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

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. It would be highly contentious to apply this term to earlier practices of ‘malleable Time’, without most careful consideration.

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.

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.

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!

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. 



Vrai mouvement – Introduction to French Baroque dance-music

This is another in a series of posts following up a course on Early Music for Modern Harpists that I am teaching for the Guildhall School of Music & Drama, but it should serve any performer as a first introduction to French baroque dance-music and the movements of the Suite. See also Introduction to 18th-century Ornamentation, Principles & Practice, and Online Resources.

 

To a great extent, Baroque dance-music is French, and French Baroque music is dances. French style is also associated with the delicate subtlety of ornamentation, so that the energy and physicality of the dance co-exists with the intricate sophistication of precise control. As Muffat writes for violinists in Florilegium Secundum (1698),

‘In spite of so many retakes and down-bows, one never hears anything harsh or crude, but on the contrary one finds a marvellous combination of great speed and long bow-strokes; of an admirable consistency of Tactus and a diversity of movements; and of a tender sweetness and vivacity of Play.’

Muffat’s essay, originally printed in French, Latin, Italian and German, is probably the best period Introduction to this style, which he associates with Lully’s violinists. In spite of the preference of modern opera houses and baroque orchestras for Rameau (1683-1764)  and Rebel (1666-1747), Lully’s music remained the reference in 18th-century France. And the instrument most associated with the noble style of French baroque dance was the violin: the dancing-master’s minature pochette or the 24-strong violin band (with all sizes of violin-family instruments).

Even if you are not a string player, consideration of the implications of Muffat’s rules for Lulliste bowing is a fast-track to creating appropriate short-term phrasing (what Early Music players call ‘articulation’) for French dance-music on any instrument.

Each dance-type has its own characteristics, and in performing this repertoire, getting a feel for the family resemblance between all Menuets (for example) is more important than trying to ‘interpret’ the particular minuet at hand. Muffat again:

Concerning the different dance-movements, three things are required. 1: To know well the true movement of each piece. 2: Having recognised it, knowing how to keep it as long as one plays the same piece, always with the same consistency, without change of slowing or accelerating. 3: To adjust and compensate for the value of certain notes, for greater beauty.

Muffat’s vrai mouvement is much more than just the speed, though finding a suitable speed is important. Quantz (see Online Resources) gives tempi based on a notional MM 80 ‘pulse’ for various dance-types in Versuch (1752) from page 268 , and Saint-Lambert (Lully’s father-in-law) calibrates his indications to an average walking pace, see Les Principes du Clavecin (1702).

The French term mouvement also implies the Affekt, the emotional character, and (as Muffat’s requirements indicate) this depends on finding rhythmic subtleties and maintaining them consistently all the way through each piece. So in addition to the regularity of Tactus, in dance-music we have additional consistency of patterning within the Tactus. And this patterning is subtle – every note is not the same, smaller-note values may be unequal within the beat – but it is maintained consistently from bar to bar. We can think of this as the rhythmic “groove” of each dance-type: the pattern is distinctive, possibly assymmetrical, often subtle, and this pattern is established from the outset and kept strongly throughout.

There are four levels of rhythmic patterning. Often the whole bar corresponds to the early 17th-century concept of Tactus, and you can beat time one bar down, one bar up. This beat is equal and regular, though with the subtlety of arsis/thesis, see The Practice of Tactus.

Phrases are nearly always symmetrically organised in 4-, 8-, 16-bar groups, with repeats of each section. Don’t omit repeats, and don’t vary them either. Rather play the whole dance a second time, with repeats again, but in a varied version – French sources call this a Double.

Within the bar, the individual beats (often crotchets) have a characteristic organisation of good/bad and join/separate. So in a Sarabande beats 1 and 2 are Good; in a Chaconne one links together beats  2-3-1. These beats usually correspond to dance-steps, and the connection between feet and beat in French music led to a concentration on this level of rhythmic organisation. So the Menuet can also be beaten with an unequal (but reguarly maintained beat), 1-2 down, 3 up.

At the next subsidiary level of rhythmic organisation (often quavers), equally-written note-values are performed unequally, pair-wise, usually long-short. The amount of swing in this inégalité is crucial for establishing (and maintaining) the character of each dance: robust country-dances get a vigorous swing, sad noble dances get a very subtle swing. The bible of baroque swing is Betty Bang Mather Dance Rhythms of the French Baroque (1997).

Muffat’s word mouvement also reminds us that Baroque dances were not just music: there was dancing, too! The best way to understand any dance-type is to learn to dance it, even if you think you have two left legs! I would regard an introduction to historical dancing as an essential element to any HIP musician’s training – and as great fun, too! The standard introduction to the physical embodiment of this music is Hilton Dance and Music of Court and Theatre (1997).

Court and Theatre were the principal milieux for the noble style of dancing, but many of these dances had their origins in the street or the countryside. Mattheson describes the contrasting characters of various dance-types. You can develop your own feeling for the area of emotions associated with each dance-type by reading song-texts set to particular dance-metres, and simply by playing many examples of the type you wish to study.

For each dance-type, you need to have a feeling for tempo, metre (duple or triple), groove, social milieu, area of Affekt and typical dance-steps. Some dances are essentially stylised walking, others are mostly leaps, others mix leaps, spins and held balances. The New Grove Dictionary entry on a particular dance-type can be a good jumping-off point for further reading.

Dance-music was often published and performed as chamber-music in Suites, linked by a common tonality. The core of the baroque suite is the AllemandeCouranteSarabande group, often with a Gigue afterwards. A Chaconne might be added at the end; a Prélude or Ouverture at the beginning; Bourée, Rigaudon and other country-dances towards the end; and theatrical or programmatic pieces were introduced for variety. For social dancing, long sets of a single dance-type (especially minuets) were often needed.

Handel’s first opera, Almira (1705), listen here has a ball-room scene, set at a French-style Assemblée, in which a sequence of dances is interspersed with conversational recitatives and arias, a theatrical presentation of social dancing at court.

Case-study: the Menuet

The Menuet was a court dance, each couple would have to dance their formal minuet in front of the judgemental gaze of their aristocratic superiors, as they entered the hall of an Assemblée. The step is a stylised walk, and the dancers’ paths trace out geometrical patterns on the floor. There are also many theatrical minuets, and many pieces that feel minuet-like, even though they are not actually dances: the slow movement of Handel’s Harp Concerto would be an example.

 

 

Muffat’s rules for violin-bowing can help us find the vrai mouvement, the ‘groove’ of this dance, and I take Christian Petzold’s well-known menuet copied into the Anna Magdalena Bach Notenbuch as a case-study.

 

 

Baroque violins have lower string-tension than modern instruments. And French baroque violins had even lower string-tension. French violins were significantly smaller, but had lighter strings and were tuned a tone or a minor-third lower than in Italy. All these differences combine to produce very low string tension: it’s like playing on rubber-bands!  And to coax these slack strings into sound, they had very short bows.

Long & Short notes

At this point, you can experiment for yourself, by using a pencil as an imaginary, short French-style violin bow. To sustain a long note, you will have to be very sparing with the bow, and the string will take some time to ‘speak’. The result is a very drawn-out messa di voce, with a lot of intensity and a sensation of tension waiting to be released as you hope that you can get through such a long note with such a short bow.

For a short note, you’ll have to move the bow with a sprightly action, to get the floppy string to speak promptly – it’s almost like a bowed pizzicato. So the first result is that long and short notes are utterly different from one another: a long note is not just a short note sustained, it’s a completely different animal!

Bowing and inégalité

Muffat’s detailed bowing rules can be summarised as

1. Down-bow on the down-beat;

2. Down/Up bows for Good/Bad notes, respectively.

So French violinists would take the first note of Petzold’s minuet with a down-bow (Italians would play it Up). The next note is a Good, so it might seem also to require a Down-bow.  With a short bow, two successive Downs will require lifting the bow back Up again in-between (what violinists call a Retake), and this necessarily shortens the first note, creating a staccato effect. Nevertheless, this is acheived with elegant lightness, like a dancer leaping high but landing lightly.

However, in the fine detail of Muffat’s bowing rules, he gives precisely this rhythmic pattern (crotchet quaver-quaver) at the beginning of the bar, marked ‘down up push’. The preference for up-bow on the second note of the bar outweighs the desirability of down-bow on a Good note. Nevertheless, the downward leap of the fifth d’-g supports a detached first note.

The quavers that follow would be played pair-wise long/short, good/bad and down/up, quite legato within each pair, but with a small separation between one pair and the next. Within each pair, the second note is unaccented – the swing is gentle and elegant, not spiky!

Groove: le vrai mouvement

We  can beat Tactus bar by bar, down/up. This gives us the first level of equal movement, corresponding to the dotted minims that we find in the bass from bar 2 onwards. In general, we expect to find the fundamental rhythmic structure in the bass, and subdivisions in the treble.

We can also beat Tactus in crotchets, 1 2 down, 3 up. This gives us minim-crotchet unequal movement, that we see in the bass of the first bar and elsewhere.

The harmonic rhythm of bar 15 is the reverse of this: crotchet-minim. The mixture of these two patterns, long-short and short-long, is characteristic of the Minuet.

Baroque theorists linked these structural patterns, often heard in the bass-line of dance-music, with the metrical “feet” of poetic scansion. Long-short is Trochaic, and short-long is Iambic: the combination of these two feet creates the essential structure of the minuet’s vrai mouvement.

In the melody, the initial leap followed by stepwise movement produces a crotchet-minim Iambic structure for the first bar, with the minim sub-divided into swung quavers. So in this bar, the minim-crotchet, Trochaic bass has one of the Minuet’s two typical structures, whilst the melody has the other.

In bar 2, the bowing would be Muffat’s standard: down-up push. This might tend to create a joining between beats 1-2, and a separation before beat 3. But the downward leap again suggests a detached first note. Although I’m accustomed to hearing this bar structured Trochaically minim-crotchet, perhaps the downward leap should encourage us towards Iambic crotchet-minim again.

Bars 3-4 have the same structure in the melody as the first two bars. The ornament on the second note of bar 3 confirms the Iambic crotchet-minim structure of this bar, so similar to bar 1.

The next three bars have the note-values of the first bar, but without the initial leap. This suggests more legato between first and second note, whilst the harmonic shift on the second note of each bar implies a crotchet-minim Iambic structure.

In bar 8, Quantz’s rule for Appoggituras tells us to make the ornamental note two thirds of the length of the written note, and to resolve quietly and smoothly into the written note. The structure is therefore Trochaic minim-crotchet, breaking the pattern of the previous 3 bars. There are couple of bars with swung quavers all the way through in the melody and a Trochaic minim-crotchet structure in the bass, and the harmonies show the structure of the penultimate bar also to be Trochaic minim-crotchet.

There are no other patterns in this minuet. Muffat’s strictly maintained mouvement can be understood by superimposing all the allowed patterns, and ‘weighting’ them according to how often each is heard. You can listen to the result here.

As you listen, imagine yourself dancing with elegant steps and graceful balances along the floor, in smoothly curved patterns, wearing 18th-century courtly dress, and with the assembled aristocracy looking on, and subdued conversation in polite French, with period pronunciation of course. By now you are well on the path towards developing a feel for the vrai mouvement of the menuet.

 

Beyond Versailles

 

We find French dances in English, German and even Italian music, and of course in the music of Johann Sebastian Bach, see Jenne & Little Dance and the Music of J. S. Bach (1991/2009). Their first publication addressed works by Bach that bore the names of dances―a considerable corpus. In the second, expanded version they study also a great number of his works that use identifiable dance rhythms but do not bear dance-specific titles.

There is a glossy online Introduction to French Baroque Music presented in English by the Centre de Musique Baroque de Versailles. Their view appropriately contrasts French and Italian approaches, but they seem unaware of the richness of Spanish dance-culture, which brought together Old and New World, even African music, popular and courtly styles.

Hispanic culture contributed one of the most famous dances of Baroque France, Les Folies d’Espagne as well as the Canaries dance-type. As in France, so in Spain, Portugal and the New World, standard dance-types and (more than in France) the ground basses associated with them defined the territory for much chamber, theatrical and (also more than in France) even sacred music. Ribayaz’s 1677 book Luz y Norte offers a ‘guiding light and North star by which to explore all Spanish music’ – listen here.

English late-17th-century Country Dances became well-known in the 20th-century folk music revival. With simple steps and formulaic group choreographies, they were much, much easier for amateur dancers than the technically demanding solo dances in which French aristocrats emulated professonal theatre dancers. Country dances became popular in France as contredansesLes manches vertes is Greensleeves.

This article can only be a brief Introduction. The next step is to become familiar with various dance-types, by reading more about them, and – even better – by playing and dancing them.

For a slightly different take on Muffat and French Baroque Dance, see the 2021 approach to this subject here.

Of Pavans & Potatoes: Elocutio [Prattica di Retorica in Musica 3]

In a development I had not anticipated, this is now the third post inspired by an April Fools’ Day joke, for which I faked up the title page of an imaginary Baroque treatise on The Practice of Rhetoric in Music. It started me thinking…. Why can we not find such a book amongst historical sources? What would it say, if we could find it? Could I write it myself?

I don’t know if my unicorn-hunt will one day lead to an actual book, but after thinking about Inventio and Dispositio, my mind turned inevitably towards the third of the Canons of Rhetoric, Elocutio (style). And as a gesture of sprezzatura (elegant casualness, being ‘cool’), I departed from the previous style of titles. You might well have expected a Pavan, and I couldn’t resist a favourite line of Shakespeare:

Let the sky rain potatoes, let it thunder to the tune of ‘Greensleeves’

(The Merry Wives of Windsor V v). The ballad of Greensleeves is sung to the Passy-measure Pavin (Twelfth Night V i, but you knew that already). And I hope this citation is not too, hmm, let me say ‘salty’: circa 1600, potatoes were considered to be an aphrodisiac.

 

Potatoes in Gerard’s (1597) “Herbal”

 

Elocutio

 

This article is written for you to read, but I could have recorded it as a podcast or video-clip, and I could even have sung it to you. Music itself is a style of elocution. Once the choice is made, to Deliver our Material in musical style, historical principles apply. ‘Art’ in the 17th century is not ‘free self-expression’ but a collection of organising principles. And so the Art of Rhetoric is created according to the five Canons, and other organising principles.

The organising principles of Baroque Music are Rhetorical, because Music itself is a Rhetorical Art. Perhaps this is why we don’t have a book on Rhetoric in Music, because there wasn’t any music that was rhetoric-free! Any treatise on Music could justly be re-labelled as dealing with Rhetoric in Music. Any advice about musical Delivery will be advice about Rhetorical performance in music. The sources that we already know are labelled just “about Music” – but we can be utterly confident that everything they say will follow the principles of Rhetoric in Music.

 

Rhetoric in Music throughout all the Canons

 

And since Music is itself Rhetorical, we don’t have to “add Rhetoric”, like some kind of sauce, to our music at the last moment. Rhetoric in Music is not limited to the final canon of Delivery. Rather, a musical work has been created Rhetorically at every stage. The ingredients, the artistic material has been chosen and/or created rhetorically (inventio); and structured rhetorically (dispositio); the musical style (elocutio) has been chosen to suit that material and structure, perhaps prima prattica polyphony for a religious text; or according to the secunda prattica, solo voice and continuo, the stile rappresentativo, for music-drama; or a violin-band in dance-rhythms for a Ballo.

Different genres of music, even different dance-types, reflect different choices of elocutio, and those choices may influence decisions within the next two canons of Rhetoric.

Rhetoric & the memoria of Music

 

Memoria, the process of memorisation or at least deep study, is Rhetorical in music, as it is in any performing art. We memorise material, structure and style: and in Early Music, these are source-based historical elements. We should start from the best available source of the musical material (inventio) , and study the outlines and cross-connections of its structures (dispositio).

And when, as modern-day performers, we memorise some historical elocutio, our understanding of that style will be based on our knowledge of period performance practice. [So we might later have to re-learn the material and update the style, as our knowledge increases with further study]. But we are not instructed to memorise an individual interpretation – those personal choices are made later, in the final canon of Delivery.

Of course, that is a counsel of perfection. For most of us, our study of a new piece is not chronologically ordered and divided into mutually exclusive compartments, according to the sequence of the Canons of Rhetoric. Rather our ideas emerge holistically, as we progress from sight-reading to the profound understanding that comes only after many performances. And sometimes we need to move rapidly from sight-reading to first performance with little time for deep reflection. But it would be an interesting exercise, perhaps for a student working towards an examined performance, to structure one’s study strictly according to the Five Canons.

Nevertheless, it is good discipline within Historically Informed Performance to avoid making choices earlier than needed. That means working from period sources and applying historical principles as far as possible, and only making personal decisions when sources and principles can tell you no more. By this point, the choice should be between options, all of which are historically appropriate: if not, period information and historical principles will aid you in eliminating inappropriate options, before continuing!

Committing an interpretation to memory too early has other risks, too. Spontaneity disappears if a “spontaneous’ treatment is hard-wired into the memorisation. It might be an interesting and appropriate idea to pause before a certain, particularly intense word, perhaps an exclamation, in order’to increase the dramatic effect [approved by ll Corago]. If you memorise the ‘straight’ version, and apply the pause in performance, both performer and audience can feel the effect of an unexpected delay. But if one memorises the delay, it becomes ‘part of the piece’, and there is no longer any spontaneity in it. For the audience too, the effect will be lessened, if not destroyed, because the end result is that memorised material is being delivered ‘straight’, precisely as memorised.

Probably the worst fault in memorisation is to have re-composed the piece, perhaps without careful consideration (perhaps without even noticing!), and to memorise this version, in the self-deluding hope that it would be more ‘spontaneous’, more ‘free’ or ‘better’ than the original.

When some singer tells me that they have memorised Monteverdi’s Lettera Amorosa or the Testo’s role in Combattimento, my heart sinks. Because nearly always, they have not memorised Monteverdi’s score, but rather their own interpretation of it. And their skewed version is by now so hard-wired, that it is difficult, if not impossible, to fix even the most glaring errors during rehearsal. Saddest of all, this ‘personal interpretation’ is almost certain to resemble closely all the other ‘individual’ versions: long notes will be shortened, short notes will be lengthened, rests will be disregarded.

The remedy is to consider Elocutio – style, before Memorising. Afterwards is too late. Perhaps there really is something in the classic ordering of the Canons of Rhetoric!

 

Delivery & Decorum

 

Delivery, both the basic sound (Pronuntatio) and all the accompanying subtleties of Actio (contrasts of tone-colour, gesture, facial expression, body posture and movement, communication of changes in the Four Humours etc), is the pinnacle of the Art of Rhetoric. Here, we may well be inspired to recognise connections with other Arts, arts that are also rhetorical, especially when the principles of those arts confirm one another.

This painstaking attention to conformity of detail is the Rhetorical doctrine of Decorum. In everyday speech, ‘decorum’ is the formal etiquette of social behaviour, doing the appropriate thing in each situation, respecting  the solemnity of certain occasions, sharing hilarity at suitable moments; how to dress, how to behave, how to speak. In Rhetoric, Decorum expresses the concept that every small detail should be suited to, fitting with every other detail and with the overall design.

Decorum is the craftsman’s discipline that the woodworking on the inside, never seen by anyone else, is as fine as the outside work. Decorum is the scientist’s discipline that the smallest discrepancy challenges a hypothesis and can even shift a paradigm. Decorum is the artist’s discipline that every tiny detail must be absolutely right. Decorum is the Historically Informed Performer’s discipline to review every aspect of performance in the light of newly emerging Performance Practice insights.

Decorum is the discipline of Rhetoric.

Certainly it is appropriate to consider parallels between Music and other Rhetorical arts. In particular, we can hope to find links between period sources on Rhetorical speaking – the origin and central meaning of Rhetoric itself – and musical delivery. And we would expect to find devices from spoken Rhetoric already at work in the music we are studying, manners of Rhetorical speech already prescribed in treatises on musical delivery. It would be surprising, even alarming, if this were not the case!

 

Of Pavans

We might recognise the falling tear melody in the first four notes of Dowland’s Lacrime, and see it as an imitation of the gesture of crying (the finger drawing a tear from the eye and down the cheek) that we see in paintings, in literature, and in works on gesture.

 

 

This recognition supports our emotional connection to the music, and would encourage us to show in performance this gesture, or another period gesture of Sorrow, in which the hands are squeezed together as if to force tears from the eyes…

 

 

… and even the appropriate body posture (inward focussed, head inclined, eyes downcast etc).

 

 

This Rhetoric of tears is clearly seen in the music of Lacrime, and we should recognise and support it in aspects of Delivery that go beyond music.

But we do not need to redouble the musical gesture itself. Dowland’s music will not be ‘more expressive’ if we add ‘more descending’, and fall a seventh, rather than a fourth. Rather, this attempt would destroy another part of the musical rhetoric, its harmony, wrecking the composer’s dispositio (harmonic structure) and elocutio (harmonic language).

That example might seem so obvious as to be unncessary. But let me present a parallel case.

We might recognise the slow Pavan tempo of Lacrime, and the long first note as a ‘tear’,  slowly welling up, and gathering speed as it rolls down the cheek in the next two downward directed and faster moving notes. We might see not only the written pitches, but also Dowland’s notated rhythm, as an imitation of the gesture of crying, and link it appopriately to slow hand and body movements, and the slow walk of someone in despair. This would encourage us to enact our gestures and bodily actions, even our eye-movements suitably slowly.

Just as with the written pitches, this Rhetoric of Rhythm is already in the music itself, and we do not need to redouble it musically. Dowland’s music will not be ‘more expressive’ if we add ‘more slowness’ to the general tempo, or use romantic rubato to make this particular tear-gesture last more than a dotted minim. Rather, that attempt would destroy another part of the musical rhetoric, its rhythm, wrecking the composers dispositio (rhythmic structure, i.e. Tactus) and elocutio (rhythmic style, i.e. Pavan movement).

 

 

Of Potatoes

 

Some modern-day experts on Rhetoric correctly identify Rhetorical practices of speech and movement, especially elements of dramatic timing, which can also be heard in music. This is very illuminating and inspiring. But before we gleefully apply these practices to our Delivery, we should rather be concerned, even alarmed: why has the composer not included these Rhetorical elements in his own elocutio?

On closer examination, we might find that they are already there, and should not be added again.

Did you already salt the potatoes, dear?

Or we might find that (for one reason or another) a particular element is not appropriate for this application, but was recommended in the context of another genre, national style, or period.

I’ve salted the potatoes, shall I add salt to the rhubarb too?

If something should be added by performers rather than notated by composers, we can expect to find specific advice in sources on musical performance practice.

 

Research into Potatoes

When I googled “Add salt to potatoes?”, I got an immediate, clear answer:

Salting the water in which you cook starches (pasta, rice, potato) is an effective way of enhancing the flavour of the finished product – boiling starches absorb salt well.

Immediately below this, Google informed me that

People also ask… Why add salt to potatoe water? How much salt do I add to water for potatoes? Should you salt potatoes before frying? What does soaking potatoes in salt water do?”

 

As iconographical evidence, there were three images captioned Salt Potatoes.

 

 

And the links below went “Salt your potato-water“, “Why is it important to put salt…” and so on to the bottom of the page.

From this, I quickly deduce that potatoes are not grown ‘ready salted’, and that salt should indeed be added by the cook, later in the process. I did track down one outlier recommendation for the waiter to salt them just before serving, but this was for roast spuds anyway. The vast majority of sources recommended adding salt to the cold water before boiling.

 

Confutatio

 

As Historically Informed Performers, we should take at least this much care, not to over-season our music with salty Rhetoric. We should check if this particular Rhetorical flavouring has already been composed-in. If not, we should check if our favourite flavouring is truly appropriate. And we should check that it is we (performers), who are expected to add it.

We learn good taste in music from the ‘cookery books’ of historical treatises. And those treatises are already applying Rhetorical principles. So we should be highly sceptical, if we feel the need to add some piece of Rhetoric which is neither notated nor mentioned in musical treatises.

And if that piece of Rhetorical Delivery would damage some other element of Rhetorical structure, of dispositio, we should not add it. We would not paint the exterior of a renaissance cathedral with some brightly-coloured paint that had the side-effect of dissolving stonework, especially not if our decorative inspiration comes from pre-raphelite wallpaper!

Yes, this is a strongly-worded confutatio! But we have plenty of treatises on music. If your beloved ‘rhetorical’ practice is historical and appropriate to music, it will be manifest either in composition or performance practice. Certainly it will not be contradicted by period performance practice instructions.

 

Consensus

 

Of course, there are grey areas, and difficult questions where sources (even within one period and culture) genuinely differ. But my example of salt potatoes was deliberately basic, and my Google search can be imitated in scholarly investigation. We should first look at obvious, well-known sources, and see if we can find an overwhelming consensus.

One of the problems of today’s Early Music is that specialist experts discuss abstruse corners of the field so passionately, examining exceptional cases and outlier opinions (in both primary and secondary sources), with the result that historically informed (but non-specialist) musicians and mainstream performers can easily lose sight of standard period practice and the overwhelming historical consensus.

There is such a consensus amongst historical sources regarding rhythm. “Tactus is the Soul of Music.

In Rhetorical terms, Tactus is part of the Dispositio of music. In choosing mensural music as his Elocutio, a composer has nailed his Rhetorical colours to the mast of Tactus. It is certainly true that Rhetorical speech varies the syllabic pace according to the Affekt, and takes time for structual clarity (punctuation) and dramatic effect. Baroque composers notate this, using Tactus as the measure of Time.

Seicento Recitative notates the dramatic timing of 17th-century theatrical delivery. Peri and Il Corago tell us quite clearly that musica recitativa is modelled on the declamatory delivery of a fine actor in the spoken theatre.  In England, a song-book owned by Samuel Pepys praises Henry Lawes’ precision in notating in music the timing effects of Rhetorical punctuation.

No pointing Comma, Colon, halfe so well
Renders the Breath of Sense; they cannot tell
The just Proportion how each word should go,
To rise and fall, run swiftly or march slow;
Thou shew’st ’tis Musick only must do this …

[From Edmund Waller’s dedicatory poem to Lawes of 1635, reprinted in Henry Lawes, Ayres and Dialogues, for One, Two, and Three Voyces (London: Printed by T. H. for
John Playford, 1653)]

For precision notation of rhetorical timing in Shakespeare’s To be or not to be, see ‘Tis Master’s Voice: A Seventeenth-Century Shakespeare Recording?  in Shakespeare & Emotions (2015).

 

Peroratio

 

In the search for Rhetorical eloquence in our music-making, the appropriate Elocutio will have Decorum. It will be consistent with the material (inventio) and its musical organisation (dispositio). It will also be consistent with what we read of Pronutatio and Actio in musical sources. Where other arts inspire us with examples of Good Delivery, we should expect to find that their Rhetoric is already in our Music.

We should consider whether Rhetorical elements have already been built-in by the composer, before we assume that we should bolt them on as performers. We should test our proposed translation of ‘foreign’ Rhetorical elements (from other arts) against what we already know in music’s ‘native tongue’.

The Practice of Rhetoric in Music is already written, in period treatises on the Practice of Music.

It is wonderful that we can use other Rhetorical arts to fill gaps in our musical knowledge, and to inspire passion in our musical practice. But the Rhetorical discipline of Decorum requires that we remain wary against introducing any contradiction.

For this reason, I do not acccept the argument that ‘Rhetoric’ is a valid reason for abandoning all that we know about Tactus and Rhythm in baroque music. On the contrary, if Harmony is Music’s shapely Body, and Text is her Mind, then Tactus is the Soul of Musical Rhetoric.

 

 

PS
About those potatoes – the Folger Shakespeare Library re-created a c1700 recipe for Potato Pie. It does not use salt!

 

Movement & Baroque Music: Mind, Body & Spirit

MUSIC
In 17th-century philosophy, the movement of the stars creates a perfect Music of the Spheres, which is reflected in the harmonious nature of the Human body, and imitated in actual music, played or sung.
This is a hierarchical connection, with heaven at the highest level. Human-beings are a microcosm, the cosmos reflected in minature. Musical performance imitates the perfect movement of the cosmos.

 

“Ex motu Armonia” – “The movement of the heavens creates Harmony” Detail from the frontispiece of Agazzari’s “Del sonare sopra ‘l basso” (1607).

Read more about Agazzari & continuo here.

TIME

The movement of the stars also defines Time, which is measured in musical notation, perceived as the feeling of tempo and the quality of movement, and indicated by the beat of the Tactus-hand. [All of these were far more precise than period clocks.]

Again, there is a hierarchical connection with heavenly time at the highest and slowest level of years (Sun), months (Moon), days (Earth). Embodied time (pulse, heartbeat and the Tactus-hand) imitates cosmic perfection at a human level of seconds. Music sub-divides this time into even shorter durations, faster movement.

Musical notation – i.e. Measure – is calibrated to real-world Time at the level of the Tactus-Beat (Zacconi 1596).  Tempo literally means Time – not the ‘speed’ of a performance, but the duration in real-world Time of a Measure. In this philosophy, musical Time imitates the constancy of cosmic Time.

There is a gradual change during the 17th & 18th centuries from this Renaissance concept (that musical notation is a representation of real-world Time, defined by the cosmos) towards the modern assumption that Tempo is subjective, a perception of speed. Another modern assumption takes hold in the 19th century, that performers can choose their own speed, even vary the speed from bar to bar.

MOVEMENT & SOUL
Baroque Time is not Newton’s Absolute Time, “like an ever-rolling stream”, it is Aristotle’s “time as a number of motion”. In Aristotle’s Physics, this movement (and therefore, Time itself) can only be perceived by a Soul.
When Baroque writers call Time “the Soul of Music”, they mean that Time gives the dry numbers of musical-notation meaning in the real world, transforming them into living sound, what we would call ‘live Music’.
LIFE, MOVEMENT & PASSIONS
Music seeks to ‘move the Passions’, to sway emotions, which are ‘the affections of the Soul’, Affekt (German), affetti (Italian). The effects of soul-musical emotions are felt in the mind and in the body.
17th-century Pneuma, mystic breath, is the divine energy giving the breath of life (from heaven), and also the networked energy connecting mind, body and soul (human, rather like oriental Qi), and also the artistic Energia that communicates between musician and listener (in performance). This is the same hierarchy as in Music.
CAUSE & AFFEKT
Perfect heavenly Movement creates Time, which gives life to Music, which moves the Passions. Perfect heavenly Movement also creates Music. The heavens are turned, and the human soul created, by the Divine Hand. These relations are causal: one creates another.
MIND, BODY & SPIRIT

If you keep this in mind, whilst you move your hand in the embodied time of Tactus, you may feel something of the baroque Spirit of Music, maintaining a constant connection to cosmic Time, Music & Pneuma in order to communicate every-changing Passions to listeners.

This connection is also causal and embodied. It’s not enough to think about it, you also have to beat Tactus, otherwise it won’t happen.

Prattica di Retorica in Musica – Dispositio

This is the second post inspired by an April Fools’ Day joke, for which I faked up the title page of an imaginary Baroque treatise on The Practice of Rhetoric in Music, starting several trains of thought: Why does such a book not exist? What might it have contained? What would we hope to learn from it? What is lacking in modern-day writing on Musical Rhetoric? And why shouldn’t I try writing it for myself?

 

 

The first post in this series,  Prattica di Retorica in Musica – Inventio, introduces the project by means of the Five Canons of Rhetoric and imagines the first pages of our Unicorn-Book, which might include an Address to the Reader and a Dedicatory Poem.

The next pages would probably consist of the Table of Contents, i.e. an ordered list of chapter-headings. For a book-printer, this table would only be assembled once the main body-text was complete. But for a rhetorical writer, these chapter-headings are advance planning of the structural organisation of the material: they present that second Canon of Rhetoric, the Dispositio (Arrangement).

 

 

Arranging the Dispositio

 

In an endlessly recursive process, the structuring of any writing on Rhetoric is itself a work of Rhetoric. My material for this project is the Practice of Rhetoric in Music, and the organisation of this material is inspired by the Modes of Rhetoric, in the style of a list of book-chapters, which I have considered – consciously and subconsciously – over the last month. Turning ideas over in your mind is linked to the processes of memory, which (as modern science tells us) is not merely the recall of fixed data, but a creative process of apprehending, reviewing, connecting and reassembling complex understandings. And now I deliver this structure to you…

In this blog-post, the Dispositio is now my material, which I have organised into two sections (this discursive article, and – below – the presentation of the list itself), in two contrasting styles (modern-day semi-formal prose and 17th-century formal list), carefully considered, and delivered in this blog-post.

The style – a list of chapters – has also become material to be discussed here, and functions as an organising device that delivers new thoughts.

The processes of memory and thought likewise are now material to be written about, functioning to organise themselves by thinking about thoughts, to refine style, and (by remembering memories) to deliver results.

Those results are the material that will be organised, stylised, considered and delivered as the output of the entire project.

And – just in case you didn’t notice – that 5-paragraph description of the nested processes of writing rhetorically about Rhetoric was itself rhetorically made: its material was the rhetoric of Rhetoric, its organisation was iteratively rhetorical, the style was as rhetorically clear as I could make it, it seemed to spring from my mind as if I were remembering something I already knew, and I delivered it in a happily spontaneous flow.

So now you have a rhetorical account of a rhetorically made description of the rhetorical process of writing about Rhetoric. And we could continue this all night, unless you counter with a refutatio or I reach a peroratio!

 

Digressio – an allegorical digression

 

One of the period delights of Rhetoric was the enjoyment of rhetorical discourse for its own sake, like an athlete enjoying the working of their own muscles during training, or a spectator watching that athlete. If the spectator is also an athlete, there is an opportunity to learn, or to sharpen ones analytical insight. Which muscle moved there, and what effect did it have? We can compare the trained and untrained body, we can notice the physical results and competetive benefits of particular training exercises for specific applications. If we are fans or practitioners of Rhetoric, we can observe its work whenever we encounter words.

 

Thesis – back to the underlying concepts

 

I will probably re-organise this Dispositio as I go along. But it is currently linked to these thoughts:

The ‘original book’ does not exist, perhaps because Rhetoric was so deeply internalised for musicians of this period that they applied it, without needing further instruction, to any means of expression. In another sense, every period treatise on music discusses the Practice of Rhetoric because music itself is a rhetorical art: to practise music is to practise rhetoric. My task is then not to invent new principles, but to identify (from amongst well-researched historical practices) instances where rhetoric is at work in music.

As musicians, we hope for clear practical advice, for tools that can be applied in the rehearsal room and in performance. As performers, we hope for ideas that will be effective with our audiences.

This is perhaps what is lacking in the modern literature on musical rhetoric. After reading some scholarly tome, we may think “how interesting, how beautiful!”, but we may not have a clear strategy of how to apply its ideas in our next rehearsal. At best, we might hope that it has given us some inspiration that will emerge in our musicking, by some mysterious process. I do believe in inspiration and mysterious processes, but in the rehearsal room (or as an individual’s pre-performance mantra), we usually need concise, precisely encapsulated suggestions, rather than yards of woffle and dollops of hope.

What period sources there are, and also much modern writing on musical rhetoric, tend to concentrate on Figures and Tropes. And whilst knowing stuff is fun, and knowing what anaphora is helps one notice when anaphora is at work, that doesn’t necessarily let you know what to do with anaphora, no matter how many times you see or hear anaphora in an aphorism, no, no! And even if you know that the use of adnominations and homophones is not strictly anaphora, this doesn’t necessarily help your audience. So although it is not wrong to define Rhetoric in terms of Figures and Tropes (and indeed, this definition becomes increasingly relevant during our period), it is not the most direct path towards practical application in music.

Since Rhetoric is directed outwards – to persuade the listener; to delight, teach and move the passions of the audience – and since we, as performers, want to put it into practice, the book we need must tell us how to apply Rhetoric to good effect. So my dispositio focuses on fundamentals of good Oratory in musicking, ideas that performers can apply in order to produce results that audiences will appreciate.

 

Hypothesis – focus on particular ideas

 

Words: Readers would expect the introduction to discuss what Rhetoric is. But we also need to consider what Music is – and what Science, Art and Practice are too – because our modern assumptions differ from period understandings.

Ethos: Rhetoric is delivered by one person to others: we must consider who does what.

Logos: The most important section of the book should link the performance of music to Good Delivery in Oratory. The more our musicking deals with words, the more eloquent its oratory will be.

Pathos: The most profound result we hope for is to move the passions of our listeners. This Part tells you how to do it.

Kairos: How does the moment of opportunity for Rhetoric present itself? Shifting the focus from historical practices to the ephemeral instant of performance, Plato’s eternal now, this Part attempts to reconcile period understandings of Rhetoric and Humours with 21st-century neuro-science. What is the structure of magic in music?

 

Peroratio

 

The vital heart of Rhetoric, which sends the life-giving Sanguinity of passion to the singer’s voice and the instrumentalist’s hands, is structure. How dry that might seem, how Melancholy! But this sturdy, earthborne structure supports a mighty tower, rising proudly as if with Choleric ambition to reach the highest heavens of eloquent beauty.

The achievement of our art must be to conceal the scaffolding and reveal the architecture. But the process of building begins with a well-wrought foundation. Dispositio precedes elocutio.

 

 


 

DISPOSITIO

 

The Introductory Part: on Words

 

What is Rhetoric?

What is Grammar?
What is Logic?
Eloquentia Perfecta

What is Music?

What is Practice?

What is Art?
What is Science?

What is the Practice of Rhetoric in Music?

What is the Art of Rhetoric in Music?
What is the Science of Rhetoric in Music?

 

The First Part: on Ethos

 

The Practice in Music of the Five Canons of Rhetoric

The Practice in Music of the Three Aims of Rhetoric

The Practice in Music of the Topics of Rhetoric

The Practice in Music of the Four Modes of Rhetoric

 

The Second Part: on Logos

 

The Practice in Music of the Decorum of Rhetoric

Of Oratory
Of Syllables
Of Consonants
Of Vowels
Of Joining & Separating
Of Meaning
Of Intention
Of Genres
Of Place
Of Time

 

The Third Part: on Pathos

 

The Practice in Music of the Four Humours of Rhetoric

The Practice in Music of the Gestures of Rhetoric

The Practice in Music of the Figures of Rhetoric

The Fourth Part: on Kairos

Of the Mind

Of  New Language of Persuasion

 

 


 

 

 

 

Prattica di Retorica in Musica – Inventio

What started out as a bit of fun for April Fools’ Day – faking up the frontispiece of an imaginary 17th-century treatise on the Practice of Rhetoric in Music – got me thinking more seriously. This is just the kind of book I would love to study – many other Early Music scholars and performers too, I’m sure. So why doesn’t it exist? And, what would it say, if we were to find it after all? 

 

 

What’s the Use?

Those are deep questions to consider carefully, but after three weeks the title of my imaginary treatise – stolen from Zacconi (1596) read more here – which I chose quickly, on impulse from the Subconcious, has revealed to my Conscious mind the gap in HIP sources and practice. We have an overwhelming abundance of primary sources to tell us what Rhetoric is, and some fine modern-day writing that describes how Rhetoric was written into renaissance and Baroque Music. The vital question is how we can apply the Art of Musical Rhetoric in Practice – in individual study, ensemble rehearsals and public performance. We have studied the Science of Music, we are learning the Art of Rhetoric, but we want to acquire practical skill in its Use. More on the period concepts of Science, Art and Use here

To bridge this gap, since the late renaissance or early baroque Prattica di Retorica in Musica seems not to exist, I decided to write it myself. Remembering medieval trobadors and trouvères,  ‘such as found out musical tunes and recited verses in writing’; and inspired by the rhetorical canon of Inventio, by which one seeks to discover the best arguments for the case at hand; my aim is not to invent but to search for a true resemblance of this unicorn-book. 

Clearly, there is some serious work of Dispositio (organisation of the material) to be done. Perhaps the most effective format – Elocutio – could be to adopt the position of a blog-poster, discussing the Prattica chapter by chapter, supported by ‘citations of the original’. My hope is to instill Memoria, as if recalling an elusive memory; for my Retorica should deliver nothing new, but should rather be a declaration – a oratorical Pronuntiatio – of truths that we already hold to be self-evident. And all this should lead to Actio: putting rhetoric into practice in Musica

So perhaps you can imagine what follows as a modern editor’s commentary on a recently discovered historical source…

 

 

Foreword 

 

It was Monteverdi scholar Tim Carter (don’t miss his inspiring yet thoroughly practical survey of Monteverdi’s Musical Theatre ) who first guided me towards an unorthodox and creative way of investigating historical performance practice: beyond the analysis of surviving works, have a go at creating (re-constructing would be too strong a word) what is missing. The idea is to confront the same questions and challenges that creative musicians encountered back then, starting from a tabula rasa and testing, questioning, reviewing everything you create, to complement the standard approach of gazing at the beauty of an extant masterpiece.

It’s like lifting the bonnet of the car and tinkering with the engine – you will learn from your mistakes, and you’ll certainly learn more than by merely reading the workshop manual. After all, mathematics students have to solve problems themselves, as well as studying worked examples by famous mathematicians of the past. And Rhetoric itself begins with three Canons of creativity, and continues with the reflective process of Memorisation, before culminating in the final Canon of Delivery.

 



In 2017, with expert guidance and thought-provoking challenges from Tim, I re-made Monteverdi’s lost masterpiece Arianna based on the surviving libretto, a musical fragment – the famous Lamento – letters and other music from the time of the first performance in 1608.  The resulting work, Arianna a la recherche was performed at the OPERA OMNIA International Baroque Opera Studio, re-establishing Rinuccini’s Tragedia as the fourth opera in the Monteverdi trilogy. Why re-make Monteverdi’s Arianna? here

 

 


And now, for this project on the Practice of Rhetoric in Music, I’m once again investigating by creating. Of course, Creative Research is no longer a new concept, and it has already been applied to Early Music, but usually by creating something new out of old material. My aim is different – I want to supply new material that will fill a gap in what has come down to us, like a restorer patching a threadbare section of an old tapestry, weaving strands of carefully researched threads into a plausible picture that fits well with the old stuff.  Or like a luthier, who constructs a ‘historical instrument’ that is simultaneously a carefully researched ‘replica’ of a period original, and a creative work of art in its own right. 

In the workshop of Rhetoric, my power-tool is energia – the communicative spirit that energises the mind in performance. To drive forward the research process, I imagine how such a historical treatise might have been read aloud by a fine orator, and how we today might apply its period pedagogy to training and rehearsal for future concerts, recordings and opera productions.

 

Teaching Rhetoric in a Knight-academy. The listener in the foreground left (as seen by the viewer: this is the privileged position forward-right on stage) leans his head on his left hand in the classic gesture of Melancholy: not sadness here, but deep thought, careful concentration on precise detail.

 

Exordium


Before I can look for answers to the big questions of Musical Rhetoric in Historical Practice, I first have to find out what those questions are. See Deep Thought. In the search for better questions, I’ve started by pondering why we, today’s Early Musicians, want this book. And why was it not written back then?  These deceptively simple questions are fundamental to the project, and need careful consideration.

 

John Bulwer scratches his head in Deep Thought (1644). Another historical gesture of intense cogitation is to chew on your finger (not the thumb, that means something different!).

 

For now, I decided just to have some more fun, by cooking-up an ‘original Preface’. Don’t panic, I have no intention of switching permanently to Ye Olde Worlde style. But I am thinking seriously about how a 17th-century writer would frame his address To the Reader, and taking the opportunity to practise a bit of Rhetoric myself. 

So how would you feel, if you discovered an exciting, hitherto unknown, historical source in the original? You might savour the promises offered by the Frontispiece, and get a first taste of food for thought from the formal Dedication and Preface, before settling down to read, mark, learn and inwardly digest the detailed chapters of the principal text.  In that spirit, I invite you to consider this ‘modern editor’s introduction’ and the ‘original Preface’ below as hors d’oeuvres. Bon appetit! 

Adieu, good Monsieur Melancholy!  This cheerful chap might be good Signior Love. Certainly, he embodies the Sanguine Humour: warm red colours in his ruddy cheek and in the curtain behind him, abundant red-brown hair and bright eyes, a generous gesture, a confident smile, a jaunty feather in his cap, outward-directed energy, red wine and perhaps offering the hope of dance-music soon.

 

To the Reader

Transcriber’s note: We are fortunate that a period translation survives, apparently made from a holograph now lost. Sadly, the original date is indecipherable. Nevertheless, the handwritten annotations in faded red ink appear to be contemporary with the document itself.


 

PRATTICA DI RETORICA IN MUSICA

To the musicall Reader

Exordium

In the beginning was the WORD, & the Word was spoken in the ORATORY of the Holy Prophets, & the same was sung in the MUSIC of King David, whose Harp could soothe the wrath of Saul; and in the image of the Word was man created: wherefore my Heart is inditing of good Matter, whence I do make the Things of which I speak & sing;  the  Instrument of my Tongue being like unto the Pen of a ready Writer: for, as my Mind  was taught by the Orators of Ancient Greece & Rome, as my Ears delight in Dante, Shakespeare & other Poets of our times, and as the affections of my Soul are moved by the Music of Heaven, by the Harmony of Human Hearts, & by the Sound of earthly Instruments and Voices; so am I persuaded that such a Book as this was never seen, though greatly needed: and Necessity is the Mother of INVENTION.

Partitio

Thus may my Words, though few and unworthy, light the true Way, & illumine certain sure Principles, by which you may make practicall Use of the ancient Art of Rhetoric, even in the very  Science of Music: fitting the Pronouncing & the Action of your Delivery to the Matter of the Invention, as well as to the Arrangement of the Verses, & the Eloquence of the Music; and through the Mystery of Memory, from time to time both recalling & re-creating what hath been already made: according to the Aims & Canons of Rhetoric, the Virtues & Graces of Writing, the Devices & Figures of Speech, & the Art of Gesture: and such will be this Book’s ARRANGEMENT.

Confirmatio

The ancient Poet sang of Arms and of a Man, & this my Book will speak of Instruments as well as of Voices; for Rhetoric may be expressed with the sound of the Trumpet, with the Psaltery & Harp, with the Timbrel and Dance, with stringed Instruments and Organs, and upon loud Cymbals & high Cymbals, as well as by everything that hath Breath: for Love of the Word maketh sounding Brass to become the tongues of Men & Angels; and giveth even a tinkling Cymbal ELOQUENCE.

Confutatio

And let none say that Rhetoric & Rhythm are not Brethren, nor that they cannot dwell together in Unity; for the Master cannot teach, who comes not betimes to School; the very  Whirlwind of Passion cannot move, if the Actor misseth his Entrance; the Dancers cannot delight, who reel to & fro, and stagger like a drunken man: for the Eloquent Orator is like unto a Knight on Horseback, whose one Hand must hold the Reins of Rhythm, that the Steps and Pace be in good Measure; whilst the other Hand doth strike with the Sword of Rhetorick, that toucheth even unto the Heart: and this in Music requireth great Skill, & diligent Study, whether the Song be pricked on Paper, or printed in the MEMORY.

Peroratio

The End of all this my RHETORICK being Practicall, let the attentive Reader also take Pains to practise the Examples that follow, pronouncing them in Action; that, by sowing the Seeds of Rhetorick in the fertile Ground of Music, ye may know the Fruit of good DELIVERY,

And live happily!

Dedicatory Poem

As in many such treatises, the following page contains a poem in support of the author’s work. The content of this sonnet strongly supports the indicated connection to Richard Barnfield, whose most famous work was attributed to Shakespeare in The Passionate Pilgrim (1599), though it had previously appeared in Barnfield’s Poems in Divers Humours (1598). 

A SONNET

on

THE PRACTICE

OF RHETORIC IN MUSIC

By a Friend of Mr Richard Barnfield

 

If MUSIC & sweet POETRY agree,
As they must needs, the Sister & the Brother.
Then let this Book create twixt me and Thee
Accord, pronouncing one alike the other.

Dowland to us is dear, whose heavenly Touch
Upon the Lute doth ravish human Sense;
Shakespeare strikes Hearts, for Plays of Words are such,
As playing Instruments need no defence.

We practise the high Art of charming Sound
That Phoebus’ Lute, the Queen of Musick, makes,
Yet Listeners in deep Delight are chiefly drowned
Whenas our Musick moveth Passions for their sake.

Guard Harmony & Verse, mark the Words well,
That RHYTHM & RHETORIC as one may dwell.

 

 

                                       

 

 

 

Baroque Opera then and now: 1600 & 1607, 1970-2020

How did Baroque ‘opera’ develop in the first decade of the 1600s?

And how have our modern-day performances of early music-drama advanced in a half-century of Historically Informed Performances?

This post is based on an interview for Radio Orpheus (Moscow)  in which the presenter, Russian poet, novelist and dramaturg, Alexey Parin asked me to compare and contrast two of the earliest surviving baroque operas: Cavalieri’s Anima & Corpo (1600) and Monteverdi’s Orfeo (1607). Both operas can be seen in regular repertoire at Moscow State Theatre ‘Natalya Sats’, in award-winning productions by Georgy Isaakyan, and in collaboration with OPERA OMNIA, the Academy for Early Opera & Dance.. My thanks to Alexey for his profound enthusiasm for opera, for his translation of the libretto of Anima & Corpo, and for his provocative questions in this interview.

 

With his long experience of opera in Russia, Alexey Parin finds the audience’s experience of the two works very different from one another.  Both productions succeed admirably, but why are they musically so different?

 

I think the first thing that strikes us, looking at the scores and listening to the music, is the similarity between the two works. Both composers are starting from the text, as if they were setting a spoken play to music.

But Monteverdi’s subject gives him the possibility for a lot more music, arising ‘realistically’ out of the drama. Since the protaganist is Orpheus, the great musician, the famous singer, of course we want to hear him sing and make music. And so he sings a magnificent Aria in Hell, accompanied by all the latest instruments of the early 17th-century Italian baroque. These are actually the same instruments that we hear in Cavalieri – violins, cornetti and the double-harp – but what’s now very different, is that with the excuse of Orpheus, Monteverdi writes virtuosi solos for these instruments. So although we have similar instruments, the sound of Monteverdi’s music begins to change.

Also in the earlier scenes, we are in pastoral Arcadia, and the shepherds of Arcadia all sing. They invite the Muses to descend from Parnassus to play instruments. So once again, Monteverdi has the chance to bring in a lot more ensemble music, proceeding ‘realistically’ from the mythological story.

Comparing the libretti

Another difference between the two works comes also from the text. With Orfeo, we are following one protagonist, we could almost say that the other characters are two-dimensional, only Orfeo is truly ‘there’. So while earlier operas exist on the same story, called Euridice, this drama is really the story of Orpheus. Eurydice has only two lines in the whole opera, but nevertheless what she says is extremely important, and perhaps her lines are the clue for understanding the whole opera. More about Eurydice here.

At the beginning when Orpheus sings beautifully of all his love for Euridice, her reply is that she cannot speak, and we should just ask Love, in order to know her feelings. And so we realise that Orpheus is perhaps speaking too much.

And this suspicion is reinfored with Eurydice’s second speech at the crucial moment in the drama, when Orpheus fatally turns to look at her. She says that the sight of him is too sweet, but also too bitter, and for the sake of too much love, he is going to lose her. And so in this very short speech, the word troppo, too much, comes three times. The poet is making it very clear for us here: this is the message. Orpheus was ‘too much’: too happy, too sad, too much love, too excessive in every way.

And so the message of the opera is then to look for the golden mean, for the perfect balance. But nevertheless, I think that Striggio as librettist and Monteverdi as composer both know that the audience enjoy the excesses. More about the message of Orfeo here.

And this brings us right back to Cavalieri again, because in his Preface, Emilio de’ Cavalieri says that the emotions in this kind of music come from rapid contrasts of opposites. More about Cavalieri’s Preface here.

Comparing the scores

It’s important to realise that a score in the early 17th-century had a very different purpose. It was not there for musicians like me to create a performance four hundred years later. More than anything, it was a souvenir for the public who had been to the performance and wanted to study the work further.

This reminds us how new this style of music-drama was. Cavalieri’s religious music-drama was so different from what had gone before, that he wanted to give his audience a chance to look at it again.

Nowadays, if we go to an opera we like, we might listen to the CD afterwards, as a nice memory of the real theatrical experience. So in Cavalieri’s score there is a lot of detail to help the reader remember the whole experience. He prints the music and the libretto and cross-references one to the other with numbers, number 1 in the music corresponds to number 1 in the libretto.

But, from the performers point of view, other information is missing. Many musical details are not specified in the score, and must be decided by the performers. In particular, the score provides no information about the orchestration of the instrumental parts, which instruments should play where.

In contrast, Monteverdi working at the Ducal court, wants to show off not only the opera, but also the court orchestra. So in his score, which is also a kind of souvenir-edition, he includes not only details of the drama but also a lot of information about the instruments. Especially at very strong dramatic moments…

This focus on moments of high drama shows us the purpose of publication. It’s not a score for musicians to work from. It’s to help audience members remember the show they saw. And so the score makes a kind of ‘close-up shot’ of the orchestra when it comes to the most dramatic moments. This gives us today, as musicians working with this historical material, vital information.

From the score, we know that in the original production of Orfeo, the instrumentalists appeared in different positions around the stage. We know that sometimes the instruments were part of the stage action. In a new piece of research, part of my investigation reveals that in one particular scene, when the Muses appear and the character La Ninfa says “you Muses have come with your instruments, so we’ll sing and you play, and everyone’s happy”, the score describes precisely which instruments play, and there are 10 of them – Apollo and the 9 Muses. So here the instruments are not just the accompaniment, they are part of the stage picture, and essential to the poetic concept.

 

Combining the information

But these differing levels of information in the two scores make today’s artistic process different for historically informed performers. Often Monteverdi writes details about the instrumentation that we don’t know from Cavalieri. For example, at the beginning of Act III, Monteverdi is extremely clear: the scene changes to Hell, the violins, the theorbos, the harp and the beautiful organs stop playing, and instead we have the cornetti, trombones and the regal. And so we can understand the two worlds, Hell and Arcadia, in Monteverdi’s opera. And this gives us a suggestion for the two worlds of Cavalieri’s opera, again Hell, and (now) Heaven. So from the point of view of a researcher and music director working with the score, it’s good to combine the information from both scores, to help us understand the cultural context of the period.

We don’t know if the Maenad ending was ever composed or not, but for sure it’s now lost. There’s a hint of  how the lost music might have been, in the Moresca that survives as the finale of the happy ending with Apollo. This Moresca starts in the score without time signature – there is no 3/2. This is very strange, and perhaps it’s because this Moresca was the continuation of something else, and that something else, whatever it was,is now lost. A Moresca, which is a danced battle, would also be an appropriate finale after the Bacchic ending with the Maenads. On the other hand, we should remember that often they would put a dance at the end that had no relation to the rest of the drama. After one of Shakespeare’s tragedies, the actors – including characters who had died – would all stand up and dance a jig. Cavalieri says that you can put whatever dance at the end of a show, but then what he actually writes is the perfect dance finale, actually, yes, very connected to the show. More about dancing in Orfeo and Anima & Corpo here.

Personally, I’m fascinated by this question of the end of Orfeo. In another production, in Helsinki, we showed both endings (with my reconstruction of the Maenad scene from the 1607 libretto), and I’m intrigued by the idea of letting the audience vote: should the final triumph be for Apollo, or for Bacchus?

Here in Moscow, in this production, in Georgy Isaakyan’s particular style, it seems to me that he doesn’t tell the audience what happens, he encourages them to ask themselves: does Orpheus live or die?

7 years of Early Opera, half a century of Historically Informed Performance

As we work on Orfeo at OPERA OMNIA, we now have the advantage of 7 years of work together in Theatre Sats on the baroque style of Cavalieri. More about how to study early operatic roles here. No doubt 17th-century musicians also developed their ideas in the 7 years between Anima & Corpo and Orfeo. And I think it’s also fair to say that Monteverdi is musically more difficult than Cavalieri. In our production of Orfeo, we have the opportunity to sing in the Italian language, which makes some things easier for the music, but challenges the actors to make that direct contact with the audience that we have when we sing Anima & Corpo in Russian. More about OPERA OMNIA here,

Perhaps the most unusual thing about the musical approach for the Orfeo production is that we have effectively two musical directors, in the same way that Monteverdi effectively had  two orchestras: the orchestra of the violins and wind instruments who play written parts; and the orchestra of the continuo who improvise their parts. And just as Georgy Isaakyan’s staging is an encounter between Monteverdi’s 17th-century story, and Russia of the 1970s and 1980s; so there is a similar contrast within the musical realisation. Amongst the continuo and soloists, we share the latest ideas of Monteverdi’s baroque style; whilst in the orchestra and chorus the audience are presented with the Russian way to play baroque from the 1970s.

 

 

This juxtaposition of fundamentally differing approaches to early opera within one production has led to me reflect on how Historically Performed Performance of Monteverdi has changed in my own lifetime. In the table below, I attempt to identify some key topics and trail-blazing pioneers associated with significant re-discoveries. Any serious early opera production should at least consider these topics. Nevertheless, even decades later, some findings are still considered too “radical”, whilst others are routinely ignored, even by ‘historically informed’ ensembles.

 

How HIP is your Monteverdi?

 

  • Chitarrone  1960s Robert Spencer

 

  • Cornetto  1970s Bruce Dickey
  • Vocal ornamentation    1970s Nigel Rogers
  • Quarter-comma meantone   1970s Mark Lindley
  • Negri/Caroso dance  1970s Julia Sutton
  • Renaissance recorders  1970s Bob Marvin, Martin Skowroneck

 

  • No conductor  1980s Roger Norrrington
  • Recit without bowed bass  1980s Graham Dixon
  • Baroque harp  1980s Frances Kelly, ALK
  • Led from continuo  1980s Ensemble Tragicomedia
  • Renaissance violin band  1980s David Douglass, Peter Holman
  • Count recit in minims  1980s Ensemble Tragicomedia
  • Metre in Music  1980s George Houle
  • Baroque Gesture  1980s Dene Barnett
  • Il Corago  1980s Fabbris & Pompilio
  • Chiavette  1980s Andrew Parrot
  • Vibrato  1980s Greta Moens-Haenen

 

  • Proportions  1990s Roger Bowers
  • Pitch  1990s  Bruce Haynes

 

  • Monteverdi’s Musical Theatre  2002 Tim Carter
  • 1615 print free online  2009 IMSLP

 

  • Tactus throughout  2010 ALK
  • Historical swordsmanship  2012 Guy Windsor
  • 1609 print free online  2013 IMSLP
  • Beating time & measuring music  2014 Roger Mathew Grant
  • Arianna a la recherche  2017 ALK

 

  • Violini alla francese  ?
  • 5 trumpets  ?

Of course, this list reflects my own personal experiences and fortunate encounters with individual experts. So I look forward to your comments, corrections and additions. And most importantly, I look forward to new research findings in the 2020s, which will provide new impetus for re-thinking, re-imagining and re-working Monteverdi’s theatrical music.

 

Musing allowed – Reflecting on Music, Time & Play

This article reports on my work-in-progress to create an Explorer’s Guide to Early Opera, under the title The Play of Music & Time. More about the project here. Written within the discipline of Reflective Practice, this post simultaneously documents the on-going process and is itself part of that process, a considered “thinking-aloud” that helps establish a blue-print for continuing the design. And no doubt, that blue print will be adapted, along the way…

Listening again to Peter & the Wolf (1936) – score herevideo with animations here – and The Young Person’s Guide to the Orchestra (1945) – sound with animated score here – was an experience both inspiring and somewhat daunting. I feel a palpable sense of awe at the achievements of Prokofiev and Britten in creating these expertly crafted and artistically powerful works.

These two models are of course, very different. Peter would fit into Monteverdi’s concept of favola in musica, a story in music. More about Monteverdi’s Orfeo here. Prokofiev’s fable resembles the Grimm brothers’ Kinder- und Hausmärchen: underneath the charming fairy tale of a young boy, his grandad and various animals there is an undercurrent of danger and violence. As in an opera, music and action are united, the spoken narration is like recitatives that link the instrumental ‘arias’ and duos, the final tutti is a rousing chorus.

Although by 1946 Britten had already written two operas, Paul Bunyan and Peter Grimes, as well as many settings of thought-provoking poetry, his Guide is presented not as a story, but as a set of Variations, creating a certain abstract quality, in contrast to Prokofiev’s naïve, but vivid realism. Britten seems to write for more sophisticated listeners, and formal construction is part of his educational message. Not only are we introduced to the instruments of a much larger orchestra, but those instruments are categorised into sections (strings, woodwind, brass, percussion), individually itemised, and then re-assembled in – who else would have dared to aim such a thing at Young Persons? – a thrilling double-fugue.

The power of Prokofiev’s art is hidden underneath what seems to be innocent pastoral: Peter is a wolf in sheep’s clothing. Britten’s intellectual explorations proclaim both the seriousness and the fun of symphonic writing: his large orchestra with its close-knit team of elite soloists becomes a playground of the mind, a space-time for rhythmic and colourful music-games.

“La Joie de Vivre” by Picasso (1946)

The Play’s the Thing

We play music. And opera is also a play: a theatrical drama in music, and an act of playfulness that romps across multiple media. The first baroque ‘operas’ were often called rappresentatione: a show, a Play.

So I still like my title The Play of Music & Time, with its echo of the very first baroque music-drama, Cavalieri’s Rappresentatione di Anima & Corpo (1600) – introduction to the first opera hereCavalieri’s Preface here. Following Monteverdi and Cavalieri, my two protagonists are La Musica and Il Tempo, the personifications of Music and Time – female and male. Soul and Body are united in a third character, Life, also embodied onstage in many early operas.

But I’m puzzling over how to reconcile 17th-century aesthetics with a design that will speak to young audiences and to listeners unfamiliar with Orfeo, Celos, Le Bourgeois Gentilhomme or even Dido & Aeneas. What is the appropriate Rhetorical Decorum, an artistic structure of what is suitable? What compositorial Voice will by its Nature be understood by all, at once charming the senses and captivating their minds?

Music & Time in the models

The common features of Peter and the Guide are extreme economy of material, tight control of the balance between unity and variety, and masterful orchestration.

Britten confines himself to variations on an eight-bar theme taken from Purcell’s music for the play, Abdelazar (1695): the only new material is the pair of fugue subjects, introduced just before the final recapitulation of the Purcellian theme. Each variation lasts about a minute, there is strong contrast between successive variations, and though the theme is hard to perceive in some variations, it reappears triumphantly at the end. Within each variation, the sequence-structure of Purcell’s melody encourages Britten to use many short-term repeats.

Prokofiev works with different time-scales, inventing many themes (one for each character in the story), and with many (and more obvious) reappearances of those themes. Variation is mostly confined to changes of tonality and accompaniment, allowing the original melody to shine through clearly. Each thematic statement lasts fifteen seconds or less; often there is an immediate repeat before moving on another theme, but each melody returns every time the corresponding character re-appears in the story. There is some directly descriptive music for various action-scenes, and a new march-tune is introduced for the finale, which also reprises the character-melodies with touches of light counterpoint.

In operatic terms, we meet most of the dramatis personae in what might be thought of as Act I. This concludes with Grandad shutting the garden gate to protect Peter from the Wolf lurking nearby in the forest. Act II is all action, as the Wolf attacks and is captured by Peter, with help from the Bird. New characters enter for Act III, the Huntsmen. Exposition – action – new characters and resolution: this is a schema that could fit many three-act operas.

Both composers have superlatively keen ears for orchestral colour, matching varied orchestrations with appropriate musical material to offer young listeners memorable examples of just how each instrument sounds at its best. What could be more perfect than Prokofiev’s chalumeau-register clarinet-cat, or his quacking oboe-duck? And then Britten’s exchanges of gravity-defying two-octave arpeggios turn a pair of cats into acrobats who always land on their feet. Meanwhile both composers effortlessly loop the loop with flute-bird aerobatics.

One can be equally enthusiastic about both treatments of bassoon-grandad, wolf-horns, and hunter-timpani. Trumpets are used to good effect in both scores, and one might even wish that Prokofiev had invented a character-role for his solo trumpet.

 

 

 

Rhetoric at Play

For my own piece, I have some ideas about orchestration of 17th-century continuo-instruments. But the challenges I am grappling with are the balance of unity/variety and the question of how to introduce repeats of material previously heard – this seems essential for my audience – whilst remaining true to the early baroque aesthetic.

The first ‘operas’ were verse-plays set to music in a text-based style that imitated the declamation of a fine actor in spoken theatre. The poet’s choice of strophic or refrain structures might lead to some short-term musical repeats; dance-songs will repeat each phrase and instrumental ritornelli unify an entire scene. But since the same lines of poetry are unlikely to be repeated frequently from scene to scene, so the music also avoids long-term repeating structures. In Monteverdi’s Orfeo, the first pastoral ritornello reappears to identify scenes in Arcadia, but no other melody is carried forward from one of the five Acts to any other. Listening to the Rhetoric of Orfeo here. The leitmotifs heard (repeatedly, and very effectively) throughout Peter and also in Prokofiev’s (1919) Love of Three Oranges are not part of the seicento style.

I’m planning to use ground basses to give unity within each scene as well as contrast between one scene and another. Grounds are certainly an essential, and very attractive, feature of baroque music. But I haven’t yet decided on an appropriate solution for creating a sense of familiarity for a first-time listener and unity from one scene to another, i.e. some kind of long-term repeating structure.

Meanwhile, in my search for baroque models, my Facebook survey

What are your top ten 17th-century operas?

the survey results are here – has provided an embarrassment of riches beyond my wildest nightmares. I already knew that it was an impossible task, to introduce new listeners to all the early music-dramas I know and love, within a suitable duration for a children’s opera. Now I have a list of many more baroque operas to listen to, learn from, and learn to love!

Britten’s dedication of the Guide to the four Maud children “for their edification and enjoyment” reminded me of two of the three aims of Rhetoric. Perhaps Prokofiev goes even further in hitting all three rhetorical targets – docere, delectare, movere – to teach, to delight and to move the emotions. Even as a composer sets out to teach, he can only touch his audience’s hearts if he first captures their ears with delightful sounds.

La Musica declaims in the Prologue to Orfeo:

With a golden continuo-instrument
My singing usually
Beguiles mortal ears for a while;
And in this way
With the structured harmony
of the Music of the Spheres,
I can even move your souls.

More about the Philosophy of La Musica here.

So how might those heavenly orbits circle round in ear-charming repeats? That’s what I want to know….

Facebook: @PlayMusicTime

The Young Person’s Guide to Early Opera – What are the Top Ten 17th-century operas?

The Play of Music & Time

I’m working on a new project, inspired by Peter & the Wolf and The Young Person’s Guide to the Orchestra, to introduce young audiences to Early Opera. The working title is The Play of Music & Time. So in the search for expert opinions and enthusiastic recommendations, I posted a question on Facebook, which was shared widely in Baroque and Operatic chat-groups.

WHAT ARE THE TOP TEN 17th-century OPERAS?

I received many replies, from performers, academics, baroque opera fans, CD-listeners, You-Tube viewers, audience members from staged productions, and (most importantly) some reports of the preferences of young persons aged 5 to 10.  Many agreed on the favourite works in this repertoire, and counting the votes was for me something like watching the Eurovision Song Contest (except with better music), as two front runners (one by Purcell, one by Monteverdi) took an initial sprint away from the peloton and then fought it out every inch of the way to the chequered flag (have I mixed enough metaphors here?)…

But there were also many lesser-known suggestions, including several works that I haven’t heard. So I now have a substantial reading/listening list to work through, as well as welcome reminders of some fine operas that had slipped my memory.

The aim of my project is both to introduce the accepted canon of Early Operas to new listeners, and to expand the repertoire for those who already have knowledge and experience of 17th-century music-drama. So I’m very grateful to everyone who commented. Thanks to your expertise and enthusiasm, I now have a much wider knowledge-base from which to assess what is essential and what might be fascinating, but as yet little-known.

And as a thank you in return, I now present the results of this online survey, so that you can see how the votes came in.

And the winner is…

Methodology

The posted question was informal, designed to provoke enthusiastic answers. It is not a scientific survey, and should be read in the spirit of fun with which it was carried out. The sample group was self-selecting (those who chose to reply) from within an online community of over 15,000 FB readers (my own Friends and members of the Historical Performance Practice group were the two largest targets for the initial post).

Although I asked for a ‘top 10’, some responders gave fewer, or more than ten suggestions: I counted all these votes equally. For this reason, it isn’t possible to give a clear indication of the sample size, but over 50 operas are listed and some 140 votes were cast.

Some suggested “anything by such-and-such a composer”: for this response, I gave an extra vote to each work by that composer that was mentioned by another respondent.

Quite a few allowed their enthusiasm to carry them beyond the 17th-century: I allowed the first decade of the 18th century, and include here in this commentary Handel’s Acis & Galatea (1718), about which two respondents were very enthusiastic, as especially suitable for young audiences. Handel’s Alcina (1735) was also warmly supported. But I have not recorded the many 18th-century operas that were suggested by only one person: to do so would have been misleading.

I did not define ‘opera’ more specifically, and there was some discussion as to whether English Semi-Opera, Masques and Oratorios could be included. I accepted a vote for any kind of music-drama, and one might well consider that some famous works that do not fit neatly into the ‘opera’ category might have received more votes if my question had been worded more inclusively: Monteverdi Combattimento and Cavalieri Anima & Corpo come to mind.

I did not ask for specific arias.

One respondent argued that the 17th-century opera that was most famous in its own time was Cesti’s Il Pomo d’Oro (1668), a huge production that is little known today. But there are other candidates for that position, not least Monteverdi’s Arianna (1608).

Although some respondents strayed into the 1700s, no-one mentioned the most famous ‘opera’ prior to the 17th-century, the multi-composer spectacular Florentine Intermedi (1589), which is usually considered an essential element of what we now call The History of Opera.

Results

Arias

Although I did not ask for specific 17th-century arias, three music-drama excerpts aroused so much enthusiasm that respondents mentioned them anyway:

Pur ti miro  (Poppea ) – this is not the moment to discuss whether this is by Monteverdi or Cavalli.

Purcell Music for a While (1692, Oedipus) – which my respondent compared to a rock anthem!

Lamento d’Arianna (1608) – In 2017, I wrote what might be called ‘the fourth opera in the Monteverdi trilogy’, composing a setting of the complete 1608 libretto ‘in Claudio’s voice’, around the sole surviving fragment of the famous Lament. Read about Arianna a la recherche here.

Music Dramas

I present the list of works grouped by how many votes they received. Within each group, the ordering is chronological, from the earliest to the later. Some dates are disputed, this is not the place to argue about them!

In the best traditions of such ‘contests’,

I shall present the results in reverse order…

Your Top Ten 17th-century Operas

Many heartfelt thanks to all who took part!