical response of the eyes and nerves; only then should the actor speak.

In this way, the actor avoids the danger of “overleaped distinctions” – missing emotional contrasts. And on stage, these “beautiful and pensive pausing places will appear to be the natural attitudes of thinking”. Without the application of this technique, the audience will remain unmoved.

JW concludes that pauses in performance are therefore essential.

I would comment that Hill’s methodology contrasts sharply with the usual operating procedure in most modern-day HIP productions of ‘early opera’. Usually the focus is on teaching hand, and perhaps body, movements, with the danger that these – however beautiful – strike the audience as being ‘stylised’ and passionless, not genuine expressions of emotion. But Hill’s concepts are ancient, based on Quintilian’s theory of “visions” and the doctrine of Enargeia. Rather than manipulating the voice or the body directly, the first step is to create an imagined Vision of what is described in the text.

In first rehearsals of a new play, actors often struggle to ‘change gear’ quickly enough. But good coaching, effective private practice and sufficient rehearsal should empower an actor to make strong changes of Affekt as quickly as needed. Indeed, many sources on Early Opera emphasise how powerful an effect such sudden strong contrasts have on the audience, see Cavalieri for example. It requires careful judgement to decide how much ‘beautiful and pensive pausing’ to allow in performance.

And in theatrical music (or indeed any passionate musical performance), that careful judgement has already been exercised by the composer, and the appropriate amount of pause has been notated. Samuel Pepys praised Henry Lawes for his precise notation in musical rhythm of ‘every pointing comma’. Monteverdi varies how each speech starts: with the continuo directly, before the continuo, shortly after, after a longer pause. Cavalieri notates the space for affektive changes during the silences at the end of each phrase [last notes notated long are conventionally sung short, see Doni – giving time for reflection, gesture etc within the regular Tactus].

I would argue that since the composer has already notated the appropriate Movement for the emotion at hand (as described by Kirnberger, also in 1600 by Peri and by Pepys in the late 17th-century), the performer’s task is as Hill requires, to create the response in his body and voice before singing, yet to do so within the dramatic timing carefully notated by the composer. Otherwise, we risk spoiling the pauses and continuations carefully notated by the composer: think of a waiter enthusiastically adding salt to potatoes that were already salted to perfection by the chef! More on Pavans and Potatoes here.

But see also JW’s discussion on Mattheson, below.

Aapo Häkkinen on 18th-century tempo relationships

It was most interesting to note that AH reached very similar conclusions to Julia Dokter, albeit in somewhat different repertoire and with an utterly different, yet properly thorough, methodology. His approach was to examine large-scale works and construct – not a pyramid of tempi, based on the slowest tempo – but what he called an ‘hour-glass’ of tempi, centred on a fundamental Tempo Giusto in C-time in the area of 60 to 80 bpm.

From this starting point, the denominators of time-signatures indicate for example that 3/8 is faster than 3/4. And then Tempo words modify (to a lesser extent) the broad indication given by the time-signature. Both these principles are well accepted in modern-day musicology, and the speed-order of the Tempo words is not significantly in doubt. And during the course of say a Handel opera, there are so many movements, each carefully marked with time-signature with or without additional tempo word, that we end up with a large number of tempi in a well-defined order.

If we seek the central speed of Tempo Giusto, and avoid impossible extremes of fast or slow, yet create an appreciable distinction (at least a few bpm) between each and every tempo, there is, as AH put it “very little leeway in choosing tempi if one takes all the tempo words into account”.

And his findings indicated sets of tempi related by proportions, just as JD found by her, rather different, investigation.

For the application of this methodology – ordering the tempi of a large-scale work, and hence determining a fairly precise tempo for every movement – to Handel’s Orlando see here.

In their parallel, but independent, investigations, JD and AH implicitly relied upon two essential period principles, which have guided all serious study in this area, but which many performers are reluctant to accept. Firstly, the historical role of performers was not to choose their own tempo, but to find the correct tempo, which the composer’s notation was intended to convey. And secondly, two movements from the same large-scale work, or two pieces from the same repertoire, that have the same indications of tempo (mensuration marks or time signatures, level of activity i.e. characteristic note-values, time words, dance type etc) are intended to have the same tempo, as near as humanly possible.

One can make a lot of progress in any well-defined repertoire, by looking for as many pieces as possible with the same indications, and finding the range of tempi in which all of them work. As AH put it, if you have enough data, there is usually very little “leeway”. It is possible to find the correct tempo, if we take the trouble to look hard enough, rather than just inventing our own.

Interlude

The Colloquium’s halfway point was marked with a musical performance from Domen and Aapo, before each presenter gave a second talk. In this segment there was also discussion between the various presenters, and some questions posted by online listeners were answered.

Jed Wentz again

JW warmed to his theme, emphasising the embodied experience of affektive performance. “The Actor feels the Affket in his body”.

JW looked at Mattheson’s discussion of Affekts. I note that Mattheson, as with Hill and other 18th-century sources, goes beyond and even contradicts the 17th-century categorisation into Four Humours. As JW reported, Mattheson describes Joy as a spreading out of our animal spirits (an outward, sanguine humour – ALK), whereas Sorrow is a contraction (ALK – inward, Melancholy); Love is based on a scattering of the spirits (outward, sanguine – ALK).

JW turned to Mattheson’s analysis of Hope, famously applied to an innocent little Courante. Hope is an elevation of feeling, whereas Desperation a complete collapse of the same [outward, warm sanguine humour, inward cold phlegmatic – ALK]. These Affekts can be very naturally represented with sounds, above all when the other factors, especially Zeitmasse (the amount of Time, a different word for a different shade of meaning of Tempo – ALK) play their part.

Mattheson shows how the Affekt might change to Desire in certain phrases of the Courante, which as JW pointed out, might suggest a pause for transition and/or a different tempo for the new Affekt. JW was also properly cautious with this suggestion, since it contradicts the instructions for dance-music found in many period sources. I would also mention that Mattheson’s switch to Desire implies a gross change to a Choleric Humour, that earlier sources would not regard as consistent with (Sanguine) Hope.

One possible approach that might square these circles is to follow JW’s advice and apply the historical technique for creating Affektive contrasts. Modern-day performers tend to make an intellectual decision to change the tempo, “because there is a change of Affekt”. But the historical practice was to feel the Affekt in the body, and allow changes of timbre, tempo etc to happen as a consequence. I would translate this as “you try to keep steady measure, and you genuinely believe you are doing so; but the changes of Affekt you experience create a change of tempo, as measured by a dispassionate observer (or indeed, a metronome, that most dispassionate observer of all!”

Sources cited by JW are very firm that conventional tactics (e.g. changing tempo) alone will have little emotional effect on the listeners. The essential first step is for the performer to change their own affektive state, and this is what moves the passions of the listeners. My comment is that if this goes well, both performer and audience will feel that the tempo was the constant, it was their affektive state that changed.

JW continued with various citations: one can form an emotional [Sinnliche] idea of all the emotions [Regungen] and form one’s inventions to it – this was directed to composers.

Dealing with Sorrow, much more than with the other emotions, anyone [ALK, this is addressed to composers, but could well be apposite for performers also] who would represent sorrow in sound must feel and experience it himself; otherwise all the so called loci topici [musical clichés] are useless. I would read this as a warning against the kind of Rhetorical Studies that focus on finding and naming those clichés, as if this alone will make the performance more communicative for listeners. Very few courses on Rhetoric spend time teaching students to imagine and feel within the body each of the Four Humours: though I consider this essential fundamental training in Historical Performance.

For example, coaching Continuo-players (on theorbos, lutes, harps etc) to respond to text, I show how obvious cues from the text can be realised with simple changes to instrumental timbre (corresponding to Hill’s “braced” or “slack” muscles!): nearer the bridge/soundboard (more gritty) or further up the string (sweeter); relaxed or tensed fingers etc. But the more significant technique is just to create mental visions of the text as it goes by, as if creating a video-film to the sung text as a script, and allow those mental visions to change the physical aspect of your fingers, so that the sound of the instrument changes as a result. This is hard to specify in technical detail, but has a stronger effect for listeners.

JW cited Diderot Memoires (1748) page 192 as opposing the use of clock-like tempo devices for anything more than a few bars to establish the tempo. After that the player should continue alone: “nothing more than the pleasure of the harmony suspends him”. I’m reminded of Frescobaldi’s advice: if you want to know how a piece of music feels, than just play it (see above).

Domen Marinčič on Tempo words

DM referred to Milan El Maestro (1536) as an early example of tempo words that modify the effect of the musical notation. This is in the context of a particular style of fantasia, that contrasts harmonies in long notes – consonancias – with fast passagework – redobles. As DM mentioned, vihuela sources contain a lot of information on tempo, and Milan gives a specific tempo – in words – for each of his fantasias. More on Milan here. More on the 16th-cent Spanish Art of Time here.

DM cited sources stating that purely mathematical proportions fail to observe decorum, text, or harmony.

Decorum is a technical term of Rhetoric, the requirement that every detail be consistent with the Rhetorical purpose – ALK.

In some English 17th-century sources, ‘soft’ is linked to ‘drag’. In 1619, Praetorius links ‘piano’ to slowly. A 1613 source asks for certain passages to be softer and faster. Türk (1789) asks for certain passages to be softer and slower.

Much more in DM’s published article.

Julia Dokter on Tempo words

JD had a slightly different take on the effect of Tempo words. “Tempo words either reiterate or modify information otherwise communicated” i.e. by changes of time-signature and/or note values.

This idea, that Tempo words might merely reiterate what the musical notation has already told us, is controversial. DM considers that a tempo word that ‘goes the same way’ as a change of notation does not simply reiterate, but rather intensifies the change. I am inclined to agree with DM, as I see this usage going back all the way to Milan 1536, where the wording is unambiguously about changing the Tactus to exaggerate the change in note-values.

It could be interesting to look for examples of a single work with proportional changes, some with modifying tempo-words, others without such words, to see whether proportional changes were always ‘tweaked’, or might sometimes be left plain and ‘mathematical’.

And perhaps this is the moment for me to add that the sung text itself can be full of “tempo-modifying words”. It would indeed lack decorum, to sing ‘Drop, drop slow tears’ in a ‘default tempo’ un-modified by slow, lacrimose affekt. My take on this is the “LY” principle: how do you sing any given text? Take the emotionally significant word and add “LY”. So we sing “Drop, drop slow tears” not necessarily softly, but certainly slowly and tearfully. We sing “Awake sweet love” not necessarily louder, but certainly wakefully, sweetly and lovingly. And so on.

Conventional dynamics, mp, mf, piano and forte are hopelessly gross and unrefined – no wonder they are little used in 17th-century music. But the sung text provides highly specific performance instructions. And – as reported by JW – treatises on the Art of Acting tell us how to put those instructions to work, by applying techniques of Vision and Enargeia (the emotional power of detailed description).

JD emphasised that in passages of Stylus Phantasticus, the Tactus Tempo is drastically slower, whilst note-values are much shorter.

I questioned JD’s assumption that Sytlus Phantasticus should be performed with ‘malleable tempo’. She mentioned Mattheson’s characterisation of the style as full of all kinds of surprises and changes, including temporal effects. But surely – these are notated already. Nobody is proposing to create additional harmonic surprises by treating the notated pitches as ‘malleable’…

And I think this comparison of notated pitch, and notated rhythm, is most useful. There is a 20th-century tendency to treate notated pitches seriously, whereas tempo and rhythm are the performer’s free choice. Rather like Autobahn driving: we respect the one-way signs, but choose our own speed, unless the Authenticity Police are present. 🙂

Seriously, we now understand that the written pitches can be changed historically (history of A) systematically (transposition according to chiavette) or creatively (divisions, according to style rules and historical models). I would suggest that tempo and rhythm are notated to a similar extent, and that any changes a performer introduces should be historical (the changing speed of Tempo Giusto etc over the centuries), and within one repertoire either systematic (as JD, AH and DM all showed) or – if creative – should follow style rules and historical models (as JD and DM are investigating). There is no ‘freedom’ for rhythm, any more than there is for pitch: just a lot of historical information to be understood and applied.

JD’s other argument for ‘malleability’ in Stylus Phantasticus was subjective, and none the worse for that, based on her rich experience of this repertoire. When you play this stuff, some adjustments seem necessary, to make sense of the wierd music. I’m sure she is right. But I suspect that those adjustments can be made within a steady Tactus – there is plenty of space to do this, since the note-values are so very small and the Tactus beat (crotchet, presumably) so very slow. Indeed, with such very slow Tactus, and so much surface activity, one’s perception/control of the Tactus diminishes.

DM noted a sequence of markings adagio – a battuta, which might imply ‘malleability’ in the adagio. I would be inclined to take this literally, that the singer would not beat time with the hand during the adagio, and would start again – for beating time was the standard practice – afterwards. I would link this to the prohibition on beating time in theatrical music (since it distracts from the stage action, and from believing that the onstage character is ‘real’), which is gradually extended to passionate solo songs in general. And it’s also practical – whilst you are singing small note-values and/or affektive ornaments etc, you don’t want to be beating a super-slow Tactus with your hand, it’s physically inconvenient and distracting for everyone.

Alexander Bonus mentioned the boom in sales of pocket-watches in the time of Roger North. There is a far bigger story here of the circa 1800 glorification of machines, musical machines, dolls etc that moved by mechanical means, and the imitation of natural and human movement by machines. The admiration of the semitone mechanism of the late 18th-century pedal harp, harpe organisée is part of this story. Such machines were prized because they successfully imitated the perfection of the Clockwork of the Heavens. This is an uncomfortable topic for the anti-metronome brigade, as is the desire of earlier philosophers to make astronomy more regular than it really is. The wish that planetary orbits be circular blocked scientific advance until Kepler established ellipses beyond doubt, and Newton provided a mathematical model for this.

Just as with the Vibrato debate, we cannot hide behind over-simplistic black-and-white positions. Historical Tempo was both regular and irregular – we have to understand how this worked in each repertoire, and we are unlikely to find a ‘one size fits all’ solution. But just as Jed Wentz made the case for an embodied approach to Affekt, I would suggest that we can only begin to understand Tempo if we embody it as they did back then, with the physical movement of the Tactus Hand. If we try to solve problems only by abstract thinking, we are certainly going to ‘overleap distinctions’…

AB cited Brower (1929) advocating a “metronome in one’s head”. I’m not so appalled by this: but what I want to have in my head is a vision/memory of a Tactus Hand, with visions of the changing, text-based Affekts projected onto it!

Descartes comments on the particular significance of ‘first part of the measure’ were cited. Good stuff, and let’s also keep in mind the influence of French dance, Lully’s down-bow on the down-beat etc on how time felt for his contemporaries. We cannot generalise 18th-century concepts of the hierarchy of the bar back into the early 17th-century, when most music was unbarred anyway.

Nevertheless, we do need to seek an (embodied) understanding of how time felt for musicians of the past. This Colloquium made a valuable contribution to advancing such understanding, and the organisers and contributers should be warmly thanked for their work.




Tactus is a hands-on experience!

Introduction to French Baroque Dance: Muffat on ‘Vrai Mouvement’

This article was written for a course on HIP for Harps taught for the Guildhall School of Music & Drama. It offers a very brief introduction based on Muffat (1698) and focussed on the typical movements of baroque suites.

Period discourse about music around the year 1700 was much concerned with contrasts in National Style, specifically Italian and French. Italian style (imitated also outside Italy, of course) favoured drama and virtuoso display in such genres as Opera, Toccata, Sonata & Concerto. French style (also imitated abroad) preferred descriptive character pieces to abstract sonatas and celebrated above all the noble art of Dance.



French theatrical music (especially Ballets), chamber music (in particular, Suites) and social activities were unified by the elegance and energy of dance, and depended for variety on the contrasting characters of distinctive dance-types. As modern-day performers of these repertoires, our understanding of the music is enormously increased if we know something of the dancing that inspired it.

I strongly recommend every student of Historically Informed Performance to go to class and learn some dances from the appropriate period of music. It isn’t necessary to become a great dancer: right from the beginning you will start to notice from the inside what it feels like to dance the music you love. No amount of teaching or demonstration can replace this personal, embodied experience.

At the very least, watch as much baroque dancing as you can, so that you have a clear visual inspiration to guide your playing. Play for dance rehearsals, in order to learn what their art requires of your delivery. The ideal in this period was that the music should appear to be produced by the action of the dancers’ feet striking the floor. Strong moments in the dance move upwards, preparatory energy is gathered by sinking in order to expand and rise again. And watching good baroque dancers, we can imagine that our sustained notes are similarly suspended in the air as if weightless, like a elegantly poised dancer, balanced and seeming to float almost off the ground.

Watch here 1: Introduction

Watch here 2: Suite

Watch here 3: Minuet etc

For a more substantial audio/visual introduction, I warmly recommed Paige Whitley-Baugess’ Introduction to Baroque D ance videos, available here.  

French period sources suggest that many subtleties of le bon gout – Good Taste – can only be acquired by studying with a fine teacher, born into the culture of Louis XIV’s France. As foreigners from the 21st century, we can all be thankful for Georg Muffat’s (1698) systematic analysis of French style, describing le bon gout in terms of a coherent set of principles, just as grammar-books describe the use of language. Indeed, this concept of a collection of rules is precisely how Art itself was defined, in this period. Read more about period philosophy of art here.


Muffat’s First Observations on the French style of playing dance-tunes according to the method of Monsieur Lully are presented in four languages (Latin, German, Italian, French) as the introduction to his second Florilegium collection, available free online here. The four versions are not identical, and it is worth studying fine points of detail across all four texts. David Wilson’s English translation is here. My summary below follows the French text.

For an alternative path through Muffat & French Baroque Dance, see my 2020 article here.

 

“Here you can discover the principal secrets in a few words”

 

“Two functions admirably well linked together:

  • “To charm the ear
  • “Simultaneously, to mark so well the movements of the dance, that one recognises immediately which type each tune represents, and one feels irresistibly inspired to dance.”

This is Muffat’s reworking of the classic Three Aims of Rhetoric: to delight, to explain and to move the passions. The musician’s purpose is literally to move listeners’ feet, and thereby to affect their emotions.

The word mouvement has a wide semantic field that includes the physical movements of dancing, contrasting formal sections (e.g. the movements of a suite), the speed of the music, the emotional Affekt of the music and the dancing, and the rhythmic structure of a particular dance-type. All these elements are interdependent.

“Five requirements:

  1. “To play in tune”
  2. “Bowing”
  3. “To keep constantly/constant the True Movement of each piece”
  4. “To observe certain usages of repeats, notations, style and dancing”
  5. “Ornamentation”

Muffat’s insistence on le vrai Mouvement  – True Movement – goes further than simply keeping the beat and maintaining constant tempo. This mouvement is also what a jazz musician would call the ‘groove’ of the dance, a characteristic rhythmic pattern, not necessarily strictly mathematical (often the first beat of the bar needs to be long), but established from the beginning and maintained until the end, and strongly linked to the particular physical movements and emotional Affekts associated with each dance-type.

For example, the Chaconne is usually a celebratory, festive, theatrical ‘party’ dance often marking the happy ending of a music-drama, or associated with the comedy clown, Harlequin. It is usually constructed in double-units of four-bar phrases featuring a descending bass-line, with hemiola at significant cadences, and a groove running across the bar-lines: 2 3 1, 2 3 1. The first beat is long, giving space either for a breath between mini-phrases, or for an expressive dissonance on the first beat resolved on the second.

The Minuet is a formal social dance, often marking the presentation of a couple to the assembled company. It is usually constructed with a great deal of symmetry: four-bar and eight-bar phrases; eight-bar or sixteen-bar repeated sections etc. The basic unit is two bars, which corresponds to one minuet-step. The groove mixes, often alternately,  rhythmic patterns of crotchet-minim [short-long] and minim-crotchet [long short].

Both these dances are usually notated in 3/4, and could plausibly be played within a similar range of tempi according to circumstances. In this, they might appear very alike. But once you’ve played a few of each type, and (ideally) learnt to dance them too, you will be able to distinguish them from the very first few notes, just as Muffat writes. This is the significance of vrai mouvement, much more than just ‘constant speed’.

“Play in tune”

Muffat singles out the diatonic semitone mi-fa as the usual source of problems for inexperienced players. At an elementary level, violinists have to learn to position their fingers to create a narrower spacing for the semitone than for the tones. Failure here is a serious assault on the listener’s ears.

At a higher level of sophistication, Muffat’s hint to raise the mi may be linked to the ongoing transition from the pure thirds of Quarter-comma Meantone towards the slightly wider thirds of Sixth-comma Meantone, as the accepted practice for ‘being in tune’. Most 18th-century ‘circulating temperaments’ (for keyboard instruments) were derived from Sixth-comma Meantone, so it is highly plausible that slightly wider thirds became generally accepted.

Muffat also mentions that ornaments should not be false. Sometimes ornaments require chromatic alteration to fit within the local harmonies, and whichever notes one chooses to play, they must be in tune, of course. Playing an ornament in the wrong place also offends the ear. Squeaks and noises are also to be avoided.

In contrast to the lengthy debates amongst today’s Early Musicians on the subject of Temperament, Muffat writes that there is only one accepted way of being in tune. He deals with the whole subject in 14 lines.

Bowing

Muffat devotes about 100 lines – more than two pages, plus two pages of musical examples to this crucial topic. Bowing for string instruments corresponds to tonguing syllables for wind-players and fingering for keyboards, harp, lutes and guitars. Strict rules of style create characteristic patterns of articulation: Good and Bad notes, legato or separation between one note and the next, contrasting qualities of onset-attack for individual notes.  

Muffat states that unanimity of bowing is essential. This translates for harpists and others into a requirement for intense scrutiny of note-by-note articulation patterns.

In this French style, the first beat is always given a down-bow, even if the previous note was also down-bow. This creates silences of articulation before some down-beats. But Muffat marvels how, “in spite of so many down-bows and retakes” (lifting the bow up again, to facilitate two successive down-bows with the very short French Baroque bow), “one never hears anything disagreeable or coarse, but rather a wonderful combination of speed and the length of the bow-strokes; of admirable equality of measure and diversity of phrasings; of tender sweetness and vivacity of playing”

What I have translated here as ‘phrasings’ is yet another appearance of the word mouvemens, here suggesting the movement of the bow, as well as of the notes and of the dancers’ feet, and of the emotions that all these work together to produce.

This rule of “first-beat = down-bow” takes precedence. After this, Good and Bad notes get down- and up-bows respectively, as far as possible. In triple metre, three crotchets to the bar (for example), the last note could be taken down-bow (in slow tempo) or up-bow (in fast tempo). Two successive up-bows can be divided – craquer – to articulate the final note clearly. In very fast tempo, a group of notes can be played ‘upside-down’ if necessary.  In a passage of dotted notes alternating with short notes, one should not slur short-long, but might slur long-short.

If you have any skill at all on the violin, it’s worth playing through Muffat’s examples to see how they feel and sound. If not, you can create a similar effect by singing Frank Sinatra style with dooby-doo. Use ‘doo’ for a Good note, down-bow. Use ‘bee’ for a Bad note, up-bow. Advancing in sophistication, you can imitate craquer with the syllables ‘beeper’, making more or less of a seperation between ‘beep’ and ‘per’ as you judge appropriate.

Muffat avoids down-bow on the second beat, so the combination crotchet and two quavers at the beginning of a bar forces you to craquer the two quavers. Thus the famous Minuet from the Anna Magdalena Bach Notenbuch would not go “Doo dooby dooby / doo dooby” but (more elegantly) “Doo beeper dooby / doo beeper”, when played in the French style. 

 

 

Muffat gives a few examples of how Italian violinists played Minuets, often starting with an upbow on the first note. The Anna Magdalena Minuet comes out very nicely with alternate bows, starting up-bow, but sounding very different in that Italian style: “Bee dooby dooby / doo-bee-doo”

Groove

The mesure (a bar, yes, but also the time-span measured by the regular down-up movement of the Tactus hand-beat) can have different mouvements. A jazz-musician might express this by saying “a steady count can have all kinds of different grooves”. 

Muffat gives “three requirements:

  1. “Understand well the vrai mouvement  – the groove – of each piece
  2. “Once you’ve understood it, be able to keep it for as long as you play the same piece, always with the same regularity, without changing, slowing or rushing it.
  3. “Give certain notes some swing, to make it sound more cool.”

“To understand better the groove of each piece… knowing how to dance is a great help. Most of the best violinists in France are very good dancers, so it’s not surprising that they are so well able to find and maintain the groove of the beat.”

“Having understood and started the beat, not everyone is able to keep it precisely constant for the entire duration of the piece.”

Muffat does not accept playing the whole piece slower or faster one time than another [his next paragraph suggests that this refers to playing a dance several times through consecutively, rather than to separate performances on different occasions] He also disapproves of alterations to the groove bar by bar or note by note. 

  1. “Reject the abuse of playing whatever kind of piece the first time very gently, then gradually faster and faster, and the last time very fast and rushing”
  2. “Don’t wait at the cadence more or less than the note-values indicate”
  3. “Don’t rush the ending”
  4. “Don’t panic when you see short note-values”
  5. “Don’t shorten the last note of the bar”

Playing for dancers is an excellent way to learn how to ‘phrase-off’ and ‘breathe’ at cadences, without disturbing the vrai mouvement. Muffat’s 5th rule is equivalent to ‘Don’t crowd the downbeat’. 

Muffat defines precisely – “diminutions of the first order” – which note-values should be ‘swung’, with examples for various metres. A succession of short notes written as equal are performed long-short, approximately as if the first, third, fifth note etc were dotted, and the following notes shortened accordingly. We should keep in mind that a Baroque Dot is itself a variable quality, according to context we might over-dot or under-dot. The appropriate amount of swing varies with the dance-type: more vigorous for a fast dance with popular origins, more subtle for a slow, courtly dance. 

I consider that Muffat’s insistence on conserving the vrai mouvement implies maintaining the same swing for the duration of a particular piece, as jazz-musicians tend to do nowadays. Many of my illustrious colleages disagree with me on this, but it must be said that most of them choose not to maintain vrai mouvement at all. Muffat makes it abundantly clear that vrai mouvement must be maintained: but there is room for legitimate debate as to whether the ‘swing’ of notes inégales comes under this rule or not.

The complete rhythmic identity of a given dance – its characteristic vrai mouvement – is thus constructed on several levels. The slow count of Tactus, the mesure, is steady (as in all Baroque music, with the exception of préludes non mesurées and plainchant). The principal division of the bar (into two or three) also carries the groove. So a Gavotte typically has two minim beats per bar, and the principal division structures the groove as short-short-long (crotchet crotchet minim). If you tap your feet and clap to this groove, you’ll probably find yourself wanting to sing We will, we will rock you! The quavers are swung – waving your banner all over the place. The emotional power comes from the dance-energy, which is stoked by maintaining the count, groove and swing steady from beginning to end. Temps di Gavotte Anglais (1977) here.

Because they experienced Lully’s airs as dance-music, violinists of Muffat’s time were more likely to rush towards the end. Modern-day early musicians regard Lully as art-music, and are more in danger of applying inappropriate 19th-century rallentando. Muffat is crystal-clear: keep the vrai mouvement from beginning to end. And just as I do here, Muffat repeats this point many times (otherwise, he rarely repeats any of his remarks).

 

Good Delivery

  1. “Finish tuning before the audience arrrive.”
  2. “Dont make noise” nor practise your party pieces before the show starts
  3. “French pitch is a tone, or for opera a minor third, lower than German pitch”
  4.  “Balance up the band”, “don’t have everyone play first violin!”
  5. There are usually two viola parts: “viola 1 is better on a small viola than on a violin”. Viola 2 is played by a large viola. Muffat approves adding a double-bass, but the French were not yet using double-basses in dance-music in 1698.
  6. “Observe the repeats” (notice the French habit of a short repeat – petite reprise – at the end of the last section)
  7. “It is very useful for keeping the precision of the mesure to give each [downbeat] with a small movement of the foot, as the Lullists do.”

 

It is interesting to notice how difficult modern-day players find it, to tap their feet on the down-beat (and only on the down-beat). I recommend it to students, and frequently request it from my ensembles, just as Muffat does. 

Ornaments

Instrumental ornaments for dance-music are mostly derived from vocal ornamentation. There are many more than one would imagine, and Muffat gives only a brief introduction. Nevertheless, this is the largest chapter of his essay, occupying three pages of text and another three pages of music examples.

Pincement – lower mordent, starts and ends on the written note, usually descending by a semitone, usually short, usually without additional repercussions.

Tremblement  – short trill from above, starts from the upper auxiliary, can be simple, or turned, may end early or continue into the next written note

Both these are played on the beat.

Muffat describes many more ornaments and how to execute them. He then addresses the question of where each ornament-type can be applied. His ten detailed rules depend on whether the note is Good or Bad, ascending or descending, moving by step or leaping, with exceptions for a mi and special conditions for the first note of a piece, of a significant section, of an ascent or descent. At cadences certain notes require a tremblement, others refuse it.

He gives some examples of diminutions (improvised variations), and warns that two tremblements are generally not used in succession, though he lists specific exceptions to this rule.

Muffat asserts that the whole secret of French ornamentation is codified in his 10 rules. These ornaments bring the “sweetness, vigour and beauty” of the Lullian method. 

“The melody suffers if ornaments are omitted, inappropriate, excessive or badly executed. Omission leaves the melody and harmony naked and undecorated; inappropriate playing is rough and barbaric; excessive ornamentation sounds confused and ridiculous; poor execution sounds heavy and constrained.” 

“The slightest failure in ornamentation betrays the would-be Lullist as inexperienced in this style.”

Muffat’s approximately ten ornament types (it depends how you count the sub-types) and ten rules are an amazingly concise encapsulation of the bon gout of the subtle and elegant French Baroque style. And if you apply his rules to Lully’s (sparsely marked) orchestral scores, the result is strongly consistent with (very detailed) ornament-markings in D’Anglebert’s harpsichord transcriptions of those same scores. 

See also Quantz on ornamentation, here.

The Suite

Many Suites are not intended to be danced. It is acceptable to take a different speed (a complex piece of chamber music may need to be played slower than the corresponding movement would be danced), but whatever the chosen tempo might be, it is maintained throughout. In late 17th-century England, Mace details a practice of making pauses and then an a tempo conclusion to (fast) Sarabandes, but otherwise there is no period evidence to support the application of tempo rubato to Baroque dance-music.

The Allemande that begins many Baroque suites was not danced. I speculate that the title refers to a German way of playing with arpeggios (the modern term is style brisé) dance-music of the type that the French used for Entrées. Characteristic figures include the short upbeat “Ta-dah!” found as a head-motive in many dance-types, alternations of dotted and short notes, and a three-note upbeat figure.

The Courante was an old-fashioned, noble dance – ‘the dance of Kings’. It has the most complex rhythms of all, contrasting, combining and creating ambiguity between 3/2 and 6/4, with a “Ta-Dah” opening; groups of crotchet, dotted crotchet, quaver ambiguously accented on first or second note; and a decisive shift to 6/4 at significant cadences. 

The Italian Corrente is different, with continuous running notes in the melody, and without the complex cross-rhythms of the French type.

The Sarabande was a fast dance that slowed down over the decades. Choreographies are characterised by held balances and sudden spins or leaps into a new pose. Often the music has a similar sharp contrast in note-values and amount of activity. The groove has a strong and/or sustained second beat of three.

Gigues vary in speed and groove – see Quantz and others for details. French Gigues often begin with imitation between treble and bass, and have a strong sense of the upbeat. The Italian Giga tends to flow more continuously, and without marking the upbeats. 

The Loure is a slow-motion Gigue.

The Passpied is a high-speed Minuet.

Bourée and Rigaudon might have had their origins in popular, rural traditions, but had become a highly sophisticated, courtly protrayal of Pastoral. Looking at the musical notation, it is impossible for us to distinguish between the two types, but in the period they were sharply differentiated: we don’t know how. Two quavers on the upbeat, groove (often in the bass) with three crotchets and a rest, final bars with crotchet, two quavers, crotchet (or four quavers & crotchet) over that groove; all of this with strong duple (minim) count and vigorous swing on the quavers.

Period writers disagreed as to whether Passacaille and Chaconne could be distinguished, and if so how. You are in good company if you consider Chaconnes to be major mode, Passacailles minor, but perhaps the most famous Chaconne of all is from Bach’s D minor Partita. 

The Musette is a courtly imitation of a pastoral bagpipe tune, usually in 6/8. The Tambourin imitates a tambourine. 

The Sicilienne is a slow 6/8 with groups of dotted quaver, semiquaver, quaver. The Canarie is a fast 6/8 with the same rhythmic grouping.


Conclusion

If you are studying a dance-movement, I strongly recommend that before starting to “interpret” the particular piece at hand, you first become familiar with the general characteristics of that dance-type. So before going too deeply into Bach’s famous violin Chaconne, first play lots of (simpler) Chaconnes (and Passacailles), watch Chaconnes being danced, learn to dance one yourself, and generally make yourself at home with the identity of the Chaconne as a dance-type. 

Work through Muffat’s 10 ornament rules and apply them to your particular piece. 

You will now have a much clearer idea of how Bach’s composition resembles all Chaconnes, and where its particular individuality lies. Above all remember Muffat’s two essential functions: the listeners have to recognise the dance from the very first notes, and they have to feel inspired to dance themselves. Even in such complex and profound music as Bach’s, this spirit of the dance must live, energised by the constant flow of vrai mouvement.

It’s some 20 years since I recorded dance-music from Feuillet’s (1700) Chorégraphie. CD here. My research for that recording started me on the paths that I have followed since, of Rhythm & Rhetoric; Tactus, Text, Gesture and Ornamentation. And in the intervening years I’ve had the opportunity to play this repertoire with fine orchestras (both modern and early), and see it danced by experts. Nowadays, I would play some of the movements a little faster, and most of them with more dance energy, a little less chamber-music reticence, and with – I hope – a stronger and truer sense of mouvement.  

Writing this article also gave me the opportunity to re-read Muffat, and glean a little more detail of his bowing rules, resulting in ‘Doo beeper dooby’ above and a rewrite of the discussion of the same Minuet in my 2020 article, here. It’s always worth re-reading a source that you think you know already. What you have discovered since the previous reading will have changed your viewpoint, and you may well notice something that you previously overlooked. 

 

 

A jolly Farewell to a bitter Year

2020 has certainly been a difficult year for many, not least for musicians and music-lovers. This concert of baroque chamber-music was put together after large-scale oratorio performances had to be cancelled, and even so, you – our audience – cannot be here to commiserate and celebrate with us, but must join us online, and – we trust – in spirit!

ENSEMBLE FLORIDANTE

Väärika Aasta Vallatu Ärasaatmine
A Jolly Farewell to a Bitter Year

Watch the video (from Tallinn’s Old Town on 30th December 2020) here.

 

In the mid-17th century, English musicians faced some 11 years of cultural restrictions, during the period of the Civil War and Commonwealth, until the Restoration of King Charles II brought back theatre plays, music, dancing and renewed contact with continental culture. Let us hope that the dark days of Brexit do not last so long for England now!

 

Purcell evokes a ghostly gloom as the Conjurer awakens the Indian Queen’s god of sleep out of his eternal slumber, whilst King Arthur’s Cold Genius freezes to death in his bed of everlasting snow. Over a tortured, chromatic Ground, Purcell’s melody promises that music will ‘beguile’ – charm away – all your cares, whilst onstage, tragic Oedipus sees ghosts passing amongst the trees. More about Music for a While here.

 

So let’s bid 2020 “Farewell!”, and Battle our way into the New Year with the Resolution of Tobias Hume’s soldierly compositions for viola da gamba. Hume (who was perhaps the model for Shakespeare’s viol-playing, Galliard-dancing knight, Sir Andrew Aguecheek in the New Year play Twelfth Night) was both an experienced Soldier and a gamba virtuoso. Our two viol-players compete fiercely, but remain in musical Good Humour, fortified by the Spirit of Gambo.

 

 

Wit and Mirth or Pills to Purge Melancholy was the title of Thomas d’Urfey’s collection of over a thousand songs and poems published around 1700. If Dissembling Love cannot be trusted, perhaps Tobacco or even Hemp can drive the melancholy of a cold winter away. So have a happy Holiday and may your New Year Wish come true!

 

 

Although in 1600 everything in the winter sales is ‘trash’, the Tinker (salesman) swears that his ‘heart is true’. In 17th-century London, when the river Thames froze over, ladies and young lasses crowded onto the ice to buy Fine Knacks, ‘cheap, choice, brave and new’, although Nothing was really new. The Fine Dog has a hole in his head, but everything comes ‘with a ….’ [free gift]!

 

 

The political and cultural disruption of 1649 (the Plague and Fire of London were yet to come!) were mourned in a Sad Pavan. But I would fain Change this note of sadness – I would if I could ­­– into the joyful chorus of a country-dance: ‘We come on, and never go back’. We have indeed all been living through ‘distracted times’, but the Spanish Gypsies wish a Happy New Year for everyone!

 

ENSEMBLE FLORIDANTE

Väärika Aasta Vallatu Ärasaatmine

A Jolly Farewell to a Bitter Year

 

Alvar Tiisler – baritone

Peeter Klaas – treble viol, bass viol

Andrew Lawrence-King – baroque harp, psaltery

Villu Vihermäe – bass viol

Saale Fischer – harpsichord

 

GHOSTS OF OLD YEARS PAST

The Conjurer’s Song             Indian Queen (1695)                       Henry Purcell

A Ground                              Oedipus (1692)

The Cold Genius                  King Arthur (1691)

 

FAREWELL & RESOLUTION

Parson’s Farewell     The English Dancing Master (1651)         John Playford

The Battle Galliard  Lachrimae (1605)                                        John Dowland

A Souldier’s Resolution & The Souldier’s Song                           Tobias Hume

A Souldiers Galliard Musicall Humours (1605)

 

PILLS TO PURGE MELANCHOLY

Dissembling Love                                                                             Playford

Tobacco                                                                                             Hume

The Hemp-Dresser                                                                          Playford

Drive cold winter away – Shepherds Holyday – The Whish

 

CHEAP, CHOICE, BRAVE & NEW

Tom Tinker                                                                                       Playford

Fine knacks for ladies          Second Book of Songs (1600)        John Dowland

New New nothing                                                                            Playford

Will you buy a fine dog?      First Book of Ayres (1600)             Thomas Morley

 

SPIRIT OF CHANGE

A Sad Pavan for these Distracted Times (1649)                          Thomas Tomkins

Fain would I change that note                                                       Hume

Fain I would if I could                                                                     Playford

The Spanish Jeepsies                                                                      after Playford & Purcell

 

Program devised by Andrew Lawrence-King
The Conjurer’s Song

Ye twice ten-hundred Deities

To whom we daily sacrifice;

Ye Powers that dwell with Fates below,

And see what Men are doom’d to do;

Where Elements in discord dwell,

Thou God of sleep arise and tell

Great Zampoalla, what strange Fate

Must on her dismal Vision wait.

 

By the croaking of the Toad

In their caves that make abode;

Earthy Dun that pants for breath,

With her swell’d sides full of death;

By the Crested Adders’ Pride,

That along the Cliffs do glide;

By thy Visage fierce and black;

By thy Death’s Head on thy back;

By thy twisted Serpents placed

For a Girdle round thy Waist;

By the Hearts of Gold that deck thy Breast,

Thy Shoulders and thy Neck;

From thy Sleeping-Mansion rise,

And open thy unwilling Eyes!

 

While bubbling Springs their Music keep,

That used to Lull thee in thy Sleep.

John Dryden

The Cold Genius

What power are thou, who from below

Hast made me rise, unwillingly and slow,

From beds of everlasting snow?

See’st thou not how stiff and wond’rous old,

Far, far unfit to bear the bitter cold,

I can scarcely move or draw my breath.

Let me freeze again to death!

Dryden

 

 

The Souldier’s Song

I sing the praise of honor’d wars,
The glory of well-gotten scars,
The bravery of glitt’ring shields,
Of lusty harts & famous fields:

For that is Music worth the ear of Joue,
A sight for kings, & still the Soldier’s love:

Look, for me thinks I see
The grace of chivalry,
The colours are displayed,
The captains bright arrayed:

See now the battle’s rang’d
Bullets now thick are chang’d:
Hark, hark, shoots and wounds abound
The drums alarum sound:
The Captains cry za! Za!

The Trumpets sound tarra-ra-ra.

O this is music worth the ear of Joue,
A sight for Kings, and still the Soldier’s love.

 

Tobacco

Tobacco, sing sweetly for Tobacco,

Tobacco is like love, O love it,

For you see I wil prove it:

 

Love maketh lean the fat men’s tumour,

So doth Tobacco.

Love still dries up the wanton humour,

So doth Tobacco.

Love makes men sail from shore to shore,

So doth Tobacco.

Tis fond love often makes men poor,

So doth Tobacco.

Love makes men scorn all Coward fears,

So doth Tobacco.

Love often sets men by the ears,

So doth Tobacco.

 

Tobacco, sing sweetly for Tobacco,

Tobacco is like Love, O love it,

For you see I have proved it.

 

 

 

Fine Knacks for Ladies

 

Fine knacks for ladies, cheap, choice, brave and new,

Good pennyworths but money cannot move,

I keep a fair but for the fair to view,

A beggar may be liberal of love.

Though all my wares be trash, the heart is true.

 

Great gifts are guiles and look for gifts again,

My trifles come as treasures from my mind,

It is a precious jewel to be plain,

Sometimes in shell the Orient’s pearls we find.

Of others take a sheaf, of me a grain.

 

Within this pack pins, points, laces and gloves,

And diverse toys fitting a country fair,

But in my heart, where duty serves and loves,

Turtles and twins, Court’s brood, a heav’nly pair.

Happy the heart that thinks of no removes.

 

Will you buy a fine dog?

 

Will you buy a fine dog, with a hole in his head?

With a dildo;

Muffs, cuffs, ribatos, and fine sisters’ thread,

With a dildo;

I stand not on points, pins, periwigs, combs, glasses,

Gloves, garters, girdles, busks, for the brisk lasses;

But I have other dainty tricks,

Sleek stones and potting sticks,

With a dildo, diddle dildo;

And for a need my pretty pods,

Amber, civet, and musk cods,

With a dildo, with a diddle dildo!

 

 

 

Fain would I change that note

 

Fain would I change that note
To which fond love hath charm’d me,
Long, long to sing by rote,
Fancying that that harm’d me.
Yet when this thought doth come:
– Love is the perfect sum

Of all delight –
I have no other choice
Either for pen or voice,
To sing or write:

O Love they wrong thee much,
That say thy sweet is bitter.
When thy ripe fruit is such,
As nothing can be sweeter,
Fair house of joy and bliss,
Where truest pleasure is,
I do adore thee:
I know thee what thou art,
I serve thee with my heart,
And fall before thee.

The Spanish Jeepsies

 

“Come follow all!”

The Spanish Gypsies call.

All you who fear your lives,

Here’s those that Passion drives.

 

We come on and ne’er go back,

None of us shall ever lack!

Tubae mirae sonus: Mozart & Latin, Gesture & Enargeia

The wondrous trumpet – not!

It’s the most famous solo of all time for this instrument, representing the Last Trumpet on the Day of Judgement, and Mozart’s autograph score gives the short title by which we all know it: Tuba mirum, the wondrous trumpet. 



Unfortunately, that’s quite wrong.

 

 

The well-known fact that Mozart wrote this sombre fanfare for trombone, not for trumpet, is not the only problem. Tuba mirum simply does not mean “wondrous trumpet”.

In Latin, tuba (nominative case) is a feminine noun meaning trumpet. But mirum is the masculine-accusative form of the adjective ‘wondrous’. Gramatically, the two words do not agree. It is not the trumpet that is wondrous.

When we compare another famous solo, representing the very same Biblical scene, we have to ask two questions. Why did Mozart choose a trombone, and why does his fanfare go downwards?


Handel’s trumpet


Handel’s well-known setting of The Trumpet shall sound in Messiah features an actual trumpet playing upward-directed fanfares, with a thrilling ascent to high A in the second phrase. That’s more like it, isn’t it?

The expressivity of 18th-century music is rooted in the ancient Greek concept of Enargeia, the emotional power of detailed description. Read more about Enargeia. Enargeia employs Rhetorical language to describe a scene so vividly, that the audience feel they can almost see it with their own eyes. The visions in their imagination send the energia – the energetic spirit of emotional communication – from the mind to the body, producing the physical and emotional responses, the physiological and psychological manifestations of Affekt.

Composers aligned their music as closely as possible to the detailed imagery of the text, creating aural Enargeia, like the sound effects in a stage or cinematic drama. These Effects were intended to induce emotional response, to instill Affekt amongst listeners. So rhetorical Enargeia creates embodied Energia, sound Effects create emotional Affekt.

The power of Enargeia is in the detail. So when we hear the words ‘The Trumpet shall sound’, the emotional communication is reinforced when we indeed hear the sound of a trumpet. And when the dead are ‘raised’, the vocal and instrumental sounds are also raised in pitch. The powerful connection created by this Word-Painting (also known as Madrigalism) is further reinforced by the gestures with which a singer (in the theatre, or in concert) or a preacher (in church) would accompany the text.

At ‘The Trumpet shall sound’ the right hand would be extended from its resting position at the waist, probably to shoulder height. Since ‘Dead’ were still in their graves, the gesture on this word would be downward, perhaps even with the left hand. And then both hands ‘shall be raised’ (the right hand leading), and (the text repeats) raised again, perhaps beyond the normal limit of shoulder-height, lifting eyes and hands towards heaven. The crucial word ‘incorruptible’ might be pointed out with the gesture for ‘pay attention’. 



Every detail of text, each baroque gesture of the hand, is paralleled in Handel’s music. Enargeia will have its effect. 

The biblical text itself is from Paul’s first Epistle to the Corinthians, powerfully declaring the Gospel which he preaches (verse 1). The sound of the trumpet (verse 52) is introduced by the recitative ‘Behold, I tell you a mystery’ (verse 51). ‘Behold’ – look! – is the defining signal that Enargeia is about to be employed. The audience is literally commanded to see the ‘mystery’ that they are told by the words and music.



Mozart’s trombone

Mozart’s tuba provides sound effects for a scene described in the Sequence Dies irae, part of the Requiem Mass. ‘The day of wrath, that day will dissolve the world in ashes’. The context is not the good news of Paul’s declaration of the Gospel, but a dark prophecy from Zephania 1, verse 15.

That day is a day of wrath, a day of trouble and distress, a day of wasteness and desolation, a day of darkness and gloominess, a day of clouds and thick darkness; a day of the trumpet and alarm…

The third stanza of the Requiem Sequence describes how the trumpet’s sound is heard in the graves all around, to summon everyone to the Final Judgement. When we consider the image in detail, as if we could see it in front of our own eyes, it becomes evident [the Latin term for Enargeia is Evidentia] that this Last Trumpet sounds below, in the graves, even in Hell itself.

Whereas the Baroque Trumpet is associated with glorious majesty, heraldry and heaven, the Trombone (in English, Sackbut) was associated with solemnity and the underworld. Trombones accompany the lower voices in Monteverdi’s settings of liturgical psalms, and set the scene in Hell for Act III of Orfeo (1607). Trombones represent the Furies of Hell in Gluck’s Orfeo ed Euridice (1762) and the supernatural power of the statue of the Commandatore in the cemetery scene of Mozart’s Don Giovanni (1787).

The blast of this solemn instrument is appropriately directed downwards in Mozart’s Requiem (1791, incomplete), to resound per sepulchra regionum – throughout the regions’ graves. So whilst we hear the word Tuba, we simultaneously hear that ‘dread Trumpet’ sustaining a low note – as if down amongst the graves. 

Whilst the Gesture for these words might commence medium-high for tuba, it will inevitably descend (and probably leftwards) towards sepulchra regionum. So Mozart’s choice of Trombone and a downward-directed fanfare are perfectly in keeping with the principles of Enargeia.

Two bars later, listeners find themselves down in the graves with the singer on low Bb, whilst the dread sound is diffuse, scattered from way above, solemn even mournful with expressive Ab and even Gb. The picture is complete and detailed, and the emotional effect for the vision-imagining listener is very different from that of Handel’s trumpet.

Handel’s listeners are triumphant, given the promise of eternal life: “… and we shall be changed. We shall … be changed!”. Mozart’s congregation are called to be judged for their sins, whilst they reflect on death.

Every detail of the texts, each baroque gesture of the hand, two contrasting imagined visions are paralleled in Handel’s and Mozart’s musics. Enargeia will have its effects. 


Detail 

Enargeia is all about detail, and there still remains one niggling difficulty with Mozart’s setting. Tuba mirum does not mean ‘wondrous Trumpet’, or even ‘dread Trumpet’. The adjective mirum is gramatically attached to the noun sonum, the object of the verb (present participle) spargens. The trumpet, scattering its dread sound throughout the regions’ graves, calls everyone before the Throne [of Judgement].

It is not the trumpet itself, but its sound, that is wondrous. In terms of Enargeia, the effect of sound is to create Affekt. The instrument itself is a real-world 18th-century trombone, but the Enargeia of its sound creates the emotional effect of the Day of Judgement.

Why does this nit-picking of Latin grammar matter? In a word, punctuation. In music, that means phrasing.

The English word-order makes it clear that a comma needs to be understood, between ‘The trumpet’ and ‘scattering its dread sound’. Latin allows spargens sonum mirum to be re-ordered as mirum spargens sonum (for the sake of the rhymed verse), but that comma still needs to be understood after tuba.

But ever since 1791, the well-known short title has encouraged us to think of the text as Tuba mirum. Whoops! The sense of the text suggests rather the musical phrasing Tuba // mirum spargens so………num with the word for ‘sound’ extended for great Enargeatic effect. If that phrasing sounds strange to your ears, that’s entirely the point of this article.

Phrasing


A frequently-encountered 18th-century principle of phrasing [see Quantz for example] is that notes which move by step tend to be legato, jumps suggest staccato or a break in the phrase. At first glance, the sound of Mozart’s wondrous trumpet [in Latin, that would be Tubae mirae sonus] seems to be all jumps, there is no step-wise movement at all. But if we consider that the trombone is representing a trumpet, then (in the 18th century) adjacent notes in the harmonic series could count as ‘steps’, not jumps.

In this sense, Tuba is linked as two adjacent notes, and there is a marked jump upwards (wondrously: the gesture to open the hands palms upwards and raise the eyes to heaven in awe, admiratio) for mirum, from where the harmonics continue smoothly downwards.

(OK, the harmonic series more-or-less continues: depending on which octave you imagine has the fundamental Bb, the descending phrase either includes a low D which is not strictly in the series, or wondrously avoids middle C. But poetic imagery does allow some poetic license!)





Every detail of text, each historical gesture of the hand, is paralleled in Mozart’s music. Enargeia will have its effect. 


Tactus and Tempo


 

In the 18th-century, tempo defines not just speed, but the emotional quality of the movement, conveyed not by modern conducting, but by Tactus-beating. The dramatic timing of the Enargeatic visions depends on musical rhythm. As many period writers expressed it: Tactus is the Soul of Music.

Although Mozart clearly wrote C-slash, Andante, many printed editions show the time-signature C. See this article by Douglas Yeo on the wondrously-named blog The Last Trombone for more. 



Baroque FAQs for Modern Musicians

This is the last in a series of articles following up classes on Early Music on Modern Harps that I taught this semester for the Guildhall School of Music & Drama, London. Although our case-studies come from harp repertoire, the principles we explored are relevant for any Historically Informed performer. This article could make a useful introduction for any modern instrumentalist or singer.

Previous articles in the series discuss Historical Principles & Online ResourcesPrinciples & Practice, Ornamentation and Dance Music. Our focus was on the 18th century (specific works by J. S. Bach, Handel, C.P.E. Bach, Mozart) and the principal sources consulted were the three Versuch publications around the middle of the century (Quantz, CPE Bach, Leopold Mozart), the Essai for harp by Meyer, and (back in 1698) Muffat’s remarks on French dance-style in Florilegium Secundum. Links to all of these sources and more, in the previous posts.

The questions below were asked by students in the final class, and/or arose from work-in-progress recordings of their baroque pieces that they sent me for private comments. Whereas in previous articles, the agenda was set by the historical priorities of period sources, in this post the questions were posed by today’s students. This is a significant distinction: what we today think is a high priority may not have been so important back then. It’s always good to assess from historical sources how significant your question was, in the dialetic of the period.

 

What are Good & Bad notes, are they just loud & soft?

The concept of Good/Bad notes is fundamental to renaissance and baroque music, and is given a lot of attention in historical sources. The underlying principle is that instrumental music imitates the human voice, playing as if the music had a text. In vocal music, the sung text is of paramount importance. Caccini (1601) writes that Music is “text & rhythm, with sound last of all. And not the other way around”. The structure of each mid-18th-century Versuch is a short introduction to musical fundamentals, followed by a large section on what Early Musicians call “articulation”: how to start a note, how to join or separate notes into short groups. For flute, this articulation is done with tonguing syllables; string instruments do it with bow-strokes; keyboard and harp do it with fingering patterns. This is a high priority question for period writers. See Principles & Practice.

 

Good & Bad Syllables

Good/Bad notes in music correspond to Good/Bad syllables in speech. In music and in poetics, these syllables are sometimes called Long/Short: Good is Long, Bad is Short. In modern terms, we would say accented and unaccented syllables. In the mediterranean languages, the accented syllable is not hit suddenly on the intial consonant, but gets its accent from a sustained weight on the vowel: this corresponds to Leopold Mozart’s description of a slow start to the bow-stroke, even on a loud note.

Thus, baroque violin teachers will often coach modern string-players to use a slow bow-stroke where an “accent” is needed. Similarly on the low-tension strings of early harps, a Good note can have a slow finger-movement. This is not so easy to apply to modern harp, where the heavy strings need a certain amount of snap in the finger-action. But imagining that the note has a slow bloom, rather than a percussive attack is already very helpful.

Comparing Good/Bad to language gives us the clue that it does not have to be exaggerated: it just has to be the right way around. When we say the word “around”, we do not make a large, or conscious accent on the second syllable. But we would notice immediately if someone accented the first syllable instead. This is what is needed for our Good/Bad notes too.

Good & Bad Beats

During the 18th century, the idea developed of an intrinsic heirarchy of the bar. Today, we learn this in our elementary music education. In common time, beat 1 is strong, beat 2 is weak. Beat 3 is medium-strong, but less than beat 1. Beat 4 is weak, or could be energised as an upbeat. This is the basic shape of Time, although particular pieces will make artistic variations around this underlying structure. The principle extends to sub-divisions of the beats: ONE + two + THREE + four + And to the next level of subdivision:  ONE a + a two a + a THREE a + a four a + a. In 3/4 time: ONE a + a two a + a THREE a + a.

Good/Bad is definitely not forte/piano. But there is something of Long/Short about it, in two inter-related ways: how long is the note, and how long is the time-space it can occupy.

If we think about the repeated quavers in the Left Hand of CPE Bach’s Sonata, we could beat Tactus as quaver-down, quaver-up. These gives a pair-wise groove of Good-Bad. Time itself has this groove, so that ONE is imperceptibly longer than +. This intrinsic hierarchy of the bar gradually becomes the main focus of 18th-century discussions of Good/Bad, for example in Marpurg (1755).

Good & Bad Notes

Meanwhile, the notes we play into this grooved Time have a patterning of their own, the ONE is definitely a long note and the + is a short note. This relationship between notes was the focus of 17th-century discussion of Good/Bad, for example in Muffat  (1698).

These two effects combine so that ONE is a long note fully occupying a long space; whilst + is a short note only partially occupying what is anyway a shorter space.

Quantz gives two ways of counting a slow 3/4, in quavers or in crotchets. If we count in crotchets, the groove is ONE two THREE, or Long Passive Short. So the downbeat quaver is a long note in the longest space; beat two has a long passivity; beat three is a long note in a short, actively upbeat space. All the offbeat quavers are short/bad. We could pronounce as a mantra something like the words “PLAYer, Silence, BEATer” to get the feeling of the combination of pairwise quavers with triple-metre crotchets.

And we need to practise the Left Hand, with any continuo realisation we might add, until this fundamental rhythm is absolutely correct.

Whilst it’s easy to grasp the intellectual idea of Good/Bad, it needs lots of practice to acheive it effortlessly and without exaggeration. That practice is training the ears to listen for Good/Bad and to spot any wrong-way-around relationships; and training the fingers to execute the phrasing as if automatically, and at a very subtle level. Ears and fingers must be trained in partnership.

A particular case of Good/Bad, and similarly linked to the scansion of poetry, is the idea that the last Good note in a phrase has the Principal Accent. Usually, this is not the very last note of the phrase, one or more Bad notes follow. A useful general rule therefore, is that for almost every phrase, the Last note is short and un-accented.

 

How to create ‘mini-phrases’?

In Baroque music, long passages of semiquavers are not ‘moto perpetuo‘, but are built-up from many short phrases. CPE Bach calls these Figuren (figures) the most short-term units (say 3 to 5 notes), and Gedanken (thoughts, ideas), perhaps linking two or three Figuren. One passage of semiquavers may contain several Gedanken, each containing several Figuren. Just as in Rhetorical Speech, we need to join together what belongs together, and separate each group of notes from the next group. These words occur very frequently in the Versuch, this is an important concept in this period.

Typically, this joining and separating creates rhythmic patterns that are maintained until there is a clear change. But from one unit to the next, even whilst the basic pattern is maintained (i.e. the same number of notes starting with the same relation to the Tactus, on-beat, after the beat, or before the beat) the sequence often continues by contrasts. A legato group is followed by an arpeggio group, a staccato group etc. See Principles & Practice.

Useful guide-lines are: “Last note short“, “Breathe after the one“, “Stepwise motion ~ legato, jumps ~ staccato“. A jump can also show the place for a mini-break. The mini-phrases are defined by mini-breaks, often between two successive semiquavers: the Tactus beat in crotchets or minims continues without faltering.

If the notes are not whizzing by too quickly, it may be possible to shorten the last note of a mini-phrase by damping, create an actual silence, and start the next mini-phrase with the appropriate Bad or Good articulation.

In allegro semiquavers, there will not be time for this. But the separation between one mini-phrase and the next can be communicated with an unaccented last note of the old phrase, a sliver of time for a mini-breath (but without disturbing the Tactus), an energised re-start of the new phrase, and a clear sense of repeating a unit, and of any contrast between the previous unit and the new one.

 

What about historical fingering?

This is another crucial concept for this period. After a short introduction, CPE Bach’s Versuch devotes almost a third of the book, pages 15-50, to fingering.

For harps and keyboards, 18th-century fingerings often clarify join/separate: the principle is to move the hand only in the mini-breaks, and keep each mini-phrase ‘in the hand’. This principle is utterly different from the modern concept of fingering, which seeks to make a passage as safe and efficient as possible. On the contrary, historical fingerings introduce deliberate ‘inefficiencies’, in order to discourage smooth joining of what is supposed to be separate.

In the following examples of harp-fingerings, I apply the principles of historical fingerings (from Meyer 1763 – see Online Resources – and  – specially recommended, and now available free online – Cousineau 1784)  to examples from CPE Bach’s harp Sonata and Mozart’s flute & harp Concerto.

[My Cousineau link takes you to the second ‘imperial’ edition, c1803. The Fuzeau facsimile publication states 1784 for the first edition, the US Library of Congress (who have online images of each page) says ‘1786?’ The title pages are undated. At the time of writing, an original second edition was being sold for €1,000]

An efficient modern fingering for CPE Bach second movement facilitates joining the third note D to the next G, with a hand-movement before the B [as shown by the square brackets].

EXAMPLE 1 CPE Bach

 

The guideline “breathe after the one”  would suggest a separation after the D, making three upbeats to the middle of the bar. This is supported by the Figur in the LH, which has three upbeats at the end of the bar. So my historically informed fingering moves the hand “after the one”.

EXAMPLE 2 CPE Bach/Cousineau

 

In red, I show the Abzug (phrase-off, forte/piano, see below) in the Appoggiatura, recommended by many sources. CPE himself says that it is the most important element. Quantz gives detailed dynamic contrasts for each note within ornaments. Leopold Mozart instructs violinists to hineinschleifen (sneak into, slide into) the main note (piano).

After the second appoggiatura, we should also observe the good/bad relationship of F#-G, especially because the ornamented F# is the Principal Accent of the phrase, after which the guideline applies: “last note short, no accent”.

For a scale, Meyer gives two alternative fingerings. If there is nothing else afterwards, the standard fingering jumps the thumb to make the long note different from the run of short notes. Notice that within the scale, the hand jumps “after the one”. This is his default fingering. The alternative, more familiar to modern eyes, can be applied when the notes are very fast, but it lacks the detailed phrasing of the default option.

EXAMPLE 3 after Meyer & Cousineau

 

But the alternative becomes preferable, if the top note is not to be distinguished as ‘different’, but joined into the scale, with a break “after the one”. See Example 4.

In this passage from the first movement of the Mozart, the first note of the scale (treble C) is on the beat, so it is a Good. The next note D is also a good. For flautists (after Quantz): “Di diddle”, for – old fashioned – violinists (after Muffat): Down, down-up. (Leopold Mozart would probably apply some interesting slurred bowing). For harp, perhaps 4 4321321 encouraging a separation after the first note; rather than the ‘more efficient’  4 3214321, which would join irrevocably after the first note.

EXAMPLE 4 Mozart

 

 

 

I have adjusted the beaming. The fingering follows the smallest units of Figuren, and // marks the caesura between one Gedanke and the next.

The pattern of “breathe after the one” continues with a caesura after the high a, facilitated by fingering, and similarly after the g in the third bar. But the music imposes a new pattern, also clarified by my historically informed fingering,  at the beginning of the last bar. Red f_p shows two more examples of Abzug.

Between the 1760s and the 1780s, the standard Good/Bad descending fingering for harp 12323232 (familiar also from 17th-century Spanish harp technique) is gradually superseded by Join/Separate fingerings using all four fingers. You start with the thumb, and the last, lowest four notes get 1234. In between, you use as many fingers as needed for the number of notes you have. So a seven-note descent would be 123 1234.

The adjustment takes place at the upper end of the scale, so that the last, lowest notes use all four fingers 1234. This results in a distinctive fingering for a five-note descent, in which you hop the thumb: 1 1234. [Fully-fingered sources feature a LOT of repeated thumb-strokes in this period.]

 

EXAMPLE 5 Mozart/Cousineau

 

In Example 5, I apply Cousineau’s (1784) fingering principles to Mozart’s (1778) descending scales in parallel tenths: This fingering encourages “breathe after the one” between the two Figuren of the first bar, shown by my changes to the beaming. The octave leap indicates a stronger “breathe after the one” between two Gedanken, shown by my // caesura mark.

It would not be inappropriate to use ‘old-fashioned’ 32 descending fingerings. These would ensure correct Good/Bad relationships, but would leave the player to create Join/Separate between Figuren.

EXAMPLE 6 Mozart/Meyer

Contrariwise, ‘fashionable’ Cousineau-type fingerings (mentioned as an alternative by Meyer 20 years earlier, so certainly not excluded from Mozart’s Concerto) prioritise Join/Separate, and leave the player to take care of Good/Bad. As Leopold Mozart makes clear in his detailed instructions for varying the pressure from note to note, within a single bow-stroke, 18th-century music requires both Good/Bad and Join/Separate.

What about the Bass?

Period sources pay great atttention to the continuo bass. The second edition of CPE Bach’s Versuch has an additional and longer book, 355 pages entirely devoted to Generalbass, including a final chapter which extends realisation of a continuo-bass towards improvisation of a free Fantasia.

Modern harpists tend to focus on the right-hand melody, viewing the music from the top down. Baroque music is constructed from the bottom upwards: the bass is no mere accompaniment, but rather provides the fundamental framework of rhythm and harmony that defines the structure for the ornamental melody. The heritage of Renaissance polyphony is that music is woven from the strands of individual ‘voices’; each strand has its own integrity, character and logic. The typical texture of Baroque music is the polarisation of treble and bass, i.e. 2-voice polyphony with a continuo-realisation filling-in the mid-range.

From the beginning of the Baroque period (Agazzari 1607) to the transition into the Classical (Leopold Mozart 1756), period sources assign to the bass the role of maintaining Tactus.  The continuo does not follow the soloist, rather the bass creates a dependable rhythmic structure – like the rhythm section of a jazz-band. As with a jazz-band, it is acceptable for a baroque soloist not to be together with the bass, for the sake of elegant expressiveness around the steady groove: it is not acceptable for the groove to falter. See Monteverdi & Jazz. This is of course the opposite of today’s standard practice, even amongst most Early Music ensembles.

Harpists, lutenists and keyboard players must combine the roles of soloist and bass-section in one person. Modern players might need reminding to play the bass more strongly (as an equal partner), and to maintain the bass rhythm in Tactus (whatever technical challenges, complex ornaments, or expressive moments the melody might have).

Flow

My research in Consciousness Studies suggests that the optimal strategy could be to place one’s conscious attention on the bass, focussing on tight connection to the steady Tactus. Assuming sufficient advance practice, the melody can be better left to the unconscious mind, letting the fingers ‘do it for themselves’. Trills, for example, go better when you don’t think about them.  Like a hypnotist’s swinging pocket-watch, or a meditation mantra, the constant down-up of Tactus (physically enacted in rehearsal, or imagined in solo performance) entrains the mind into Flow.

The paradoxical instruction to “Listen more than you play” can help the mind find that state of consciousness where mindful Observing facilitates ‘personal best’ performance, without a conscious sense of Doing. In baroque music, you can achieve this by “being the continuo-player”, creating the rhythm whilst listening to the solo (even though, you are actually playing that solo yourself).

Imagining, or even physically beating, a complete Tactus (down-up) to start yourself off (i.e. give yourself “a bar for nothing”) is an excellent way to connect yourself to the power of Tactus, to the Music of the Spheres, as you start to play.

 

What to do with Long Trills?

In a word, practise. Long trills are described in detail in all the mid-18th-century sources under discussion here. Harp sources admit that they are difficult, and they are more difficult still on modern harp.

So practise. Practise trills non-metrically, with a long appoggiatura, and then repercussions accelerating from slow to fast and all the way into the final turn and last note.

Then practise this beautifully shaped trill, whilst playing a simple bass in crotchets. The bass maintains Tactus, the trill is not aligned note-for-note with the bass, but you find the last note simultaneously. If the trill is long enough, combine it with messa di voce. But don’t try to be super-loud whilst trilling, and don’t try for too many reiterations. Shapeliness in the trill, and Tactus in the bass, are the priorities.

 

Frederick the Great plays a flute concerto in Sans Souci Palace. CPE Bach accompanies at the harpsichord, Quantz looks on at his pupil’s performance.

 

 

What is Abzug?

This is another central concept in period discourse about ornamentation. Literally “pulling off”, Abzug is the forte/piano contrast between an appoggiatura and its main note.

Leopold Mozart describes it as sliding into, sneaking into the main note (see the music examples above). Quantz describes a slight swelling of the sound on the ornamental note (so not an aggressive attack, but a slow-blooming sound; for violin a slow bow-stroke), with a smooth, soft transition into the main note.

On lute, one could literally “pull-off” from the fingerboard with a left-hand finger, in order to play the main note without any plucking action of the right hand. On harp, we can imitate this with a slow but firm finger-movement on the ornamental note, and a very passive action on the main (second) note, avoiding any articulate start-noise whatsoever.

Practise it.

The same forte/piano effect is needed every time from dissonance to resolution, as well as for any melodic moment with a pair of notes that function like a written-out appoggiatura. In the first music example above, as well as the Abzüge marked in red for explicit appoggiaturas, a subtle version of the effect is needed in the second bar on the high c-b, a-g, and (especially) f#-e pairs, and on the b-a pair at the end of the previous bar.

You need Abzug again and again. CPE Bach considers this the most important element of ornamentation. Indeed, the entire repertoire of the Empfindsamkeit period is characterised by the sensitive gesture of Abzug: every piece is full of opportunities to apply it. A missed Abzug is like marching into San Souci Palace in your muddy boots – you have just trampled on what should have been an occasion for the most elegant sophistication.

 

Don’t forget to pull them off!

 

Appoggiatura onto a Triplet?

The standard rule is that the appoggiatura takes half of the value of the written note (two-thirds, if the written note is dotted). So the realisation of an appoggiatura onto a triplet divides the first note in half. But the more important element is – all together now: the Abzug. The appoggiatura itself needs a slow bloom, and the written note is soft; the remaining two notes of the triplet should be light, since they are Bad notes.  It should sound like “Play-a Trip-let”, not “Da doo-ron-ron”!

 

EXAMPLE 7 CPE Bach

 

The (appropriate) tendency to lengthen the appoggiatura results in a rhythm that approaches the sound of a quadruplet, though still with the first note louder and slurred to the second. Some sources recommend this quadruplet realisation, others condemn it. Best practice is probably to keep some semblance of a triplet, but with a nice long appoggiatura and plenty of Abzug.

 

How to play a Short Trill?

There are lots of short trills in this repertoire, and longer or turned trills can legimately be simplified into short trills. So it’s a significant element of the style and a most useful skill to acquire.

The historical fingering is 2311, and the Abzug requires a decrescendo from first note to last. CPE Bach recommends you to schnellern (quicken, enliven) the first note, to make the ornament crisp and light. It should sound like “Tickle my toes!” and not “before the beat“.

EXAMPLE 8 Short Trill

 

Short Trills in Mozart

Practise this until you can fire off a whole chain of ‘flying short trills’ as Genlis (1802) teaches and Mozart requires. [The link is to the second edition of 1811].

 

Genlis’ second example (above) is not a realisation of the first example, but a preliminary exercise for those ‘flying trills’, at half speed and with extra time between each Figur.

As Genlis explains: ‘the two slurred notes are done by sliding the thumb on these two strings’. What I deduce from the third thumb stroke that follows each time (where one might have expected finger 2), is that after the two slurred notes, the sliding thumb comes to rest against the next string (continuing the movement onto the next string helps the slide flow nicely). At this point the exercise takes extra time, to teach you to apply a caesura here, before starting the next Figur. When you do restart, your thumb is already placed on the string you are going to need.

For the real thing, the full speed ‘flying trills’, each Figur starts with an upbeat, continuing the pattern of the first two notes. As one would expect from Muffat and others, the trills are on the Good notes – this is confirmed at the end of the sequence.

EXAMPLE 9 Genlis/ALK

 

Mozart introduces his flying trills with a preliminary longer trill, turned so that its Figur ends on the second (crotchet) beat of the bar. The autograph staccato on this d indicates “Last note short”, allowing you to “Breathe after the one”. The staccato on the following c indicates it is an upbeat, and the Gedanke is now Genlis-style flying trills, each Figur having an upbeat to a Good-note trill.

EXAMPLE 10 Mozart/Genlis

This upbeat pattern continues into the next bar, which has rapid Alberti 64 harmonies in the left hand and bold downward leaps in the right (first you must “breathe after the one”), leading to a whole bar Long Trill over the same rapid Alberti pattern, now on the dominant seventh.

All these fireworks signal the end of the movement. After this comes the improvised cadenza (Quantz’s Easy and Fundamental Instructions show how 2 players can improvise together)  and final tutti.

 

Short Trills in Handel

There is a tricky short trill on a dotted note in the Handel Concerto. Although it is difficult to execute this correctly in the time available, it should start with upper auxiliary (not the main note) on the beat (not before), so that the complete Figur has the crisp sound of a demanding publisher: “Prrrint today!”  [the rolled r represents the repercussions of the trill] and not a lazy: “What about next week?”.

 

EXAMPLE 11 Handel

 

How should I damp?

This is a harp-specific question, and is discussed in several period Harp treatises, but with insufficient detail. The suggestions below are based on my personal experience.

For modern harpists, you might first consider threading a strip of felt through the very lowest strings – you don’t actually play these in Baroque pieces, and it might be better to lose the excessive resonance that they add.

Second, learn the Baroque way to damp by having your finger (and/or thumb) return to the string after playing (same finger, same string). This allows you to damp specific notes really quickly, rather than moving both hands to cuddle the strings and damp the whole instrument, which is very slow. You can damp individual notes or entire chords, in either hand.

Sometimes you can add rhythmic energy by damping where a rest is written on the beat. Damp crisply, precisely on the beat, even get some percussive noise from your fingers contacting the sounding strings.

 

EXAMPLE 12 Handel

 

Sometimes you need to damp to control bass resonance. If you damp between each note and the next, you produce a staccato effect: this would not be the optimum phrasing for movement by step.

But if you play, play the next note and then quickly damp the previous one, you produce a strong effect of legato.

You can mix these two ways to damp [legato, staccato] in order to create legato pairs, each pair separated from the next. This long-short sound is appropriate for Good/Bad.

EXAMPLE 13 Handel

The last note of any phrase could be damped, to make it short. If you play it without accent (as you nearly always should), the damping will be less abrupt, and might not even be necessary.

Any upbeat could be damped to create a “silence of articulation”, this throws the accent onto the next note.

Often you will need to damp to clarify a rising melody in the bass. This frequently applies at perfect cadences, if the dominant rises to the tonic; but it can also occur at the beginning of the phrase.

The bass cadence with an octave leap on the dominant implies staccati for that octave leap.

In every instance, you can adjust the damping [legato or staccato, and how much] to produce the most appropriate phrasing.

EXAMPLE 14 Handel

Combining all these techniques results in a LOT of damping, subtly adjusted, for various desired results. Such frequent damping is supported by the (limited) historical information available. The greater resonance of the modern instrument makes damping even more necessary than on baroque harp.

Damping with the left hand can establish the “groove” of a dance, or a dance-like movement. In the third movement of the Handel Concerto, the groove is the reverse triple metre, short-long, quaver-crotchet. You can make this energetic and clear by playing the downbeat strong and damping crisply, to produce a repeating groove effect that sounds like the words “Short Phrases”.

Notice how the semiquavers create a Figur across the bar-line, “breathe after the one”: both hands have a short note in the long space of the downbeat, but for different reasons.

EXAMPLE 15 Handel

All this takes practice. You need to train your ears and hands simultaneously, to hear the need for, and effect of damping, and to create the effects you want.

 

How to simplify Ornaments?

Period sources recognise that it is harder to play trills on harp, than on harpsichord. It’s even harder on modern harp than on baroque instruments. So it can be a great help to simplify ornaments. Certainly, it is better to simplify the composer’s ornament, than to omit it, to play it wrongly, to play the wrong type of ornament, or (heaven forbid!) to play an ornament without Abzug.

In place of a long trill with initial appoggiatura and final turn, you can make things easier for yourself with these three steps (in this order of application):

  1. Reduce the number of reiterations of the trill.
  2. Omit the final turn
  3. Omit the initial appoggiatura

If you needed to apply all three three steps, you will be left with a Short Trill, and you should have practised this sufficiently to be confident in it for any eventuality.

If you are really under pressure, you can convert a turned Trill into a simple Turn (upper auxilary, main-note, lower-auxiliary, main-note). Make the first (upper) note long and remember the Abzug.

It’s not so good to change a Short Trill into a simple Appoggiatura, because the Short Trill is meant to sound lively and brilliant, whereas the Appoggiatura should melt, languishing. A Turn could be a better solution: there are still four notes to play, but the fingers can manage them faster. For a fast Turn, try 1231, which should come out crisper than 1232.

 

How does Continuo-experience help one’s Solo-playing?

The great harpsichordists and composers of the baroque were also expert continuo-players: JS and CPE Bach lead the way!

The best way to progress rapidly as a harpist or keyboard-player studying baroque repertoire is first to acquire basic continuo skills. Playing in ensembles will inform your ears and mind, with the opportunity to hear the same fundamental principles applied in subtly different ways by different instruments and voices. Ensemble-playing also provides an energetic group dynamic and a supportive social group, and gives access to exciting large-scale projects. Don’t miss the chance to play in a baroque opera or orchestra.

As a continuo-player, you can adjust realisation to your (gradually increasing) level of skill, contributing something useful right from the start, without needing to be exposed as a soloist until you are ready.

For harpists, a single-action harp is likely to be accepted by HIP training-ensembles, even in 17th-century repertoire, and for a modern player presents less of a barrier to immediate gratification: double and triple harps are more challenging. It is to be hoped that an open-minded training ensemble would admit a keen student even on modern harp, either as a stepping stone towards baroque harp, or as a way to gather experience for solo-playing on the modern instrument.

The experience of playing continuo will transform your view of the role of your left hand. And the continuo-player’s view of ensemble music, from the bottom upwards, is the best approach to baroque solo-playing.

Familiarity with figured and un-figured basses will consolidate your understanding of baroque harmony, and help you recognise the character of dissonances and sequences: the excitement of rising 5 6, the subtleties 6 5 and 5b dissonances, the sweet melancholy of chains of 7s.

EXAMPLE 16 Handel

 

How can I give my performance more clarity and more character?

See above: Tactus, Good/Bad, Join/Separate.

For harpists: damping. For modern harpists, a basic position somewhat près de la table: for baroque harps, this position is standard.

For anyone: “Long notes long, short notes short”, and “Last note short, no-accent”. Ornaments on the beat. Contrast one Figur with the next.

 

How can I make my performance more expressive?

See above. Sensitise yourself to the flavour of each dissonance, and show the tension-release of each dissonance-resolution.

For harpists, move your fingers down, even more près de la table, for a dissonance, and up (higher than normal) for resolution. A basic position somewhat près de la table results in small changes down or up making a big difference to tone-colour.

Apply Abzug to appoggiaturas. Search for the particular character of each Figur.

 

Should I play marked Repeats?

Yes.

 

Should I add Rallentando?

No.

Muffat and Leopold Mozart clearly state that the same tempo should be maintained from beginning to end. There is historical evidence for rallentando, but not in dance-music, and perhaps only when it is specifically notated. It tends to occur where the note values get smaller and smaller at the end of a section; or where there is a final cadence after a silence (e.g. Hallelujah Chorus). Meanwhile, Leopold says simply, keep exactly the same tempo from beginning to end.

Remember, “what everyone does today” and “my favourite CD” are NOT historical evidence. Leopold Mozart is.

If you are keen to add rallentando, find a source to support your wish. [Student challenge!] But… also beware of the temptation to look into the sources to support a decision you have already taken. A better strategy is to read the sources with an open-mind, and then decide. If you read the whole of Leopold Mozart, you will have plenty to think about and apply, before you need to go looking for another source in order to explore exceptional cases and outlier opinions.

 

Summary

18th-century style calls for a enormous amount of short-term detail, many contrasted Figuren, many presentations of dissonance-resolution, and many, many Abzüge. All the while, you maintain the groove of steady Tactus in the bass.

Harpists: see my article on Empfindsamkeit and Single Action harp.

Historically Informed Performance is not what I say, not what Early Musicians do today, not what you hear on CDs, but performance based on historical information. Use IMSLP to get original scores, and use the mighty Versuch publications as reference books to answer your performance practice questions. Harpists: read Meyer, Cousineau and (for elite soloist-level skills) Genlis.

Try to establish a habit of checking what you are told (including what you have read here!), and checking your own assumptions. The state of knowlege advances when someone has the courage to question the status quo.

Dare to be different!