The Music of Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach 9781580464819, 1580464815

Table of contents :
Frontmatter
Dedication
Contents
Preface
Abbreviations
Note about Online Supporting Material
Chapter One: Emanuel Bach in Context
Chapter Two: A Student in Leipzig
Chapter Three: Leipzig - First Works
Chapter Four: From Leipzig to Frankfurt (Oder) and Berlin
Chapter Five: Joining the Court - Bach at Berlin
Chapter Six: Bach's Works of the 1740s - Sonatas, Concertos, Trios
Chapter Seven: Beyond the Court
Chapter Eight: Berlin and After - Songs and the New Aesthetic of Vocal Music
Chapter Nine: Leaving the Court - Music Mainly for Concerts
Chapter Ten: The Later Keyboard Music
Chapter Eleven: Church Pieces and Oratorio at Hamburg
Chapter Twelve: Swan Songs
Notes
Bibliography
Index

Citation preview

The Music of Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach

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Eastman Studies in Music Ralph P. Locke, Senior Editor Eastman School of Music Additional Titles of Interest Aspects of Unity in J. S. Bach’s Partitas and Suites: An Analytical Study David W. Beach Bach and the Pedal Clavichord: An Organist’s Guide Joel Speerstra Bach’s Changing World: Voices in the Community Edited by Carol K. Baron The Career of an Eighteenth-Century Kapellmeister: The Life and Music of Antonio Rosetti Sterling E. Murray Dance in Handel’s London Operas Sarah McCleave A Dance of Polar Opposites: The Continuing Transformation of Our Musical Language George Rochberg Edited by Jeremy Gill Looking for the “Harp” Quartet: An Investigation into Musical Beauty Markand Thakar The Music of Wilhelm Friedemann Bach David Schulenberg Theories of Fugue from the Age of Josquin to the Age of Bach Paul Mark Walker Variations on the Canon: Essays on Music from Bach to Boulez in Honor of Charles Rosen on his Eightieth Birthday Edited by Robert Curry, David Gable, and Robert L. Marshall A complete list of titles in the Eastman Studies in Music series may be found on our website, www.urpress.com.

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The Music of Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach

David Schulenberg

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The University of Rochester Press gratefully acknowledges the Otto Kinkeldey Endowment of the American Musicological Society, funded in part by the National Endowment for the Humanities and the Andrew W. Mellon Foundation, for its generous support of this publication. Copyright © 2014 by David Schulenberg All rights reserved. Except as permitted under current legislation, no part of this work may be photocopied, stored in a retrieval system, published, performed in public, adapted, broadcast, transmitted, recorded, or reproduced in any form or by any means, without the prior permission of the copyright owner. First published 2014 University of Rochester Press 668 Mt. Hope Avenue, Rochester, NY 14620, USA www.urpress.com and Boydell & Brewer Limited PO Box 9, Woodbridge, Suffolk IP12 3DF, UK www.boydellandbrewer.com ISBN-13: 978-1-58046-481-9 ISSN: 1071-9989 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Schulenberg, David, author. The music of Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach / David Schulenberg. pages cm — (Eastman studies in music, ISSN 1071-9989 ; v. 114) Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 978-1-58046-481-9 (hardcover : alkaline paper) 1. Bach, Carl Philipp Emanuel, 1714–1788. I. Title. II. Series: Eastman studies in music ; v. 114. ML410.B16S355 2014 780.92—dc23 2014013296 A catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library. This publication is printed on acid-free paper. Printed in the United States of America.

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To my mother

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Contents Preface

ix

Abbreviations

xiii

Note about Online Supporting Material

xvii

1

Emanuel Bach in Context

1

2

A Student in Leipzig

13

3

Leipzig: First Works

25

4

From Leipzig to Frankfurt (Oder) and Berlin

36

5

Joining the Court: Bach at Berlin

58

6

Bach’s Works of the 1740s: Sonatas, Concertos, Trios

79

7

Beyond the Court

107

8

Berlin and After: Songs and the New Aesthetic of Vocal Music

139

9

Leaving the Court: Music Mainly for Concerts

179

10 The Later Keyboard Music

219

11 Church Piece and Oratorio at Hamburg

246

12 Swan Songs

285

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Notes

313

Bibliography

379

Index

399

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Preface Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach was one of the most original and most significant composers of eighteenth-century Europe. For much of his long career, the name “Bach” when used alone stood for him, not his father Johann Sebastian Bach. In the twentieth century, music historians acknowledged his influence on Haydn, Mozart, and Beethoven, and in recent times his music has been the subject of renewed interest. Within the past two decades, spectacular rediscoveries have made available a substantial portion of his output that was long presumed lost, leading to many new recordings and making possible a new complete edition of his works. Still, as the second son of a famous composer, Emanuel Bach stands in the shadow of his father. The “Bach Revival” of the nineteenth century involved solely Sebastian, and, as the latter’s music came to be ranked at the highest level of European art, Emanuel’s sank into obscurity. Yet a small fraction of Emanuel Bach’s output, including keyboard pieces, songs (lieder), and a few concertos, never disappeared from the sight of scholars and adventurous musicians. His Versuch über die wahre Art das Clavier zu spielen (Essay on the true manner of playing keyboard instruments) remained almost constantly in print, albeit sometimes in abbreviated versions. As his style came to be viewed as an evolutionary link between that of his father and the Viennese Classical style, he gained a respectable place in music history even when his actual music was rarely heard. Today the evolutionary view of music history is out of fashion, and it is the proto-Romantic aspects of Emanuel’s style that seize the attention of players and scholars, who sometimes describe it as empfindsamer. The German term originally meant something like “sentimental,” but it is now applied to northern-European music of the later eighteenth century that achieves an expressive intensity unusual for its time, especially through harmonic and rhythmic surprises, including unexpected juxtapositions of remote keys or of different tempos or meters. Such devices were part of an improvisatory “fantasy” style associated with Emanuel Bach, then as now attracting further attention to his music. The empfindsamer and “fantastic” are known best from the composer’s works for keyboard instruments, on which he was a famous virtuoso. Yet Bach, as I shall call him, was also a major composer of chamber and orchestral music—and of vocal works, secular as well as sacred, as has become ever clearer in recent years.

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With a career spanning over half a century and a list of works numbering close to a thousand, Bach and his music are a substantial subject, covered by a substantial literature. Yet, except in encyclopedia entries, no one has provided a recent account of his career or works as a whole, nor have the discoveries of recent years been integrated in an evaluation of his lifework. This book does so, commemorating the three-hundredth anniversary of the composer’s birth. This is a compositional biography of Bach: a study of his complete oeuvre, focusing on his choices to compose in one genre or another, to follow particular models, to transform a style rooted in that of his father’s generation into one bearing much in common with Classical and later music. Throughout his life, Bach was an active member of lively intellectual communities, first in Leipzig and Frankfurt (Oder), later in Berlin and Hamburg, and his relationships with writers and thinkers left impressions on his music. So too did his professional activities, first as a member of the court of King Frederick “the Great” at Berlin, later as a church musician and cantor at Hamburg. His performing activities, as keyboard soloist, royal accompanist, and ensemble director, also shaped his compositions, determining their character and scoring. In addition, Bach was one of the first musicians to participate actively in the publication of his works, and the rapidly evolving music business of eighteenthcentury Europe was another shaping force on his compositions. This book is not, however, a life and works. The details of Bach’s biography are not a concern except insofar as they affected his composing. Of greater interest are possible distinctions between his training and that of his older brother Wilhelm Friedemann (also a composer); the effects on his music of being a relatively minor figure in the royal Prussian musical establishment; the changes in his output as he took on a heavy schedule of church and concert performances in a great trading port. The size of Bach’s output makes it impossible to discuss or even mention every work. But an effort has been made to say something useful about every major composition and all those that are frequently performed, as well as minor works that must be examined if we are to understand Bach’s compositional choices. His writings—the Versuch as well as his letters—are also considered, but only where they provide clues to understanding his music. The diversity of Bach’s output, together with his habit of revising works repeatedly—sometimes more than fifty years after their original composition—makes it impossible to adopt a strictly chronological approach. Bach’s output falls into distinct segments corresponding to the three major stations of his life—Leipzig, Berlin, and Hamburg—and the twelve chapters of this book accordingly fall into three groups. Following an overview of Bach’s background and context in chapter 1, chapters 2–4 consider his training, chapters 5–7 his development of distinctive types of keyboard and chamber music at Berlin, and chapters 8–12 his refashioning of himself as a composer of vocal music, chiefly at Hamburg.

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preface xi An important theme of the book is Bach’s musical relationship to his contemporaries and colleagues in northern Europe. Here his father and brothers figure prominently, not just for the inherent human interest in the subject, but because how Emanuel was trained and why his music so diverged from that of his father and siblings are significant historical questions. Significant too is the issue of how his music reflected that of Telemann, Handel, Graun, and other German contemporaries, in ways that may surprise some readers. Equally surprising may be Bach’s apparent insulation from musical developments elsewhere in Europe, including Austria and Italy. Related to the theme of influence is the stylistic dichotomy, recognized by Bach and his contemporaries, that corresponds roughly to our distinction between Baroque and Classical styles. Bach understood this as a division between contrapuntal and galant music. Although he usually adopted the latter style, he occasionally employed elements of the former, but rarely by imitating his father’s brand of counterpoint. The book therefore considers the relative significance of the two styles in Bach’s music, as well as the meaning of terms such as galant and empfindsamer that have been applied to it. Important too is the evaluation of sonata form, long associated with Bach’s music, as an element in his compositions. Although Bach’s music is central to the book, I have not ignored issues relating to its historical and cultural context. Opera and the cultural politics associated with it provide a subtext for the treatment of Bach’s instrumental music at Berlin. Developments in literature and philosophical aesthetics had an impact on Bach’s transition to vocal composition, especially of songs, whose texts provide informative and occasionally troubling insights into thought and social relations in the circles in which Bach’s music was cultivated. His concerts and church music at Berlin and Hamburg reflect aspects of bourgeois society and spirituality in late eighteenth-century European cities, as do the patterns of Bach’s activity as a self-publishing composer of music for the commercial market. In this book pitches are named using the Helmholtz system, which is descended from the keyboard tablature that was still occasionally used by members of the Bach family. Middle C is c′; the notes below and above it are b and d′, respectively. The pitches an octave lower are B–c–d, an octave higher b′–c″–d″. Notes below C (two octaves below c′) are designated by double letters (AA, BB). I am grateful for help and ideas furnished at various times by Joshua Rifkin, Steven Zohn, Daniel Melamed, and the late Bruce Haynes. Moira Hill provided valuable comments and corrections for chapters 11 and 12. Over the years the staffs of several libraries, including the Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin–Preußischer Kulturbesitz, the Bibliotheek of the Koninklijk Conservatorium, Brussels, and Sarah Adams, music librarian and keeper of the Isham Memorial Library at Harvard University, have made essential items available to me. This would

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have been a narrower book were it not for the Packard Humanities Institute’s ongoing project to issue the composer’s music in a new scholarly edition (Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach: The Complete Works). I am grateful to the editorial leadership and to individual members of the editorial staff, including Christoph Wolff, Christopher Hogwood, Peter Wollny, Darrell Berg, Ulrich Leisinger, Paul Corneilson, and Mark Knoll, for assistance of various sorts. During the writing of this book, my mother Shirley Seigle as well as John W. Schulenberg, Pat Schulenberg, William Seigle, David Kopp, and Andrew Bergman provided many kindnesses. I would be remiss if I did not also acknowledge aid of various kinds afforded me during an earlier period of my work by those who were involved in a previous effort to publish Bach’s collected works (the Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach Edition). Finally, I must thank flutist and musicologist Mary Oleskiewicz not only for insights and information on many matters, but for making possible for me the incomparable experience of accompanying, on the fortepiano, her recorded performances of the flute sonatas of King Frederick II in the Music Room of Sanssouci Palace, where Emanuel Bach and his father once played.

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Abbreviations BD

Bach-Dokumente (see bibliography)

BWV

Catalog number of work by J. S. Bach in Schmieder, Thematischsystematisches Verzeichnis der musikalischen Werke Johann Sebastian Bachs

CV

“Autographischer Catalogus von den Claviersonaten des C. Ph. E. Bach bis zum Jahre 1772 komponirt” (SA 4261); facsimile in Christoph Wolff, “Carl Philipp Emanuel Bachs Verzeichnis”

F.

Catalog number of work by W. F. Bach in Falck, Wilhelm Fridemann Bach

Grove

The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians (individual articles are cited below from the electronic edition at www.oxfordmusiconline.com)

GWV

Catalog number of work by C. H. or J. G. Graun in Henzel, Graun-Werkverzeichnis (GraunWV)

H.

Catalog number of work by C. P. E. Bach, listed in Helm, Thematic Catalogue of the Works of Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach

MGG

Die Musik in Geschichte und Gegenwart: Allgemeine Enzyklopäde der Musik (individual articles are cited below with full bibliographic details)

NBR

David and Mendel, New Bach Reader

NV

C. P. E. Bach, Verzeichniß des musikalischen Nachlasses (the catalog of Bach’s estate)

QV

Augsbach, Thematisch-systematisches Verzeichnis der Werke von Johann Joachim Quantz

Suchalla

Suchalla, Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach: Briefe und Dokumente

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xiv

abbreviations

W.

Catalog number of work by C. P. E. Bach in Wotquenne, Catalogue thématique des œuvres de Charles Philippe Emmanuel Bach

Wiermann

Wiermann, Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach: Dokumente zu Leben und Wirken

WTC

J. S. Bach, Well-Tempered Clavier (WTC1 is book 1, WTC2 book 2)

Library and Manuscript Sigla AmB

“Amalienbibliothek,” part of the shelf mark for manuscript scores from the collection of Princess Anna Amalia of Prussia, now in D B (see below)

B Bc

Brussels, Conservatoire Royal, Bibliothèque / Koninklijk Conservatorium, Bibliotheek

DB

Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin (Berlin, Staatsbiliothek Preußischer Kulturbesitz, Musikabteilung mit Mendelssohn-Archiv)

DK Kmk

Copenhagen, Det Kongelige danske Musikkonservatoriums Bibliotek

F Pn

Paris, Bibliothèque National

GB Lbl

London, British Library

Hs

Hamburg, Staats- und Universitätsbibliothek Carl von Ossietzky, Musiksammlung

P

Abbreviation for “Mus. ms. Bach P,” part of the shelf mark for manuscript scores containing works of the Bach family in D B (or, where indicated, in PL Kj)

PL Kj

Kraków, Uniwersytet Jagiellonski, Biblioteka Jagiellonska

SA

Abbreviation for “Sing-Akademie,” part of the shelf mark for manuscripts (and copies of some printed editions) owned by the Sing-Akademie zu Berlin, on deposit in D B

St

Abbreviation for “Mus. ms. Bach St,” part of the shelf mark for manuscript parts for works of the Bach family in D B (see above)

US CAh

Cambridge, Massachusetts, Harvard College Library

US Wc

Washington, Library of Congress

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abbreviations xv Editions BG

Johann Sebastian Bach, Werke (Leipzig: Breitkopf und Härtel, 1851–1900)

Berg

The Collected Works for Solo Keyboard by Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach (1714–1788), facsimile edition with introductions by Darrell Berg, 6 vols. (New York: Garland, 1985)

CPEBCW

Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach: The Complete Works (Los Altos: Packard Humanities Institute, 2005–)

CPEBE

Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach Edition (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1989–95)

NBA

Johann Sebastian Bach, Neue Ausgabe sämtlicher Werke (Kassel: Bärenreiter, 1954–)

WFBCW

Wilhelm Friedemann Bach: Gesamtausgabe / Collected Works (Stuttgart: Carus, 2009–)

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Note about Online Supporting Material An online supplement to this book is available at http://faculty.wagner.edu/ david-schulenberg/the-music-of-carl-philipp-emanuel-bach/, with individual online files archived at https://urresearch.rochester.edu. The online material, although not essential to the narrative of the book, extends the discussion and provides additional illustrations of many points. Supplementary texts, such as tables, discussions of specialized topics, detailed analysis of many individual works, and a guide to catalogs and editions of Bach’s works, are indicated in the book by the symbol  followed by an identifying number. Also online are many additional music examples, as well as audio files that allow readers to hear every example, including those included within the present volume. Examples that are available only online are indicated by the symbol $.

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Chapter One

Emanuel Bach in Context No musician was ever more fortunate than Emanuel Bach. His father was the world’s greatest composer, keyboard player, and teacher of musicians. His older brother was the most brilliant improviser and keyboard virtuoso of his generation, and his youngest brother was the most influential composer of the next. Although his mother died a few months after his sixth birthday, his stepmother was a gifted musician with whom he evidently shared the manuscript book of keyboard music given her by his father. Born in Weimar, one of the most cultivated small towns in Germany, he grew up in Leipzig, site of the region’s leading university and a major trade center. A fortunate choice to leave Saxony for university studies in Prussia led him to its capital city Berlin, where he soon received a royal appointment at Europe’s most dynamic court. He spent three decades there, then concluded his career as municipal music director and cantor in Hamburg, one of northern Europe’s greatest and freest cultural and commercial centers. Bach did not fail to meet the expectations that might be held for the recipient of such good fortune. In a career lasting over half a century, he composed more than a thousand works of almost every type. His comprehensive treatise on keyboard playing went through several editions, helping to make him the most influential musician in northern Europe. Although he would be eclipsed in fame and reputation by four later generations of Viennese composers— Haydn, Mozart, Beethoven, and Schubert—his music was never entirely forgotten. Interest in it was renewed before the end of the nineteenth century—only a single long lifetime removed from that of people who had known him or heard him play. What might look like a happy accident of birth quickly reveals potential problems. No one born into such a family could hope to rise to the level of the father. Four or five gifted sons might strive mercilessly against one another, nourishing lifelong grudges and suffering stresses that could hardly be buried beneath conscious memory. Emanuel was probably fortunate not to be the first surviving son. His older brother Wilhelm Friedemann (1710–84), although a significant composer, was arguably an underachiever, as was certainly the

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next younger brother Johann Gottfried Bernhard (1715–39), who racked up debts and died young without leaving a single known composition.1 Another brother, Johann Christoph Friedrich (1732–95), was a prolific if minor composer, spending most of his life at the provincial court of Bückeburg in northwest Germany. Emanuel achieved far greater material and professional success than all of these, and his music and theoretical writings have been almost universally respected and admired.2 By the end of his life he held a position comparable to his father’s at Leipzig, after serving in a type of royal position to which Sebastian had only aspired.3 Clearly Emanuel possessed personal qualities of tact and sociability that contributed to his success first as a court musician, then as a municipal cantor and independent entrepreneur. Only his youngest brother and pupil, Johann Christian (1735–82), might be judged his equal in worldly success, perhaps even his superior in influence and historical significance: he became a royal musician in London and a role model for the child Mozart. Yet Christian died young, perhaps already having written as much interesting music as he was capable of producing, whereas Emanuel continued to compose provocative and original music to the end of his long life. Still, in the grand scheme of European music history, Emanuel Bach has never been ranked within the supreme tier of composers, whether according to influence or musical accomplishment. Praised in his own day for its originality, his music failed to enter the modern concert repertory as the latter was established during the nineteenth century. Was this a mere accident of history, of Emanuel’s having been active in the wrong part of Europe or writing for the wrong crowd? Did his music drop out of view because it merely seemed difficult or became unfashionable? Or does it truly fall short of the level reached by the music of his father and his younger Viennese Classical contemporaries, or even of composers of the next rank, such as Gluck and Boccherini? Comparisons of this type can be invidious, and direct answers to those questions will not be offered here. Like Friedemann, Emanuel is worth studying regardless of the exact value we attach to his works, for these are unique and varied, products of a brilliant family that is of historical interest in its own right. How the Bach family was able to nurture six generations of musicians, including three prolific and outwardly very successful composers, is a question worth pursuing—not least because the music of those three (Sebastian, Emanuel, and Christian) is so distinct. The basic facts of Emanuel’s biography, like his father’s, seem straightforward and have been duly laid out elsewhere.4 He was born in 1714 at Weimar, the seat of a minor Saxon duchy where his father was Concertmeister; Telemann, who had connections with Weimar and was older and better known at the time than Sebastian Bach, was his godfather. At the age of four, Emanuel went with the family to Cöthen after Sebastian was appointed Capellmeister to the reigning prince there. His mother, Maria Barbara Bach, died in 1720,

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emanuel bach in context 3 but within a year and a half Sebastian had married Anna Magdalena Wilcke, and in spring 1723 the family moved again, to Leipzig. Leipzig was the second city of Saxony, one of the more substantial components of the Holy Roman Empire; the ruling duke, whose residence was at Dresden, was also king of Poland. Leipzig was a leading commercial center as well as the seat of a university, which Emanuel attended after first studying at the Saint Thomas School; his father served at the latter as cantor (an educational post). Up to this point, Emanuel had followed in his older brother’s footsteps, but in 1734 he left Saxony, traveling to Frankfurt (Oder), a dominion of Prussia, in order to continue his studies at the Viadrina University. There he probably hoped to find patronage from members of the Prussian nobility and intelligentsia, who favored an institution close to the capital city Berlin. Emanuel drew attention by directing performances of various vocal and instrumental works, including several honoring the ruling Hohenzollern family. These presumably had their intended effect, for in 1738 he moved to Berlin. Although he was not formally named to the court of the young King Frederick II until after the latter’s coronation in 1740, Emanuel was probably already playing and perhaps composing for him for several years previously.5 In Berlin Emanuel worked at the center of a court and city famed throughout Europe for the brilliance of their music and intellectual climate. He remained in royal service until 1767, alternating with several other musicians as keyboard player in the king’s famous private concerts. A rotating schedule placed Emanuel on call for several weeks at a time; he was apparently free at other periods. He brought out six keyboard sonatas, dedicated to the king, in 1742—the first of many publications—and in 1744 he married Johanna Maria Dannemann, whom he described as the daughter of a wineseller.6 Her commercial background might have been a factor in his establishing what was, in effect, a household music publishing business, selling manuscript as well as printed copies of Bach’s compositions. But in this Emanuel was also following his father’s model, although the small size of the family (and a wife and children who were not musicians) meant that he relied throughout his life on hired copyists. During the 1740s the couple had three children, including an artist son, named for his paternal grandfather, who showed promise but died young in Rome.7 An older son, Johann Adam, was a lawyer who outlived his father by only a year; a daughter, Anna Carolina Philippina, would carry on the family business into the early nineteenth century. The Seven Years’ War, which began in 1756, severely disrupted life in Berlin. When in 1758 the city was threatened by Russian and Swedish troops, the family took refuge in Zerbst, about ninety miles away, for several months.8 This, however, appears to have been the most serious inconvenience to occur to Bach over the course of his life, apart from the regular commuting between Berlin and Potsdam that his position required, and about which he complained.9 After 1750 his duties as royal chamber musician did not prevent Emanuel from

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undertaking increasingly ambitious publishing projects or from participating (probably) in increasing numbers of public concerts—even during the war, when the court itself almost ceased to function. After obtaining his dismissal, he moved in spring 1768 to Hamburg, where he served for the remainder of his life (until 1788) as director of music in the city’s churches. He was also cantor of the Johanneum, an educational institution that still exists. While fulfilling these official duties he continued to compose for, direct, and play in public concerts. These included performances of oratorios as well as a concert series that featured historical repertory, including selections by his father and Handel.10 He also continued his publishing career, issuing not only more music but further editions of his Essay on the True Manner of Playing Keyboard Instruments (henceforth, his Versuch), whose two volumes had appeared at Berlin and were revised at Hamburg.11 Emanuel’s career mirrored in its broad outlines that of his father. Both went from court to city while retaining a court title, in Emanuel’s case that of honorary Capellmeister to King Frederick’s sister Princess Anna Amalia of Prussia. Also like Sebastian, Emanuel produced distinct types of music at different stages of his career, reflecting his changing positions and personal circumstances. In his youth he composed vocal as well as instrumental compositions, but, apart from one recently discovered work, only instrumental music survives from before the 1740s. During his first decade and a half at Berlin, he composed chiefly sonatas and concertos for keyboard instruments, as well as smaller numbers of solo and trio sonatas for instrumental ensemble. Later at Berlin he diversified his output, composing additional types of instrumental music: many smaller keyboard pieces, as well as sinfonias and a new type of concert piece for keyboard and orchestra, which he called a sonatina. During the same period he also wrote increasing numbers of vocal works, chiefly songs or lieder. With his move to Hamburg, Bach practically reinvented himself as a vocal composer, composing and arranging liturgical church music as well as oratorios and similar works for concert use. He also continued to write songs and all sorts of instrumental pieces, many of them for publication or public concerts. The complete corpus of Bach’s music is difficult to delineate, for many works were adaptations, revisions, or arrangements of existing compositions. At Hamburg, moreover, his job as a church musician led him to edit, arrange, and adapt music by other composers for performance during services. Indeed, the line between original composition and adaptation is blurred in many church works of the Hamburg years that are, to a greater or lesser degree, pastiches, comprising music from several sources, sometimes also incorporating parody movements in which new text was attached to older compositions. Emanuel’s reworking of music by others, including Sebastian Bach and Telemann, was an extension of the revisions and arrangements that he carried out on his own music. The changes could be as small as the addition of a few slurs and

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emanuel bach in context 5 dynamic markings, or as large as the rescoring of a little keyboard piece as a movement in a sinfonia or ensemble sonatina. (For an outline of Bach’s works, see 1.1.) Bach’s music has probably been cataloged more times than that of any other composer. Two numbered lists of works are in current use, and several others are frequently cited by scholars. The present study usually employs “W” numbers from the thematic catalog published in 1905 by Alfred Wotquenne; works not in Wotquenne are cited by “H” numbers from the 1989 catalog by E. Eugene Helm. Both are out of date, but a more complete and accurate multivolume catalog has begun to appear. Reference is also made to the socalled Nachlassverzeichnis (NV), the posthumously published catalog of Bach’s estate that included a list of his works, specifying the date and place of composition for many of them. Dates and places of composition in what follows are from NV unless otherwise specified. Many works remain available only in unpublished manuscripts or in early prints, but a collected edition (CPEBCW) is under way, and virtually all of the music not yet published is accessible to scholars in one form or another. (See 1.2 for guidance on various practical matters: work lists, including the new thematic catalog, as well as sources, editions, and performance.) Bach worked in all the major genres of his time except for opera, making original contributions to each. Even the many arrangements, parodies, and the like, although not involving entirely new music, were an important sphere of creative activity. A few genres, however, are unique either to Bach—his own inventions—or to where he happened to work. What are here termed “modulating rondos” appear chiefly in a few late sets of published keyboard pieces (see chap. 10); the ensemble sonatinas (chap. 9) represent a sort of divertimento for keyboard and orchestra that Bach cultivated for a few years late in his Berlin period, probably for concerts. Among his Hamburg vocal works, the church pieces for the inaugurations of pastors are a special type of what today is usually termed a cantata. Commissioned when new preachers were appointed to the main Hamburg churches, they are comparable to the works that Sebastian wrote for the installations of professors and civic officials at Leipzig. Bach’s music covers fifty-seven years of dated compositions; of his major contemporaries, only Telemann had a longer active career. Bach wrote keyboard pieces throughout his life, and these form the most numerous category of his works, especially when one counts the various types of ensemble composition with written-out (obbligato) keyboard parts. Other types of music tend to be concentrated within particular periods. Most of the works for one or two instruments with basso continuo, that is, solo and trio sonatas, are, as one would expect, relatively early, whereas the accompanied-keyboard compositions, a Classical type, are relatively late. Only during his last two decades did Bach write a significant number of major vocal works. Yet the large number of these and other vocal compositions belies the common view of Bach as

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primarily a writer of instrumental music. Songs (lieder) make up the second most numerous category of his compositions, and the Hamburg church music, including most of his larger sacred works, can no longer be dismissed as unimportant; that was possible only until the rediscovery in 1999 of a large archive containing the missing sources for most of these works. Whether these compositions are as significant musically as the better-known instrumental ones will be considered in the following chapters. They were certainly important from a biographical point of view, and they must be examined thoroughly in any evaluation of Bach’s development as a composer. As becomes clear merely from the list of genres in which he worked—from trio sonatas to lieder—Bach’s career coincided with the transition between Baroque and Classical styles, even heralding the Romantic. Of course, this is a modern way of viewing music history. Bach himself was aware of historical changes in musical style, yet, writing in 1753, he placed an important transition not during his own career but his father’s;12 he refers to a shift in emphasis from “harmony,” that is, counterpoint, to “melody.”13 This corresponds to what is now viewed as an evolution from a polyphonic “Baroque” style to a more homophonic galant or pre-Classical one, with Emanuel’s music spanning the transition. In the past, this way of understanding music history probably encouraged an understanding of Bach as an “Interesting Historical Figure”— to quote a phrase that has been applied to Domenico Scarlatti.14 But by the bicentenary of Bach’s death—1988, which saw a number of appreciative publications—the traditional view of Bach as a “transitional” figure was being questioned, if only because it automatically made him seem of “inferior rank” by comparison to the better-known composers on either side of him, especially J. S. Bach and Haydn.15 Lurking behind such a view was an old-fashioned teleological concept of musical evolution in which one monolithic style (“Baroque”) gives way to another (“Classical”) as part of a triumphant progress toward a perfected present-day music. Bach’s instrumental compositions have been admired for their incipient Classical sonata-allegro forms, and some of the same compositions have been praised as proto-Romantic outpourings. His songs have made Bach a seminal figure in histories of the German lied—as one study put it, in the “rebirth of strophic song.”16 Today few would conclude from such estimations that Bach’s sonatas or songs are worth hearing because they prefigured those of Beethoven and subsequent composers. But one continues to see characterizations of his works in general terms, without reference to the wide breadth of his output. Writers on his keyboard music have tended to focus on a few examples, especially several pieces that Bach published near the end of his career; these have been repeatedly reprinted, as also a small selection of his songs. These may indeed be his most original, most valuable compositions. But to focus on these is to judge Bach’s output based on only the portion he was able to publish, and on the even smaller portion that remained in circulation after

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emanuel bach in context 7 his death. That these particular works remained known might be only because they happened to meet the expectations of his immediate successors in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries (1.3 lists works that were available in nineteenth- and early twentieth-century editions). It is, of course, the fate of minor composers to be remembered chiefly for a few works that either deviate from the conventions of their time or fulfill them perfectly. Was Emanuel Bach such a composer? His older brother Friedemann was arguably a Kleinmeister of the first sort, leaving behind a few brilliantly idiosyncratic works. His youngest brother Christian, on the other hand, composed sonatas, symphonies, and operas that are perfectly suave, often touching, but rarely very challenging for listener or performer. Unlike his brothers, Emanuel has become a symbol for an age, or at least a moment, in the history of music— the one we know as the Empfindsamkeit. The term properly means something like “sentiment,” but it is now applied to certain strongly expressive examples of mid-eighteenth-century music. The idea that Bach’s music represents an empfindsamer Stil has been encouraged by his own oft-quoted admonition “to play from the soul, not like a trained bird.”17 Burney confirmed the idea for the English-speaking world by finding that Bach, as a player, was capable of “every style; though he confines himself chiefly to the expressive.” This was part of the famous account of Bach at the clavichord as one that “not only played, but looked like one inspired”18—a classical reference to the idea of an oracle possessed by a demonic force. Today Bach’s admonition has been reduced to a slogan, the underlying idea a cliché if it was not already so when he wrote it. That expression should be paramount in musical performance, or that a performer must feel moved in order to move others, was hardly a new idea.19 Even Bach, in calling one famous late composition C. P. E. Bachs Empfindungen (C. P. E. Bach’s Sentiments, W. 80), may have used the expression ironically, with a touch of skepticism. The piece, for keyboard with violin accompaniment, comprises a “dark” fantasia followed by a disarmingly light if not trivial sonata movement.20 At about the same time, Bach wrote that although “music has long been called a language of feelings,” the analogy between musical and verbal expression is understood only “darkly”—the word dark (dunkel) signifying things that are obscure or incomprehensible (on Bach’s “dark” sentiments, see 1.4).21 Not all Bach’s compositions are unusually expressive; some, such as the little keyboard piece that was widely anthologized as the so-called Solfeggietto (W. 117/2), are even, in principle, finger exercises. Sebastian Bach (like his predecessor Kuhnau) had already published collections of keyboard music under the title Clavierübung, which literally means “keyboard practice” or “exercise.” New to Emanuel’s generation, however, was the systematic working out of fingering and other technical problems: a quasi-scientific approach to performance problems characteristic of thought during the Enlightenment. Bach devotes the lengthy first chapter of his Versuch to fingering, including a

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8

chapter one

detailed account of how to play scales in every key. Yet unlike his father, who drew motives out of fingering patterns in works like the Inventions, Emanuel seems rarely to have found musical inspiration in technique as such.22 In this he differed as well from his older Berlin colleague Quantz and from his brother Friedemann.23 Rather, by the time he was completing volume 1 of the Versuch, Emanuel was reminding his readers of the centrality of expression with his famous advice in the final chapter. Was Bach’s remark a sideways reproach to his older brother or his senior colleague? There is no evidence that he ever held Quantz in anything but respect, and in 1753 a break with Friedemann probably had not yet occurred, if indeed it ever did.24 By the mid-eighteenth century, however, there must have been amateurs as well as professionals who, dazzled by the fashion for “research” into instrumental technique, had to be reminded that the latter was not the end of music but only the beginning. Emanuel’s music is usually more restrained, from the technical point of view, than that of Sebastian and Friedemann. Many pieces, however, are equally restrained from the point of view of expression; few reach the extremes of discontinuity or surprise that characterize Bach’s most famous exercises in the empfindsamer Stil. The precise meaning of this last expression has never been clear. Like Empfindsamkeit, it is a modern term, at least as now applied to eighteenthcentury compositions. Typically, these are works from northern Germany that achieve intense expression through a combination of shock, surprise, and general confounding of present-day stylistic expectations for music of the period. The “shock” might be something as simple as a modest chromatic modulation or a fermata on a dissonant chord—individually, nothing that would be out of place in an aria by Hasse or another contemporary of Bach. But when a composition comprises numerous such moments, the character of the whole is no longer galant as we understand the term today.25 The opening Moderato of the Sixth Württemberg Sonata (W. 49/6), a relatively early example, must already have startled those unaccustomed to such things, threatening to fall into incoherence in any but the most sensitive performance ($ex. 1.1). More certainly “empfindsamer” in the modern sense are the late rondos and free fantasias of the Kenner und Liebhaber series, whose broken-off melodies, sudden enharmonic modulations, and other surprises have led commentators to investigate their “nonconstancy,” that is, their deliberate brushing with incoherence ($ex. 1.2).26 (For more on the empfindsamer Stil, see 1.5.) Bach’s innovation in these pieces was not the mere use of discontinuous or “nonconstant” music, which had been customary for more than a century in recitative, among other genres. What was striking was to incorporate such music into sonatas and other compositions that usually employed more homogeneous writing, and to do so repeatedly. Sebastian Bach, following Vivaldi, had used such writing in his Chromatic Fantasia (BWV 903/1).27 Indeed any example of the fantasia—at least the free or improvisatory type—was expected

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emanuel bach in context 9 to include music of this type. But with Emanuel such music was no longer confined to ostensibly improvisatory pieces. Nor was it merely a type of bizzarria used for special effect in the occasional instrumental recitative incorporated into a sonata or concerto, as with Vivaldi or, closer to home, Quantz and his pupil King Frederick II of Prussia.28 With Bach the irregular rhythm and harmony characteristic of recitative became a normal element of writing in more deliberately “composed” genres. This gave sonatas and other compositions a “speaking” quality, making them a metaphorical form of musical rhetoric,29 but Bach and his contemporaries never put it that way explicitly. Rhetoric is often mentioned in discussions of eighteenth-century music, to the point that it has become a cliché. Bach’s music has also been described as invoking the “musical picturesque” or involving a high level of “drama” or “agitation.” Yet all these are mere metaphors when applied to instrumental music— or even to vocal works that are not in fact theatrical or concerned with actual storm or stress.30 Annette Richards has attached a more potent term, the “sublime,” to some of Bach’s late works; as a critical category, the sublime enjoyed high stature in late-eighteenth-century European aesthetics. Richards finds the “free-ranging ideas, metrical liberties, and striking juxtapositions”—fantasy or empfindsamer elements—in Bach’s music akin to the “irregular meters, difficult syntax, and emotive language” of the poet Klopstock, an acquaintance of the composer.31 Klopstock has been likened in turn to the ancient Greek poet Pindar, famed for his mythic themes and difficult language. Bach’s contemporaries evidently found something equally strong and difficult in his music, as when the critic and amateur composer Krause compared Bach to Milton.32 Others described Emanuel’s music as “original,” which, however, could have implied criticism as well as admiration for its singularity or irregularity; the latter made his music distinctive but also hard to understand, even irrational. For all their fulsomeness, contemporary characterizations of Bach’s style tended to be so vague or general as to be almost meaningless except as indications of the high regard in which it was viewed. Even if Bach himself intended his setting of Klopstock’s Morgengesang (W. 239) to be “a quintessential expression of the sublime,” this relatively small-scale work presents, as Richards acknowledges, “quite another musical vision of sublimity than that expressed in the Heilig,” a massive liturgical composition for double choir and orchestra.33 Contemporaries also praised both works for their “simplicity,” a characteristic seemingly at odds with the difficulty or irregularity that Krause sensed in Bach’s music. A reviewer found “prevailing simplicity” in the Morgengesang,34 whereas Bach’s acquaintance and fellow composer Georg (Jiří Antonín) Benda praised the Heilig for combining the “greatest simplicity” with the “deepest art.”35 This last expression was itself a term of art, signifiying fugue or counterpoint—something that was rarely praiseworthy in the musical aesthetics of the late eighteenth century. The Heilig ends with a fugue, but its most famous passage—the one that Benda probably had in mind when he referred to its

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10 chapter one simplicity—is its opening, in which the two choirs alternate in a straightforward homophonic texture (see chap. 12). We might not apply the term “simple” to the enharmonic modulations of the passage. But Bach’s use of elliptical chromatic harmony within a homophonic texture was evidently heard as a striking and novel effect, hardly capable of precise verbal description by listeners who lacked our technical vocabulary for analyzing it. Benda, however, probably would not have used the same adjectives to describe the equally striking music of some of Bach’s earlier instrumental works, such as the Sixth Württemberg Sonata or certain keyboard concertos and symphonies. Although these sometimes approach the Heilig in their harmonic juxtapositions, their complex texture and irregular rhythm are hardly “simple”; it was probably the combination of uncomplicated texture with a high-blown literary or liturgical text that led Benda to describe these works as he did. Rhetorical, sentimental, sublime, picturesque: that modern writers continue to apply these essentially metaphorical expressions to Bach’s music suggests that there is something uncanny about the latter that cannot be explained in purely musical terms. Evidently, to describe this music adequately one must identify in it some extramusical expressive aspiration; perhaps, too, some of Bach’s compositions are formally incoherent, not entirely comprehensible as music alone. Bach might have disagreed. That he was skeptical of this line of thought could be inferred from the rarity with which he used this type of aestheticizing language in his own writings. Nor did he encourage the programmizing interpretations of his music by the poet Gerstenberg (see chap. 8). He ignored Moses Mendelssohn’s recommendation for “naivety”—which sounds like a younger contemporary, Blake—in his lieder; these are more complex in harmony, texture, and rhythm than those of other mid-century composers.36 Bach’s contributions to music theory, far from consisting of impressionistic criticism or philosophizing about aesthetics, include hard-headed analyses of difficult figured-bass progressions, as well as manuscript pages full of carefully worked out modulations between remote keys.37 Overlooked in most recent, generally laudatory, treatments of Bach’s music are problems that have been discovered in it by some of the most thoughtful commentators on eighteenth-century music. Charles Rosen found Emanuel’s compositions “often incoherent”; the “most striking passages . . . exist in and of themselves, with little relation to any conception of the whole work.”38 In this view, only Haydn, Mozart, and Beethoven succeeded in integrating the various musical forms and varieties of expression favored by Bach’s contemporaries; the result was Classical sonata form. Rosen’s focus on the integration of local effects into coherent large-scale form is no longer fashionable, and rigorous musical analysis is now often seen as something of merely technical interest. But what we call the form of a composition is a plan or metaphor for our experience in hearing it. The form or design of a piece expresses something more profound than anything that might be expressed by a single chord

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emanuel bach in context 11 progression or melodic figure. To put in words what a musical design expresses is more difficult, however, than saying that a dissonant chord expresses pain or that a graceful melisma is a representation of flight. If Emanuel’s forms really are incoherent, as Rosen suggests, this could be because they were meant to express something different from the equipoise—the reconciliation of passion or even violence with something like peace or reason—that is expressed in many of the greatest examples of the Classical style. But it could also be that Emanuel’s most ambitious works fail to achieve the complete control of every compositional parameter that Rosen found in the music not only of the three Viennese classicists but of Sebastian Bach. Peter Williams raises a related issue in his critique of “the greatest weakness of Friedemann’s (and Emanuel’s) music: its feeble harmonic tension. True, there is often some quirky harmony and derivative chromatics, but such is not real ‘tension.’”39 “Real” tension would presumably be that found in their father’s music, where remote modulations are usually integrated into large symmetrical designs, typically occurring either in the middle or as climaxes toward the end of a composition. Sebastian’s compositions may be replete with strange chromatic progressions, but the latter are almost a sort of motivic material— not isolated surprises—and they usually can be reduced to movement around the circle of fifths; sudden enharmonic transitions are rare except in recitative. It is probably true that some of the remote tonal excursions in Emanuel’s famous late fantasias and rondos have an arbitrary quality. On the other hand, a number of his songs approach Sebastian’s chorale settings in their convincing handling of ingenious chromatic or enharmonic progressions. Certain late works, including movements from the Hamburg sinfonias, as well as arias in the Resurrection Cantata (see chaps. 10 and 12), surely generate genuine tension at the formal or structural level as they negotiate mediant relationships more characteristic of Schubert or late Beethoven than Sebastian Bach. To some degree, negative impressions of Emanuel’s music may simply reflect disappointment that it does not do what Sebastian’s did, or what that of Haydn, Mozart, and Beethoven would do after 1770. Yet Rosen is right that some passages merely tread water, as when certain pieces lapse into routine diatonic sequences after an initially arresting opening theme. Despite this sort of occasional failure of imagination, which might be found in the works of any composer, is it possible that Emanuel’s music achieves something fundamentally different from what happens in the great works of the late Baroque and the Viennese Classical style? Could the peculiar intensity of the local drama of some of these works—the dramatic dialogues between soloist and ripieno in the outer movements of certain concertos, or the astonishing modulatory strokes of the late rondos and fantasias—have been achieved within a more integrated or more “coherent” style? It does not suffice to say merely that Emanuel’s music shocks in order to express things that are sublime or picturesque, or that it is an acquired taste.

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12 chapter one During his lifetime, a style was emerging in Vienna that would find ways of producing astonishing expressive effects within musical designs that were, as Rosen has demonstrated, unprecedented in both length and their degree of integration of every detail within a rational design. The first movement of Beethoven’s Symphony no. 3 (“Eroica”) was not composed until fifteen years after Bach’s death, but Emanuel was still alive when Mozart wrote Don Giovanni, and he was in a position to know many of Haydn’s symphonies and quartets. We might excuse a son of J. S. Bach for not looking too carefully at such things, yet we might also expect him to have understood his father’s rather different achievement in works such as the Art of Fugue and the opening chorus of the Saint Matthew Passion. It is hard, however, to know how well a son comprehends the totality of his father’s work, even when professing admiration for it, as Emanuel did. Sebastian’s biographer Forkel, who knew Friedemann and corresponded with Emanuel, wrote that each deliberately set out to create his own manner of writing. They did so, says Forkel, because they understood that they could not equal Sebastian “in his style.”40 Their response to Sebastian’s music would have been a product of their training and upbringing, which is considered in the next chapter in relation to Emanuel’s earliest suriviving works.

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Chapter Two

A Student in Leipzig We know more about Emanuel Bach’s training and early compositions than about any other son or pupil of Sebastian. According to NV, ten keyboard sonatas and sonatinas, a suite, and two concertos, as well as seven “trios,” survive from his Leipzig years. In addition to a number of further compositions not listed in NV, we also have Emanuel’s testimony about how his father taught performance and composition, not to mention school records and other documents from Emanuel’s early years. Yet these traces are of limited use for understanding how Bach learned his craft and found his distinctive musical voice. All the music acknowledged in NV as products of his Leipzig years was reworked during the following decade at Berlin, and it is unclear how much of it survives in its original form. His authorship of the pieces not listed in NV is uncertain, and the information that he provided late in life about his father’s teaching methods could have been idealized or otherwise slanted—nor did he explicitly indicate that he was describing his own training. As for his personal or psychological development, we know little beyond the bare records of his attendance at the Saint Thomas school in Leipzig, following the family’s arrival in spring 1723, and at the Leipzig university from fall 1731. His life prior to the move to Leipzig is a complete mystery, and we cannot even guess how he reacted to the death of his mother when he was six or to the introduction of a younger stepmother into the household less than two years later. Emanuel said essentially nothing about either woman in his autobiography, although he traced his genealogy as a musician back through both parents, including his maternal grandfather Johann Michael Bach, an organist and composer1—without noting that his stepmother was a brilliant singer from a musical family as well. Any attempt today to reconstruct Emanuel’s psychological development is bound to involve anachronistic projections onto the long-gone type of earlymodern family in which he grew up. Whether the alleged antagonism between him and Friedemann went back to their childhood, and whether it had any bearing on their musical development, is unknowable.2 Equally inscrutable is the effect of growing up as the godson of Telemann, whose middle name he

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14 chapter two bore. Until his death in 1767, Telemann was the most influential composer in northern Germany, and Bach eventually succeeded him as director of music in Hamburg. But it is unclear whether the two had even met prior to Emanuel’s visit there in 1751 (and even then no meeting is explicitly documented). Still, it could have been a source of pride and confidence for a growing child to think not only that his father was the world’s greatest organist but that one of those responsible for his spiritual well-being was its most respected composer.3 Emanuel left Leipzig to continue university studies in Frankfurt on the Oder in September 1734, about six months after his twentieth birthday. The only previous event of any significance in his life, so far as we know, was his unsuccessful audition for the position of organist in Naumburg a year earlier. His examination at the city’s principal church of Saint Wenzel would have served as a test of everything he had learned up to this date, including organ playing and improvisation, if not also composition. Yet although two other pupils of J. S. Bach also competed, the position went to one Johann Christian Kluge, who would, however, be succeeded by Emanuel’s brother-in-law Johann Christoph Altnickol.4 Thus Emanuel grew up alongside fellow pupils of his father, expecting to compete with them for his livelihood. These same musicians would also be expected to cooperate professionally, exchanging music and evaluating organs together (as J. S. Bach did in 1746 when he examined the Naumburg instrument). Presumably they shared common elements in their training, and presumably we can deduce something about Emanuel’s studies from what we know of others of his generation—yet these are presumptions, and we have hints too of differences in their musical upbringing. Friedemann and Emanuel were composing substantially different types of music within a few years of leaving home, and only for Friedemann does a complete “little keyboard book” survive—the famous one containing Sebastian’s autographs of the inventions and other pieces.5 Emanuel might have had a little keyboard book of his own, and little pieces that survive in later copies might have belonged to it.6 But his earliest studies are documented only indirectly, by a few entries in his stepmother’s second keyboard book—the Clavierbüchlein vor Anna Magdalena Bach begun in 1725 (P 225)—and by a few comparable pieces in other manuscripts. A famous letter written late in life, in response to questions about Sebastian’s teaching, constitutes the only other firsthand evidence about Emanuel’s studies.7 According to this letter, Sebastian’s pupils began their studies of the “clavier” with his own music. Composition lessons began with figured bass realization in four parts (skipping species counterpoint), then proceeded to the harmonization of chorale melodies. Evidently there was no instruction in the “invention of ideas” (Erfindung der Gedancken); either one had it or one did not, and Sebastian taught his pupils composition only if he perceived some “genius” (eine Genie) for invention in their work. This last point may reflect some retrospection on Emanuel’s part, for “genius” (like “originality”) was a word much

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a student in leipzig 15 used by his younger contemporaries; Sebastian might have expressed the idea somewhat differently. The emphasis on chorales, which began with the addition of inner voices and proceeded to the composing of new bass lines, is borne out by the numerous examples of chorale harmonizations in both two and four parts that survive from the Bach circle. Not least among these are the settings for treble and figured bass that Sebastian edited in the “Schemelli” songbook, as well as Emanuel’s famous editions of his father’s four-part settings.8 Anything beyond this is speculation. Emanuel may, like Friedemann, have begun to receive keyboard pieces for study around the age of nine, either sharing his older brother’s little book or using the first book created for their stepmother. The latter volume, begun in 1722, now consists chiefly of early drafts of Sebastian’s French Suites, but many pages removed at an early date might have contained teaching pieces, like those that remain in the better-known second book for Anna Magdalena. These include little minuets and polonaises as well as what may be six early compositions by Emanuel. One of these, a Solo per il Cembalo (Solo for keyboard), recurs in revised form as the first movement of his Sonata W. 65/7; even its early form is a fairly sophisticated composition. Four shorter pieces in binary form, which Emanuel wrote out himself, are also probably his, and at least one further piece is an elaboration of something attributed elsewhere to Emanuel as well.9 What else may survive from Emanuel’s student years at Leipzig? A cheerful but empty little musette and an inept polonaise in Anna Magdalena’s second book are unlikely to be his; two alternating minuets in F preserved elsewhere are attributed to both him and Friedemann.10 Emanuel’s early copy of Friedemann’s minuet F. 25/2 gives it in an otherwise unknown form; this was later mistakenly attributed to Sebastian (as BWV 970), but it was probably Friedemann’s original version of a piece that he afterward revised.11 It could be that Sebastian’s pupils routinely shared certain pieces, possibly learned by rote, which they might eventually elaborate into more finished compositions. Or perhaps several pupils would compete to produce settings of given chorales or dance tunes, or to improvise alternative realizations of common bass lines. The most advanced students might have contributed individual movements to more substantial pieces; if these were composed according to some given formal plan, this could explain the close parallels between the obbligato-keyboard sonatas BWV 1020 and 1031, both attributed doubtfully to Sebastian, the first also to Emanuel (on some additional aspects of Emanuel’s upbringing, see 2.1).

Training The education of a musician naturally includes practical matters such as how to sing, play an instrument, and read and write music. But a

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16 chapter two professional also needs to learn to organize his life and possessions and to cultivate good relationships with colleagues and employers. In all these things, Sebastian provided a model for his pupils, and Emanuel learned his lessons particularly well. Apparently alone of the Bach sons, he also inherited his father’s interest in collecting—books as well as music in Sebastian’s case, art (paintings and drawings) in Emanuel’s. Collecting was not unrelated to their professional activities, which included performing music by others as well as themselves. A music director in particular, whether at a court or in a church, needed to work out routines not only for writing original music in a timely fashion when required but also for acquiring music by others, copying out performing parts as needed, and organizing rehearsals and performances. Scores and parts had to be neatly organized, so that works composed for specific purposes—concerts, church services, commissions—would be readily available for use on subsequent occasions or for sale in manuscript copies. Eighteenth-century composers, even those working for major courts or religious establishments, normally handled these tasks on their own or with the help of their families and pupils. Unless they were bound to compose music for the exclusive use of a patron (like Quantz at King Frederick’s court), enterprising composers could enhance their income by selling their own works. These still often circulated in manuscript copies, but the eighteenth century saw a steady expansion in the production and sale of printed music. Emanuel followed his father in issuing music in both manuscript and print formats, sometimes publishing works through others but also self-publishing from his own home. For one growing up in the Bach household, it might have seemed the most ordinary thing in the world to watch one’s father composing large scores every Monday or Tuesday for performance in church the following weekend, then to be joined by other pupils and family members in copying out performing parts; or to see cleanly etched metal plates leaving the house and coming back weeks later grimy with ink, accompanied by stacks of printed sheets of music on expensive paper that had to be sorted and folded. Emanuel was nine years old when Sebastian began regularly directing church music at Leipzig in 1723. Two years later Sebastian brought out the first installment of the Clavierübung (the keyboard partita BWV 825), and by 1729 Sebastian was directing the Collegium Musicum. Each of these undertakings involved activities that must have been the subject of much attention and conversation within the household. Four decades would pass before Emanuel began producing his own church music on a regular basis. Already in 1731, however, he produced his first printed work, the little Minuet W. 111, using the same process that he would employ in the 1740s and 1750s for his first real publications; five of these (W. 11, 25, 48, 161, and 177) were issued through a firm also used by his father (Schmid of Nuremberg).

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a student in leipzig 17

Keyboard Instruments and Technique Of course we are most curious about the nature of Emanuel’s practical instruction. In the Versuch Emanuel relates his father’s report of having pioneered the regular use of the thumb in keyboard playing. This, he says, had been necessitated by a shift in musical style that had taken place during his father’s— not his own—lifetime.12 Indeed, modern “thumb-under” scale fingerings do not seem to have been widely adopted prior to Sebastian’s generation, nor did they immediately replace earlier types of “paired” fingering. Sebastian still calls for the latter in one of two pieces provided with written-out fingerings in Friedemann’s Keyboard Book, and in his Versuch Emanuel gives paired fingerings as options for scales in the simpler keys. Whether the choice of fingerings has any implications for articulation he does not say; the implication is that they do not, for elsewhere Emanuel indicates that unslurred notes are held for only half their written values. This rule, although perhaps unduly schematic, implies a generally nonlegato approach regardless of the fingering used, in scales as in other figuration.13 Unfortunately, Emanuel assumes that the reader knows what he means by the “complete change in musical taste” that took place before his time. The easiest interpretation is to equate this with the abandonment of counterpoint for simpler galant textures. Yet Sebastian’s music was notorious for its oldfashioned complexity, and as Emanuel mentions the use of “difficult keys” in the same paragraph, he must also have had in mind the broadening range of tonalities and modulations in music after 1700. He did not need to mention his father’s contributions in this regard; many of his readers would have known of the Well-Tempered Clavier, which cannot be played successfully without drawing on every imaginable type of fingering. Emanuel probably took it for granted (as musicians tend to do) that the technical demands of music had been generally increasing, perhaps also that music was now more expressive than ever. Both ideas were reinforced by the popularity of opera seria, with its virtuoso yet affective writing for both singers and players. Emanuel claimed in his autobiography to have had no instructor (Lehrmeister) in composition or keyboard playing other than his father. The term could mean more than “teacher”: model, mentor, master; hence it allowed Emanuel to discount any lessons received from his stepmother or older brother. We have no evidence for these, but it would be surprising if they never took place.14 Unlike Friedemann, Emanuel took no violin lessons in nearby Merseburg with Johann Gottlieb Graun; whether he learned to play any nonkeyboard instruments with proficiency is uncertain. Johann Friedrich Reichardt later claimed that Emanuel’s “orchestral works reveal in general a certain lack of genuine understanding of string and wind instruments.” Reichardt attributed this to the fact that Emanuel, with whom he says he was friendly, had been left-handed and therefore trained to play these instruments

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18 chapter two backward. This may, however, be a joke, and in any case the memoir in which it appeared was published more than forty years after Reichardt met Bach in Hamburg.15 It would be hazardous to draw from this any conclusions about Emanuel as a violinist. Equally uncertain must be our estimation of Bach’s capabilities as an organist. In 1772 he told Burney that he had “lost the use of the pedals” through lack of practice,16 but it remains uncertain how accomplished an organ player he had ever been. Even for Sebastian’s pupils, access to instruments must have been limited, and even ersatz organs—harpsichords and clavichords fitted with pedalboards—must have been hard to come by. Sebastian himself probably developed his unprecedented pedal technique only after first gaining an organist position on the basis of other talents. We have no reports of Emanuel’s virtuosity on the instrument, and his few works explicitly composed for the organ reveal no remarkable pedal parts, although this is also true of Friedemann, who was a recognized master of the instrument.17 Annette Richards and David Yearsley find evidence for accomplishment in the fact that Emanuel auditioned for positions as organist not only in 1734 but at Zittau in 1753. A letter of 1755 by Friedrich Nicolai, moreover, suggests that Bach’s organ playing combined “the deepest secrets of art with everything that taste treasures.”18 But this does not necessarily imply extensive use of the pedals, and even if Emanuel could at one point play his father’s great organ works, these left no imprint on his own music. At the end of his career, Emanuel was known exclusively as a player of his own music on stringed keyboard instruments. Thanks to his praise for the clavichord in the Versuch, Emanuel has always been specially associated with that instrument. In addition to Burney’s famous report of Bach’s improvisation at the clavichord, his clavichord playing is mentioned in reviews and other contemporary accounts.19 Yet what Bach actually wrote was that the clavichord is the instrument on which a player is best judged (beurtheilen).20 First published in 1753, this implied that the clavichord was the most valuable instrument for private practice and perhaps for teaching—but when did Bach reach that conclusion? His father’s biographer Forkel later wrote that Sebastian “liked best to play upon the clavichord.”21 Although the accuracy of this statement has been questioned,22 Joel Speerstra has argued that some of the elder Bach’s most important pedaliter music was written for the clavichord—and not merely for practice or as preparation for performances on organ (for more on the pedal clavichord, see 2.2).23 To enjoy playing on an instrument is not the same as composing expressly for it, however. Sebastian’s works are remote in style from music of succeeding generations that was clearly intended for the clavichord.24 Moreover, to play the clavichord music of Emanuel’s generation involves techniques and interpretive approaches different from those appropriate to his father’s more contrapuntal music.

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a student in leipzig 19 As pupils, Emanuel and other members of his generation may usually have practiced on small, so-called fretted clavichords. But these could not have been regarded as optimal instruments for any sort of music, as the use of the same string for up to four notes made chromatic passages difficult to play and prevented the use of certain chords and ornaments. Unfretted clavichords had been known since at least the late seventeenth century, but the large type required by Emanuel’s mature keyboard works cannot have been widely available before the second half of the eighteenth century. The famous Silbermann instrument on which Emanuel played for Burney and others at Hamburg was evidently acquired only in the mid-1740s. That Bach used it for so long strongly implies that it was unfretted, at least through most of its compass; if not, many passages in his music would have been unplayable as written (for more on Bach’s Silbermann clavichord, see 2.3). The lack of evidence concerning the fretted or unfretted character of Sebastian’s clavichords makes it impossible to draw any inferences about the instruments of this type in the Bach household. But a student setting off for studies far from home, or even a young professional striking out in an unfamiliar city without a regular position, is unlikely to have carried with him a large instrument approaching five feet in length, though that is the type that Emanuel’s keyboard music requires for optimal performance. Hence he is likely at first to have regarded the small clavichords available to him as practice instruments, substitutes for a harpsichord or organ. Bach’s earliest keyboard works, although not highly contrapuntal, are in some respects close in idiom to his father’s. Not only the early concertos but the first few sonatas (e.g., W. 65/1 and 62/1) incorporate passagework similar to what one finds in his father’s concertos and inventions. The same cannot be said of Emanuel’s music from the 1740s and later. This suggests that in the interim he developed an approach to the keyboard distinct from his father’s—one that was, not incidentally, suited to the clavichord. The latter favors a homophonic, melody-oriented texture, and to play such music well requires a distinctive technique in which the accompaniment (usually played by the left hand) is subordinated to the melody through a lower dynamic level. Dissonances and especially appoggiaturas in either hand can also be stressed dynamically; this, rather than the more global dynamics of later music, may be the chief effects of “light and shade” described by both Quantz and Bach as an essential expressive element of the new style.25 To produce these effects on the clavichord requires sophisticated manipulation of arm and hand weight, a technique familiar to modern pianists but largely irrelevant to harpsichord or organ playing. That Bach was already cultivating such a technique before leaving Leipzig might be inferred from the presence of many thin-textured dances and other galant pieces in the second Little Keyboard Book for Anna Magdalena Bach. Although entirely playable on the harpsichord, and not particularly close in idiom to Emanuel’s mature keyboard music—which is far more variegated in

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20 chapter two both texture and the rhythms of melody and accompaniment—these contain many details that provide a clavichordist with opportunities for expressive, nuanced playing. The same, to be sure, could be said of the inventions and certain other pieces in Friedemann’s Little Keyboard Book—but not of the sinfonias (three-part inventions) or most of the preludes that were incorporated into the Well-Tempered Clavier. In these pieces, the relatively thick counterpoint, or textures comprising heavy chords and busy passagework, make performance on harpsichord preferable and also easier. On the clavichord it can be difficult to keep all the voices in a thick contrapuntal texture equal in dynamic level and distinctly articulated, especially in some of the difficult keys already found in Friedemann’s book. Suppositions of these sorts, however, are as far as one can go in reconstructing Emanuel’s early study of keyboard instruments. His own much later publications treat keyboard instruments generically; the “clavier” in the title of his famous treatise is not any one instrument, and except for the late modulating rondos, which are explicitly for fortepiano, his compositions rarely designate a specific medium for the keyboard part.26 This probably reflected a lesson learned early in life: regardless of the ideal medium for a given piece, a keyboard player must be prepared to play everything interchangeably on the various instruments in use.27

Composition In his letter to Forkel about his father’s teaching methods, Emanuel clearly distinguished playing from composition. As unremarkable as this seems today, it reflects a compartmentalization of skills that was not always explicit in the eighteenth century. Much of what a professional keyboard player did, especially the realization of basso continuo parts, was not entirely written down. For Emanuel’s generation, the improvisation of fantasias would replace that of fugues and chorale settings as the pinnacle of a keyboard player’s skills; for this reason, fantasias and their improvisation are the subject of the final chapter in the Versuch. On the other hand, the latter has almost nothing to say about imitative counterpoint, despite the exhaustive treatment of strict four-part harmony in the second volume. Whether this reflected Sebastian’s teaching is unclear, but the scarcity of fugue and other contrapuntal genres in the keyboard music of all his pupils, including Friedemann, suggests that most did not study the composition of fugues, even if they played some of Sebastian’s. Ernst Ludwig Gerber reported that his father’s studies with Sebastian had begun with the inventions, followed by suites and the Well-Tempered Clavier, concluding with figured-bass realization; this, however, was evidently a course of study in keyboard performance rather than composition.28 Emanuel gave Forkel a somewhat different account of studies leading from exercises in figured bass to chorales and then fugues, at first in two parts.29 If Emanuel was describing

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a student in leipzig 21 the study of composition (whether this was so is not entirely clear), serious fugue writing would have been undertaken only at the very end, perhaps only by exceptional pupils—by Friedemann, but not Emanuel? Certainly, despite his large output, Emanuel left fewer pieces than his older brother that incorporate significant imitative counterpoint, whether in formal fugues or in fugal or canonic passages within larger pieces. Yearsley argues that some short canonic compositions that Emanuel produced probably during his Berlin years demonstrate considerable skill and originality.30 But even if this does not overstate the level of achievement in these little pieces, it leaves open the question of when Emanuel took up the composition of strict counterpoint. The latter might have been only in response to a general resurgence of interest in the subject at Berlin in the years around 1750, long after Emanuel’s studies with his father. We imagine that it would have been difficult for a son of J. S. Bach not to have had the latter’s example in mind when composing a fugue or a canon. Yet when Emanuel did take up fugue in a serious way—the first major example is the choral “Sicut erat” in his Magnificat of 1749—his stylistic models were not works of J. S. Bach but those of somewhat younger composers such as Hasse and the Graun brothers. It was the latter who furnished the greatest number of examples in Marpurg’s treatise on counterpoint, despite the author’s acquaintance with Sebastian.31 Nevertheless, several movements in Emanuel’s earlier keyboard works clearly hearken back to Sebastian’s inventions and sinfonias, if not his more complex contrapuntal works.32 A number of Emanuel’s early trio sonatas also echo his father’s style, although only three movements can be considered fullfledged fugues, with entries of the subject in all parts.33 The fact that NV places the first seven of these trios in Leipzig suggests that their composition formed a part of Emanuel’s training.34 Pointing to the same conclusion is the presence in NV of an entry for a trio “jointly composed with his father”; the work does not survive, at least not in its original form, although it must have still been in existence when the list of works for sale from Emanuel’s estate was drawn up.35 By the 1730s, the three-part texture of a trio sonata was also that of most orchestral music, which frequently called for unison violins (or violas doubling the bass). Mastering the simple yet elegant type of voice leading favored in trio sonatas would have been more useful to Sebastian’s pupils than exercises in writing species counterpoint or fugue. Even so, when Emanuel informed Forkel that Sebastian’s teaching skipped the “dry species” of counterpoint, this was not necessarily as dismissive as it seems today. “Dry” (trocken) in this context could have meant something like “strict,” without a pejorative connotation.36 But it is clear that harmony, not counterpoint, lay at the root of Emanuel’s thinking about composition, and probably of Sebastian’s teaching. For both, “harmony” meant something other than today. We take for granted the functional theory of harmony that had its roots (so to speak) in publications by Rameau that came out during Emanuel’s

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22 chapter two formative years. Players within the Bach circle, however, understood chord progressions in terms of strict voice leading, in four or occasionally five parts. Sebastian was not alone in his insistence on the careful notation and realization of figured-bass parts; the same practice is encouraged in writings of his German contemporaries, and his pupils continued the tradition to the end of the century, well after musicians elsewhere had largely abandoned it. The second volume of Emanuel’s Versuch is devoted largely to figured-bass realization, and although many details must reflect his own thoughts on the subject, the insistence on strict voice leading must go back to Sebastian’s teaching. Numerous harmonically inspired sketches and compositions in Emanuel’s output indicate the importance of harmony in his own thinking, especially progressions incorporating chromatic and enharmonic voice leading. To the end of his life, he devoted considerable attention to all manner of counterintuitive progressions. Those incorporated within his late works and sketched out obsessively in the Miscellanea musica (W. 121) must reflect many hours of experimentation at the keyboard, a habit that probably went back to his youth ($ex. 2.1). The bare progressions of a figured-bass sketch could become real music only when converted into either a melody with accompaniment or idiomatic instrumental figuration. By the time of the Versuch, Emanuel seems to have understood the process as a matter of “varying” an underlying progression. Variation (Veränderung) in this sense was not merely a way of decorating a theme or embellishing an existing composition; it was a fundamental element of composition. Emanuel demonstrated this in several works whose entire substance emerges, at least in principle, as a sort of elaborate realization of a figured bass. He provided a classic demonstration of the process in the final chapter of his Versuch, showing how a keyboard fantasia could be constructed over a figured bass line. Bach presents this as an illustration of how to improvise, but his bass line looks more like an analysis or rationalization after the fact. It is hard to believe, for example, that the precise note values of Bach’s bass line, which he calls a “skeleton” (Gerippe), preceded his composition of the actual fantasia (W. 117/14). But the underlying idea had precedents in the traditional improvisation of keyboard pieces over figured basses (so-called partimenti). In the Versuch, the fantasia is preceded by preparatory examples that resemble the regole dell’ottava (rules of the octave) of earlier Italian theorists: essentially figured-bass lines in the form of scales.37 The composition of sonata movements and other pieces requires skills beyond those involved in improvising short preludes or even extended fantasias. Yet Emanuel also wrote two keyboard sonatas that are entirely variations of a previously composed work.38 The same conception of composition as variation underlies his many keyboard pieces with varied reprises—written-out variations of repeated sections—although these were ostensibly just demonstrations of a performance practice that was particularly valued at Berlin.39 To what degree this was founded upon Sebastian’s teaching is uncertain. Among

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a student in leipzig 23 Sebastian’s early works are several variation-suites, in which one or more movements are variations of another; Friedemann’s Little Keyboard Book includes a fragmentary example of such a suite by one J. C. Richter. Neither Sebastian nor Friedemann wrote many variation works, but Sebastian’s Goldberg Variations could be viewed as a summative demonstration of the technique, with canons and fugues as well as dances and virtuoso etudes all emerging as elaborations of a single underlying bass line. A few further demonstrations of the same principle can also be traced to Sebastian’s workshop, notably the violin sonata BWV 1021, which shares a bass line with the trio sonata BWV 1038. The latter, moreover, includes varied reprises in its first movement. Klaus Hofmann has argued that BWV 1038 is an arrangement of the work that Emanuel composed jointly with his father; if so, we can imagine Sebastian writing the first statement of each half, Emanuel its varied repetition.40 Further documents, including two partimento preludes and fugues as well as a suite containing movements that have been attributed to the young Emanuel Bach, have also been taken as indications that Sebastian taught this doctrine, although their relationships to the Bach circle are less certain.41 Sebastian and his pupils were surely familiar with the pedagogic tradition exemplified by Printz’s Satyrischer Componist, which shows how individual melodic intervals could be embellished in various ways.42 This was essentially a Baroque version of the old sixteenth-century idea of melodic divisions: dividing a few long notes of a melody into many smaller ones. Later writers would bring the doctrine up to date by placing melodic variation within the context of harmony. Thus Friedrich Erhardt Niedt demonstrated how a variation-suite could be produced from an underlying figured bass. Quantz illustrated melodic embellishments as variations not just of individual tones but of chord progressions.43 ($ex. 2.2). Emanuel of course knew Quantz personally; Niedt had studied with Johann Nicolaus Bach, Emanuel’s first cousin once removed.44 Counterpoint, harmony, and “variation,” as discussed above, function only at the surface level of a composition. Sebastian, Emanuel, and their contemporaries lacked our vocabulary for discussing deeper elements of compositions, such as motivic development, modulation, and formal design. Yet the recurrence of certain formal structures in music of Emanuel’s generation must reflect purposeful thought and teaching about such matters. The two obbligato-keyboard trios that have been attributed to both Sebastian and Emanuel, BWV 1020 and 1031, are so similar in plan that they seem to be products of parallel compositional exercises, perhaps even written jointly by several of Sebastian’s pupils.45 Both compositions share features with similarly scored works by Sebastian as well as Emanuel. Yet some things that were important in Sebastian’s compositional process seem to have played no role in that of his pupils. There is no evidence that any followed him in his elaborate counting of measures to yield arithmetically defined formal proportions.46 Certain types of aria found

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24 chapter two routinely in Sebastian’s vocal works are virtually unknown in those of the next generation.47 As fundamental as musical form is to our present-day understanding of eighteenth-century music, composers and listeners at the time clearly did not understand it as we do. Musical form is a peripheral topic in most critical and theoretical writing about music before the second half of the century, and there was no agreed terminology for discussing it. Emanuel’s generation usually relied on a few routine designs for both instrumental and vocal music, and Sebastian himself probably had no technical vocabulary for explaining how he planned his major works, which reveal far more diverse approaches to form. Where eighteenth-century writers do treat form (something Emanuel never did), they assume a design clearly divided into a small number of sections or “periods.” In instrumental music, these periods are articulated by restatements of a principal theme in various keys, producing what Joel Lester has called “parallel” structure.48 J. S. and W. F. Bach followed this approach in many movements of their sonatas and concertos, yet typically with distinctive features that yield a unique formal plan in every case. Both were also economical in the use of melodic ideas, tending to develop a limited number of motives intensively over the course of a given movement. Emanuel, even if he followed similar impulses at the beginning of his career, was tending in the opposite direction by the time he reached Berlin. There he would favor a more improvisatory approach to melodic invention; paradoxically, this occurred within the more consistent type of formal plan used by Quantz, the Graun brothers, and others of their generation.49 Exactly when Emanuel diverged from Friedemann in this respect is uncertain, thanks to the limited survival of his early compositions in their original forms. Even if both received training in “composition as variation,” Emanuel’s more frequent reliance on the latter technique, together with his avoidance of imitative counterpoint, must have been encouraged by what he encountered after leaving home; Quantz, in particular, has been viewed as exerting a strong influence.50 Anything more that we might learn about Emanuel’s studies and early development, however, must emerge from consideration of the early works themselves.

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Chapter Three

Leipzig First Works Little survives of Emanuel’s work prior to his move to Berlin in 1738. That the mature Bach was concerned with leaving behind nothing that would embarrass him or his descendants is clear from his burning “a ream or more of old works,” as he mentioned doing in a letter of 1786.1 An earlier note, included in a list of his keyboard music to 1772 (CV), indicated that he had set aside “all works [from] before the year 1733.” The word he used was caßiret, which could mean “destroyed” but also has the more specific legal sense of “annulled” or “canceled” (as a debt). Given Bach’s legal training, he might have had this latter meaning in mind, or, in view of his long residence in Prussia, the word’s military usage as “cashiered,” in the sense of dismissed or retired.2 Until 1772, therefore, he probably retained much of his early work; how much he eventually destroyed, and whether this included early versions of music that he retained in revised form, is impossible to say. Nevertheless, a small number of early works do survive that are not listed in CV or the later NV. In addition, many compositions included in those lists survive in distinct versions; among these are early versions of works that are described in NV as having been revised at Berlin during the 1740s. Again, the precise word is significant: erneuert today means “renovated”; it is used for buildings and furniture, implying something like a remodeling, certainly more substantial than a superficial revision.3 In some “renovated” works, movements were expanded or entirely replaced alongside drastic alterations of the melodic material, including substantial florid embellishment or variation. Bach carried out these revisions at a time when his output was relatively small by contemporary standards: roughly a dozen sonatas and concertos each year, plus a few other compositions. During the 1740s his colleague C. H. Graun produced well over a dozen new operas, each one containing perhaps as much music as Bach’s entire output for a year, while also likely producing concertos,

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26 chapter three solo and trio sonatas, and other works, although the precise dating of these compositions is uncertain. From this it emerges that Emanuel may not have been so different from his brother Friedemann, despite the disparate sizes of their surviving outputs. Both, until taking up positions that required the production of vocal music, were employed as keyboard players, composing chiefly instrumental music for their own performances. Even if substantial quantities of their early music have been lost—like the vocal works that Emanuel wrote at Frankfurt—such music as does survive appears to be the product of multiple drafts. Both composers returned repeatedly to improve individual pieces, something that their more prolific contemporaries might have regarded as a luxury. During the 1720s and 1730s, while his two oldest sons were growing up, Sebastian worked similarly on the mature instrumental compositions that comprise his best-known and most frequently performed music today. For all three composers, hardly any instrumental music survives in composing scores. Their extant autographs consist chiefly of fair or revision copies, indicating that each recopied pieces—or had new scores drawn up by experienced copyists—and then discarded the drafts. All three, moreover, shared the impulse toward musical “perfection” that has always been recognized as fundamental to Sebastian’s work.4 With Emanuel, the few surviving early works that are not listed in NV— pieces he probably regarded as “imperfect”—are compositions that for one reason or another seem to have been out of his hands from an early date. Several pieces in P 225 (the second little keyboard book of Anna Magdalena Bach) remained in Leipzig after Emanuel’s departure. Early versions of a few keyboard sonatas and concertos might have been copied by fellow pupils in Leipzig or Frankfurt, before Emanuel realized the importance of controlling the circulation of his music. His “renovations” at Berlin must have reflected that realization, and usually he covered his tracks: of all the known compositions that can be dated to his Leipzig period, barely a handful are assuredly extant in their early forms. Hardly any pieces attributed to him but not listed in NV are certainly his, nor can they be dated with any confidence. (For a detailed list of Bach’s Leipzig works, see 3.1.)

Keyboard Music Four little pieces in P 225 are in a hand identified as that of the young Emanuel, but they show no signs there of any compositional revisions.5 They probably were not newly composed at the time he entered them into his stepmother’s manuscript, for NV places a number of more ambitious compositions a year or so prior to the date that can be assigned to these copies.6 The two marches and two polonaises, all in binary form, are elegant examples of the type of Dresden-inspired dance pieces gathered in P 225, presumably for use not only by Emanuel’s stepmother

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leipzig 27 but also by his younger siblings. The two marches are mainly in two parts, the first one entirely so. The polonaises are more in trio texture, but the two upper parts move chiefly in parallel sixths and thirds, particularly in the second polonaise.7 These would be the two fundamental textures of virtually all Emanuel’s keyboard music—and of Friedemann’s; neither brother would ever have much use for the denser counterpoint of their father’s keyboard works. These four pieces have little in common with Emanuel’s later music. On the contrary, the concentrated development of a few recurring motives, especially in the polonaises, is more reminiscent of Friedemann’s later music. Indeed, his authorship cannot be ruled out, for Emanuel elsewhere copied his brother’s early work.8 Possible preechoes of Emanuel’s later music can be heard in other pieces of this period. But it is best not to scrutinize these for signs of his later style when they may not in fact be his compositions.9 The same goes for another piece that, although not for keyboard, seems related to these little compositions: an untitled march in E-flat (listed as Bach-Incerta 38) for four unspecified instruments—probably trumpet or horn, two violins or oboes, and bass or bassoon. Almost entirely overlooked by scholars, it is close in style to galant marches for wind band that Bach probably heard at Frankfurt and Berlin in the 1730s and 1740s. But although the piece is well crafted, it is impossible to attribute the hastily if accurately copied composition securely to Emanuel, even though it is preserved in his early handwriting in the same manuscript that contains his copy of the disputed flute sonata BWV 1033 (St 460). That Emanuel was already thinking inventively about harmony at an early date is evident from what must be one of his first substantial works still extant, the E-Minor Suite W. 65/4. Clear indications of an early origin—NV puts it in 1733—include a certain awkwardness of both phrasing and keyboard idiom. Not surprisingly, the work shares some turns of phrase with Sebastian’s music of the period, especially the partitas published during 1726–35. The contrapuntally conceived Prelude, an extended two-part invention, shares its austere conception with the opening Fantasia of the A-Minor Partita BWV 827 (called a prelude in the fair-copy autograph that opens P 225). Its theme resembles the one that opens the work known today as the B-Minor Flute Suite, BWV 1067, although it might ultimately derive from an allemande by Froberger.10 The concluding Echo movement seems an obvious reflection of the Echo that closes Sebastian’s B-minor keyboard partita BWV 831.11 Echoes had been used in compositions since the early Baroque, but (like hand-crossing) they seem to have been a favorite novelty device in the Bach household in these years; Sebastian included them in several arias and in a type of ritornello that had an echo of its own in several of Emanuel’s early works.12 Most notable in relation to Emanuel’s later music are the ambitious expressive aspirations of the third movement Cantabile. In the early version this is less a “singing” movement than a speaking one, some gestures perhaps suggested by recitative. But the movement is less than fully thought out; a later version,

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28 chapter three presumably the product of the Berlin renovation of 1744, renders both harmony and melody more complete and coherent.13 The early version opens strikingly, a falling leap of a diminished seventh in the first measure being followed by a Neapolitan harmony. Yet both expressive gestures disappear when the passage returns, although it is hard to recognize this as a recapitulation (ex. 3.1). Measures 8–9 harp on a diminished-seventh chord in a way that is vaguely reminiscent of a little Scherzo in the same key (BWV 844a); the latter has been attributed to W. F. Bach but could just as plausibly be assigned to the young Emanuel (ex. 3.2). (For more on the Suite W. 65/4, see 3.3.) Significant here is the underlying harmonic thought: chromatic voice leading and dissonant chords take precedence over easy melody. The same principle applies in the frequent use of counterintuitive melodic lines that elaborate rigorous underlying progressions, often sequential but following novel patterns. A relatively simple example occurs in the G-minor polonaise from P 225, which also occurs as part of a sonata in G major that is likely Emanuel’s. The first movement of the sonata also shows this type of harmonically inspired passagework, which Emanuel would have learned from his father’s music, especially certain preludes from the Well-Tempered Clavier ($ex. 3.3).14 A special variety of this type of passagework involving crossing hands enjoyed a vogue in the Bach household around 1730, when Sebastian published an example in his G-Major Partita (BWV 829).15 Further examples include the two minuets F. 25 by Friedemann and Emanuel’s Minuet W. 111, which the latter engraved himself; this would have served as a lesson in how to produce the type of publication that Sebastian was issuing at the same time ($ex. 3.4). As in Sebastian’s partita, the hand-crossings of W. 111 are perplexing until one has spent some time at the keyboard figuring out how they work. Friedemann would continue to write similar things throughout his career; Emanuel would tend away from this sort of technical contrivance (see 3.4 on other early keyboard pieces). A more important early work is the Solo per il Cembalo in E-flat, which Anna Magdalena copied into P 225. The term solo was often used during the eighteenth century for what we call a solo sonata, whether for keyboard or for a melody instrument accompanied by basso continuo. Its use here might mean that the piece was extracted from a multimovement work, and indeed it recurs as the first movement of the Sonata W. 65/7, which NV places in 1736. That was after Emanuel had left Leipzig, but it is possible that the first movement is another Leipzig composition and that NV’s date for the sonata is actually that of a subsequent revision, or of the sonata’s assembly out of individual movements previously composed separately.16

Sonata Form Even if it is a somewhat later work, the presence of the Solo in a copy by Emanuel’s stepmother suggests that neither he nor Friedemann and other

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leipzig 29 Example 3.1. Suite in E Minor, W. 65/4, early version, movement 3, (a) mm. 1–2, (b) mm. 17–18

Example 3.2. (a) Suite in E Minor, W. 65/4, early version, movement 3, mm. 8–11a; (b) Scherzo in E Minor, BWV 844a, mm. 31–34

pupils of Sebastian Bach left Leipzig without learning the outlines of what we call sonata form. Already in its earliest known version, the movement incorporates the essential elements of Emanuel’s later sonata-allegros, constituting an expanded version of the rounded binary forms found in the marches and polonaises preserved alongside it. In such a movement the second “half” comprises two subsections, the final one functioning as a recapitulation. It would, however, be misleading to characterize the two preceding sections as exposition and development. Those terms would be appropriate only in later Classical compositions; this is a “parallel-section” movement of the type described by Joel Lester. Thus, the central section—the one following the double bar—contains relatively remote modulations, but it is not otherwise very distinct from the outer sections. Nor are the latter clearly subdivided into two “key areas” or “theme groups,” like a Classical exposition or recapitulation, although both open with the same theme and conclude with the same closing material. This simple type of sonata form is defined by the opening of each section with a statement of the principal theme. Modulating passagework follows,

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30 chapter three leading to a cadence in a new key (except in the final section, which usually begins and ends in the tonic). The crucial element in this design is the presence of a so-called double return at the beginning of the recapitulation: a restatement of the opening theme in the original key. Emanuel could have learned this design from examples in Sebastian’s recent keyboard works, including a few movements in the partitas. Yet most of Sebastian’s pieces follow an older rounded binary form that lacks a return and therefore a distinct third or recapitulation section.17 Sonata form of the type described here is common, however, in works by other composers dating from the 1720s and 1730s, such as the flute sonatas of Locatelli that Emanuel appears to have known at Frankfurt. The routine adoption of this design indicates an awareness of form itself as an element of composition—an awareness not clearly expressed in theoretical writings until several decades later. This sonata form was not merely a symmetrical arrangement of a few repeating or alternating blocks of music, as was the case with older binary and ternary designs. Rather, as Charles Rosen demonstrated, sonata form integrates modulation with sophisticated motivic and thematic processes in a metaphorical drama.18 The drama typically achieves closure when the original theme returns in its original key; it is asymmetrical because the recapitulation, beginning and ending in the tonic, has a fundamentally different dynamic from the previous modulating sections. Emanuel’s evolving understanding of this design is evident in his revisions to the Solo, which included the insertion of a new passage—the most chromatic and virtuosic in the entire movement—just before the end of the second section (“development”). He also added a short transition passage, or rather a retransition, to lead from the cadence at the end of the second section to the return. The first insertion (mm. 47–50 of the final version) raised the level of intensity near the end of the second section, making it the climax of the piece. The second one (mm. 53–56) eliminated what was originally the unmediated juxtaposition of the second cadence in G minor against the restatement of the opening theme in E-flat, a type of return characteristic of a da capo aria. The result was a more integrated composition in which drama replaces symmetry as the chief aesthetic value ($ex. 3.6).19 Although the early versions of most of Bach’s Leipzig works are probably lost, in some cases it is possible to surmise that the extant versions were created through a process of expansion similar to that seen in the Solo in E-flat. For instance, all three sections of the opening movement in what is ostensibly his first keyboard sonata (W. 65/1) include a so-called second theme ($ex. 3.7). Conceivably, Bach inserted this passage when renovating the movement, for the same theme opens the final Allegretto of the C-Major Trio W. 149. The latter was composed in 1745, a year after the renovation of W. 65/1. After stating the new theme, the sonata movement reverts to a type of passagework reminiscent of J. S. Bach (mm. 24–28) which Emanuel tended to avoid in later works.

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leipzig 31

Trios Apart from keyboard works, trios are the only group of compositions that offer substantial material from Bach’s Leipzig period.20 Unlike keyboard sonatas and concertos, which he composed throughout his life, Bach wrote trios only during the earlier parts of his career. NV places the first seven such works within a single year (1731) at Leipzig; even if this is not strictly accurate, it suggests that Bach later viewed these pieces as having been composed under his father’s tutelage. The word trio is used here, as in mid-eighteenth-century Germany, to refer to works that involve two equal melodic parts supported by a bass line. The latter, which is usually figured, is simpler in style than the upper parts, only occasionally having an independent melodic character of its own. Hence these pieces are really duets for two melody instruments with accompaniment, not trios for three equal contrapuntal voices, like Sebastian’s trio sonatas. Two of Emanuel’s early works of this type are for violin and obbligato keyboard (W. 71–72), but they remain trios as the term was understood.21 Many of his other trios exist alternatively as obbligato-keyboard pieces as well. Indeed, Emanuel’s trios, like those of Quantz and the Graun brothers, were sometimes notated in such a manner that one of the upper parts could be played as either a solo melody part on flute or violin, or as the right-hand portion of a keyboard part.22 The substitution of one instrument for another was facilitated by the conservative style of these works, which rarely call for the idiomatic capabilities of flute, violin, or keyboard. Bach must have composed many trios assuming that they would be performed with varying instrumentation, and the alternative scorings rarely involved any substantive variants. Thus, Emanuel’s Sonata in E for two flutes and bass, listed as W. 162, is the same work as W. 84 for keyboard and flute; in NV they appear as alternate versions of Trio 15, composed in 1749.23 Whether Emanuel was thinking along these lines before he reached Berlin is unknown. Although at least one of Sebastian’s obbligato-keyboard sonatas with flute (BWV 1032) probably originated as a conventional trio sonata, the idiomatic keyboard parts in his six works with violin (BWV 1014–19) do not always consist of a single melodic line with bass. The same is true of Emanuel’s Trio 1 (W. 71). Yet at least two of his Berlin sonatas for keyboard and violin (W. 73 and 74), as well as four of the five obbligato-keyboard trios with flute, also exist as what we would call regular trio sonatas. Bach published the two trio sonatas of 1748–49 (W. 161) with instructions for performing them as obbligato-keyboard works. He also prepared parts for three of the Leipzig trio sonatas that would have permitted their performance, too, as obbligato-keyboard sonatas. Although the surviving versions of the latter pieces must have been products of their “renovation” at Berlin, the brevity and relatively simple character of several movements suggest that these, at least, remain close to their

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32 chapter three original versions (for further discussion of alternative scorings for Bach’s trios, see 3.5). Bach’s first trio is distinct from the other six Leipzig works in the polyphonic character of its keyboard part, which looks as if it was modeled on that of Sebastian’s violin and keyboard sonata in the same key (B minor) ($ex. 3.8). The second movement (Allegro) and first minuet of Trio 1 likewise include figuration for the right hand of the keyboard, which, although playable on flute or violin, is not particularly idiomatic for those instruments. Yet after this early effort in writing chamber music with a genuine obbligato-keyboard part, Bach may have composed nothing similar before the 1760s, when he produced what Doris Powers calls the four “great” sonatas for obbligato keyboard and violin, W. 75–78.24 The remaining movements from all seven early trios appear to have been conceived in terms of three abstract melodic parts. It may seem curious that Bach at Leipzig apparently wrote more trios than solo sonatas, for trios represent a more complex type of composition. For Mattheson and Scheibe, however, the trio was one of the principal media in which a composer could display his craft, an opinion likely shared in the Bach household.25 For Emanuel, composition of solos appears to have begun in earnest only at Frankfurt, perhaps in response to an interest among amateur players there in sonatas for the newly fashionable transverse flute. Sebastian left only a few solos, whose simple texture of one melodic part with continuo probably had little appeal in his contrapuntal way of thinking. Nor would such music have seemed particularly challenging for his pupils, who exercised their harmonic skills in setting bass lines to traditional chorale tunes, not to newly invented galant melodies. Unfortunately, of the seven Leipzig trios that Emanuel renovated at Berlin in 1746–47, only one (W. 145) survives in a distinct earlier form, and his responsibility for the latter is uncertain. Several movements of modest dimensions in other works may have remained close to their original Leipzig versions. Two little minuets that close Trio 1 might have been unaltered save for the addition of a few ornament signs. Even the more substantial Adagio that precedes them may have seen only the alteration of the last measure or two to permit the improvisation of a cadenza, as was expected in slow movements at Berlin.26 The six other early trios, for flute, violin, and bass, are all in different keys and might have been meant to form a set when they were renovated in 1747. Even after renovation, they remained distinct in style from three new trios for the same combination of instruments that Bach composed in 1745 and 1747. The latter are brilliant pieces, likely designed for concert use; the renovated works are more restrained and conservative in style. Even if their reworking aligned them with the musical tastes of 1740s Berlin, it is striking how many movements, especially the opening ones, retain elements of the style of Sebastian Bach. One hears an echo of the trio sonata from the Musical Offering—or is it the other way around?—in Trio 8 (W. 148), composed at

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leipzig 33 Frankfurt and renovated in the year of Sebastian’s visit to Potsdam ($ex. 3.9). The close canonic writing in the same passage also recalls BWV 1036, the putative early version of Trio 5 (W. 145).27 On the other hand, although Trio 3 (W. 143) opens with a fugal allegro, its second movement Adagio, another genuine fugue in three parts, incorporates a type of florid melodic writing unlikely to go back to Leipzig unless it is an embellished version of something that was originally much simpler. Trio 4 in G (W. 144) again opens with a fugue, this time on a chromatic subject. Unfortunately, the transmission of W. 144 in only two late copies makes it impossible to know how closely the surviving music corresponds to the original version—or even to the renovation of 1747.28 The austerity of its opening movement might explain why W. 144 was apparently the least known of all Bach’s trios (to judge from the number of surviving sources). Yet in other respects it adheres to the up-to-date style of other works renovated or composed during the 1740s. The cadenza in the first movement, signified by a fermata in the penultimate measure, was surely a Berlin addition. Indeed, the whole closing phrase (from m. 53), as well the two succeeding movements—each a sonata-form allegro with a witty galant theme—is closer in style to the trios that Bach was newly composing in 1747. The three-movement sequence slow–fast–fast was the one preferred at Berlin for solo sonatas, and both quick movements incorporate formulas reminiscent of similarly scored works by Quantz and the Graun brothers. These include opening themes whose last two measures, if not the entire first phrase, are repeated as a sort of echo; a subsequent passage in parallel thirds or sixths, often over a tonic or dominant pedal point; and the predominance at any given moment of one of the two upper parts. Rhythmic motion is often generated by repeated notes in the continuo (a drum bass), not by a melodically independent bass line. This style frequently features mildly diverting examples of wit as well as moderately expressive harmony or chromaticism. Wit and expression may even be combined, as in a passage in the final movement, where the two upper parts exchange little solos that touch lightly on the minor mode ($ex. 3.10). Yet it is hard to believe that such writing, taking up sixteen measures with essentially no harmonic change, could have been composed under Sebastian’s tutelage, even if the movement retains motivic ideas from a Leipzig composition. The second movement Allegro of Trio 1 (W. 71) is equally galant, yet it is more concentrated, without a measure wasted, reminiscent stylistically of things that Sebastian was writing in his roughly contemporary “Coffee” and “Peasant” cantatas. The opening Poco adagio of the same trio is likewise close to Sebastian until its final section, where the upper parts begin to move in parallel thirds and the bass abandons its prevailing ostinato pattern, leading to the cadenza. This final section (from m. 30) might therefore have been added during Emanuel’s renovation of this movement ($ex. 3.11). Even where Emanuel seems to imitate his father’s style, closer examination reveals significant departures. The opening movement of Trio 1 recalls

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34 chapter three Sebastian in its ostinato-like bass and the imitative treatment of the two upper voices. Yet the violin enters in imitation at the sixth after only one measure, at which point the right hand of the keyboard essentially rests on a single held note. Hence this movement is a dialogue, not a fugue, and there is little serious counterpoint between the three parts. The movement is most reminiscent not of any of Sebastian’s trios but of the third movement in his E-minor flute sonata BWV 1034, composed perhaps five or six years earlier.29 Other trios also reveal traces of an early origin, as when the first movement of Trio 7—the last of the early, renovated Leipzig trios—shifts from a walking bass in eighths to one in quarters punctated by rests. The change coincides with the introduction of a new thematic idea in a new key (the dominant), although, like other “second” themes in Bach’s sonata forms, it fails to return in subsequent sections. One suspects that the theme was an insertion, unless the shift in the rhythmic texture was an awkward moment in the original that Bach failed to eliminate ($ex. 3.12). Likewise suggesting an early origin is the closing Allegro, whose design is unparalleled in any of Bach’s other works. Its opening passage for all three parts (mm. 1–10) returns several times, transposed and abbreviated, alternating like a ritornello with episodes that resemble the solo passages of a concerto. The movement might be described today as auf Concertenart (in the manner of a concerto), yet Bach does not make as much of the concerto parallel as a modern listener might expect; the “solo” passages are not particularly long or virtuosic. Nor does the design, with both melody parts participating in the opening “ritornello,” coincide with that of other trios “with two themes,” as such works were understood at the time (see chap. 5). If Emanuel indeed had a concerto movement in mind as a model here, it was the type in ternary form that opens Sebastian’s Fourth Brandenburg Concerto, not the variety in ritornello found in his own Berlin concertos. How radically Bach’s renovations might have affected these pieces is suggested by the differences between Trio 5 for flute, violin, and bass (W. 145) and what is now viewed as its early version, a work for violin and obbligato keyboard that was once attributed to J. S. Bach as BWV 1036.30 The pieces, both in D minor, diverge to such a degree that it is misleading to describe them as versions of a single composition; rather they are distinct works that share one movement as well as some additional thematic material.31 If W. 145 is indeed the renovated version of BWV 1036, then Bach’s Erneuerung of the latter produced an essentially new work. But there can be no certainty that BWV 1036 is his; the sole source, in an unidentified hand, attributes it only to “Mons. Bach.” Even if from the Bach household, BWV 1036 could be a pastiche, the work of several hands (for further discussion of Emanuel’s early trios, see 3.6).32 One of several gaucheries present in BWV 1036 but absent from W. 145 is a thematically irrelevant coda for solo keyboard at the end of the first allegro. The passage calls to mind another mysterious Bach-circle work, a sonata in F for keyboard and violin listed as BWV 1022. The latter is an alternate

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leipzig 35 version of the equally mysterious trio sonata BWV 1038, which was composed over the same bass line as Sebastian’s violin sonata BWV 1021 (see chap. 2). BWV 1022 twice inserts motivically extraneous solo passages for the keyboard instrument into the second movement. The underlying technique—the expansion of a binary form through the insertion of sequential passagework—is one that Emanuel would use throughout his career.33 As in BWV 1036, moreover, one can imagine a keyboardist-composer such as Emanuel taking the liberty to insert a solo.34 Yet the solos in BWV 1022 are entirely unnecessary from a rigorously formal point of view—or by the standards of taste that would prevail at the court of Frederick the Great. Whoever was responsible for these obbligato-keyboard sonatas—or for BWV 1020 and 1031 (discussed in chap. 2)—by the late 1740s, Emanuel had settled on a more integrated concept of the trio characterized by complete balance between the upper parts. The virtuoso disruptions introduced into BWV 1022 and 1036, which give the keyboard part a privileged status as soloist, would be reserved for the concerto.

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Chapter Four

From Leipzig to Frankfurt (Oder) and Berlin Bach’s four years at Frankfurt are even more obscure than those of his childhood.1 Although he enrolled at the Viadrina University in September 1734 as a law student, his chief purpose must have been to prepare for a career as cantor, an academic position that in the eighteenth century increasingly required the type of advanced education that his father had lacked. Virtually our sole documents for the period are musical ones: a few compositions, plus librettos and manuscript copies of works by others that provide hints about the types of music he performed there. Most of the compositions that originated at Frankfurt are extant only in later versions (see the table in 4.1). No vocal works survive, with the possible exception of one recently discovered church piece. Yet these four years must have been pivotal for Bach’s development, both personally and artistically. Arriving as a pupil of Sebastian Bach, he left as an experienced composer, teacher, and ensemble director, soon to receive a summons from the future King Frederick, whose Capelle he joined in 1740 or 1741.2 Bach never held the title of court composer, but that he wrote some of his music for Frederick, once doubted, now appears possible.3 He could not have done so, however, had his style not developed considerably by the time he left for Berlin in 1738. By then Bach may have been performing occasionally at the residences of other members of the ruling Hohenzollern family, such as Margrave Friedrich Wilhelm at Schwedt. There, or perhaps at Berlin, Emanuel might have played the large harpsichord by Michael Mietke that had belonged to the margrave’s uncle Christian Ludwig, dedicatee of the Brandenburg Concertos.4 Christian Ludwig had died in early 1734, but other members of the extended royal family, as well as Frederick, would employ musicians and sponsor concerts throughout Bach’s Prussian years. Bach’s musical activities during the mid-1730s were probably numerous and varied, despite the notoriously philistine policies of the reigning King Friedrich

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from leipzig to frankfurt (oder) and berlin 37 Wilhelm I. The so-called Soldier King is famous for his obsession with military matters, his stinginess toward the arts, and his cruelty toward his son. Upon his accession in 1713 he had immediately dismantled much of the court and culture of his predecessor Friedrich I, the first Prussian king.5 Yet he could not banish the love of music that continued unabated in other members of the royal family, including Queen Sophia Dorothea. Although some academics and intellectuals suffered under Friedrich Wilhelm, a musician evidently felt little danger in pursuing his profession. It would not have hurt that Emanuel’s father was on good terms with members of the aristocracy in both Prussia and Saxony (under Friedrich Wilhelm a Prussian ally).6 Berlin is less than fifty miles from any of the minor Hohenzollern residences, and Bach would have passed through it en route between Frankfurt and Ruppin or Rheinsberg. Leipzig, by contrast, is twice as far from Berlin and significantly farther from Frankfurt even by the most direct route. Visits home are certainly possible during this period; they would explain the preservation of a few works in Leipzig manuscripts that may date from these years. But at Frankfurt Bach would have been on his own. He later claimed that he directed a “musical academy,” composing “all the public music for ceremonial occasions that took place there.”7 His father recorded in 1735 that “for the time being” (p[er] t[empore]) he was a student, “giving instruction on keyboard instruments” (informiret auf dem Clavier).8 Akademie was originally the term for a learned society, but by this date it was applied regularly to a collegium musicum: a musical club, often with both professional and amateur members. The repertory of the Frankfurt collegium evidently included Emanuel’s own works as well as music by Telemann and Fasch, even several of Sebastian Bach’s more recent and more galant compositions.9 Two concertos by Sebastian that Emanuel also may have performed had probably originated somewhat earlier. But the substitution of harpsichord for the original solo violin in BWV 1052a, like the presence of a keyboard soloist in Emanuel’s own concertos, was likely still a novelty.10 Sebastian’s instrumental works are challenging to perform, and the Frankfurt collegium also participated in elaborate vocal compositions, including a two-part “oratorio” or church piece by Emanuel in ten movements. How did Emanuel learn to organize and direct such performances, as he evidently was doing successfully as a young man of twenty? Before leaving for Frankfurt, Emanuel seems to have served as his father’s assistant, helping prepare parts for performances in church and by the Leipzig collegium. A fellow participant described Emanuel as gregarious and lively—by contrast to Friedemann, who seems already to have been more inward and self-regarding, perhaps more focused on organ playing.11 It is easy to imagine Emanuel, who was “natural, profound, thoughtful, and at the same time personable,”12 quickly achieving success at Frankfurt as both director and soloist. Whether or not he went there expecting to lead an

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38 chapter four ensemble, it would not have been difficult for a brilliant young musician—who also happened to be a son of Sebastian Bach—to find his way within the university community. The king might have made the royal court a dour place, but the previous generation had seen a flowering of the arts in Prussia; the queen had been the dedicatee of Corelli’s opus 5 sonatas, and Torelli and other famous musicians had performed in Berlin. The next generation was cultivating the arts privately while awaiting a change of regime. Dresden might have seemed an easier and more immediately attractive place in which a young musician could advance his career, but Friedemann was already working there and perhaps already encountering resistance.13 Prussia was probably a riskier destination, and Sebastian’s entry in the family history shows that he expected Emanuel to remain there only temporarily. But Prussia held a future for a son who possessed the grace and confidence to manage people of his own and much higher ranks—a skill that Friedemann never learned. The problems in identifying Emanuel’s Frankfurt compositions are the same as those affecting his Leipzig works. Despite the precise listing of dates and places of composition in NV, some of that information may be at best notional. Individual movements were drafted and revised at different times, especially as they were moved from one sonata to another (for examples, see 4.3). Some early works underwent substantial changes even after their Berlin “renovations,” as witness the autograph revisions that Bach made at Hamburg during his last years to the final movement of the Sonata W. 65/6.14 In most cases, however, Bach probably made his final decisions about the order of movements in his early sonatas during the 1740s. This suggests that before then he did not regard the movements of a sonata as forming a distinctive unity, something that would change as he began to integrate the movements of a sonata into a true cycle (see chap. 10). At Leipzig he rather treated keyboard sonatas as we view suites: fairly loose compilations of detachable pieces. Slow inner movements might be in the same key as quick outer ones, and the largest and most serious movement was usually the first, with shorter and lighter ones following. This would remain true, to a degree, of sonatas from throughout his career. But works composed at Leipzig and Frankfurt often end with what he evidently came to regard as unduly brief final movements, little more than binary-form dances. Among his works of this type are the two flute sonatas that NV places in Frankfurt, although in each of these the concluding minuet is furnished with a couple of variations. Inasmuch as NV lists few renovations for works composed at Berlin, we can infer that the mature Bach believed that his approach to composition changed substantially after his arrival in the Prussian capital. Even if his memory of his own compositional development was not entirely accurate, it was likely only at Berlin that he came to understand the keyboard sonata as a substantial genre of composition, as serious as a trio or a concerto if not usually as long. This nevertheless required that the second and third movements should become

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from leipzig to frankfurt (oder) and berlin 39 closer in length to the first. Hence, Bach abandoned the little binary forms that conclude some of the early works; the retention of these miniature finales in the W. 64 sonatinas might be why he eventually gave them that diminutive title (they are called sonatas in their early forms). Slow movements are another matter, as even a short Andante could attain seriousness or stature through the expressive elaboration or variation of an existing framework. Although we possess early versions of only a few works, from these it is clear that written-out melodic embellishment was an important element in Bach’s renovation of slow movements (as in W. 65/7 and in what became the Largo of W. 64/2). But he also inserted new material, and, paradoxically, he eliminated the central double bar in some movements (as in W. 64/2 and 65/9). A double bar had been a feature of slow movements by earlier composers, as in sonatas and concertos by Vivaldi, where these movemens often take the form of a siciliano. Eliminating repeated sections would have reduced the duration of these early slow movements, but it was compensated for by the addition of florid embellishment, which required a reduction in tempo.15 A traditional little siciliano like that of W. 65/7 gained weight and expressivity in its embellished version, which, like that of W. 65/9, is so unlike the original as to be at first almost unrecognizable (ex. 4.1). Why Bach reworked these early pieces rather than composing entirely new ones is unclear. It may be that already at Frankfurt he was routinely improvising varied versions of these movements in performances for his “academy”; if the renovations only fixed in notation what he was actually playing, amateurs or pupils purchasing copies of the music might have wanted a record of the latter, not the bare originals. Even if the passagework in the quick movements of some of his Frankfurt sonatas was designed to prepare pupils for playing the solo parts of concertos, the virtuosity required of the player also made these sonatas effective concert pieces. The same holds for their increasing use of dramatic gestures that were probably suggested by vocal music, especially recitative. The urbanity of the opening movement in the A-Major Sonata W. 65/10 is twice shattered by a sudden arpeggio spanning more than two octaves, made all the more startling by occurring on an augmented-sixth chord ($ex. 4.2). In the first movement of the previous sonata, the recapitulation is interrupted by a sudden shift of mode, leading to a dramatic passage in octaves ($ex. 4.3).16 Such devices, which would become trademarks of the composer, proliferate in what are probably later versions of other early sonatas. In the first movement of the A-Minor Sonata W. 65/2, known only in a late revised version, one finds not only sudden juxtapositions of key or mode but also phrases that break off unexpectedly at fermatas, again on augmented-sixth chords ($ex. 4.4). Comparable passages can be found in operas of Hasse and Graun from the 1730s and later. These, however, occur only at climactic moments in the most intense accompanied recitative or aria of an act, where fermatas or chromatic harmony express unusually heightened feeling or action. In Bach’s music such

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Example 4.1. (a) Sonata in E-flat, W. 65/7, late version, movement 2, mm. 1–8; (b) Sonata in B-flat, W. 65/9, late version, mm. 1–3; both with early version on lower staves

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from leipzig to frankfurt (oder) and berlin 41 moments become a regular part of the style, often juxtaposed against conventional galant writing. The storm and stress that results from such confrontations cannot be sustained indefinitely. By the time of his first Berlin sonata, W. 65/11, Bach may have envisioned the complete three-movement composition as a unity that opens with a dramatic allegro, followed by a contemplative adagio that provides a respite. The final movement may return, in some degree, to the dramatic manner of the opening one, but it is typically shorter and ligher, although more than a simple dance. In short, the compilations of little marches and dances that constitute some of Bach’s earliest sonatas gave way to something that resembled a dramatic scena or cantata not only in its outward design (aria–recitative–aria) but in expressive intensity.

Instrumental Works at Frankfurt and Berlin A composer’s imagination is shaped by what he knows, not by what he will eventually write. Apart from his father’s compositions, Emanuel’s models on his arrival at Frankfurt would have included various types of chamber sonatas, concertos, and arias by his older contemporaries. A common element of these was the regular use of certain formal plans, especially da capo or ternary form in arias and the simple type of sonata form described in chapter 3 for instrumental movements. Formal planning is not the most exciting aspect of composition, but the possibility of writing numerous pieces that follow just a few recurring schemes clearly appealed to composers of Bach’s generation. In an age that valued rational thought and behavior within highly circumscribed norms, listeners and amateur players must have found the regular plan of the allegro in an eighteenth-century sonata or concerto to be a fundamental attraction. Cast aside was the impetuous freedom of the early-Baroque stylus fantasticus; yet to come was the Romantic idealization of the fragmentary and the ineluctable, although Emanuel would reveal an interest in those things in later works. Da capo form as well as sonata form occur frequently in Sebastian’s arias and instrumental works, but not so overwhelmingly as in compositions by his younger contemporaries. Among the latter was the north-Italian violinist Locatelli, best known today for his Arte del violino, a set of twelve concertos published in 1733. More influential for Emanuel were Locatelli’s twelve flute sonatas, issued the previous year in Amsterdam but likely composed at least in part during earlier travels in Germany. Locatelli had been a guest of the Saxon elector at Dresden during the previous decade and had played for the queen at Berlin in 1728.17 By 1729 he was in Amsterdam, where he spent the rest of his life. The style of Locatelli’s flute sonatas is not particularly close to anything Bach wrote, although the rapid succession of decorative figures in his slow opening movements vaguely resembles the ornate surface of some of

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42 chapter four Bach’s adagios. Locatelli’s greatest significance for Bach lay in his regular use of three-part sonata form in his quick movements.18 Emanuel would not have routinely adopted this design on the basis of Locatelli’s work alone, and by the time he reached Berlin he would have known it from innumerable other sonatas, including those of Quantz and his patron King Frederick. But he must have known examples of Locatelli’s work at Frankfurt; the two flute sonatas that he wrote there follow Locatelli not only in the designs of individual movements but in the conception of the sonata as a whole. Each of these sonatas, like Locatelli’s op. 2, no. 10, comprises a through-composed slow movement followed by an allegro in sonata form (with double bar) and a final minuet in binary form with variations.19 Bach’s largest solo keyboard work from the Frankfurt years is the set of twenty-one variations on the minuet from Locatelli’s op. 2, no. 10. Locatelli provided seven variations to end the sonata, the only work in the volume to include a variation movement. The sonata must have been popular, as it was widely anthologized and there are numerous manuscript copies, some with additional variations for the minuet. NV places Emanuel’s Locatelli Variations (W. 118/7) in 1735, but the date poses a problem for Bach scholars. For Emanuel’s work also contains direct parallels to his father’s Goldberg Variations, published only in 1741. Could the latter have been composed significantly earlier? Emanuel’s Locatelli Variations survive in only a few late sources,20 and the parallels to his father’s work are conceivably products of a late revision. Yet NV lists no Berlin renovation, and the absence of early copies, together with the unusual style of the work within Bach’s output, suggests that he set it aside after using it as a display piece for his own performances at Frankfurt. A few apparent quotations from Sebastian’s work are made obvious by the common key, G major. Although none of Emanuel’s variations are canonic or involve crossing hands (like those in the Goldberg set), several are unusually contrapuntal for him, and others require leaps reminiscent of those required in Sebastian’s variations (ex. 4.5).21 Sebastian wrote virtually nothing in variation form between the chorale partitas of around 1710 and the Goldberg set, and Friedemann was similarly reluctant to compose variations. Yet Emanuel, after using variation form here and in several early woodwind sonatas, returned to it occasionally in later works, leaving around two dozen sets in all. Two sets of variations from the 1740s, W. 118/3 and 118/4, return to individual types of variation found in the Locatelli set. For instance, a “disjointed” type in the two later sets corresponds to no. 5 in the Locatelli Variations; it was probably suggested by passages in Locatelli’s original that exploit the flute’s ability to leap rapidly between registers ($ex. 4.6).22 But stylistic differences between the Locatelli Variations and the two Berlin sets are greater than their similarities, implying that the Locatelli set does stem in its entirety from Frankfurt. The two sets of the 1740s are shorter, containing only five and seven variations, respectively. All but three of those variations are essentially in

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from leipzig to frankfurt (oder) and berlin 43 Example 4.5. Variations on a Minuet by Locatelli, W. 118/7: opening of nos. 3, 6, and 19, with parallels in J. S. Bach, Goldberg Variations, BWV 988, nos. 12, 5, and 8

two parts, and none employs contrapuntal textures in which the theme occurs in the bass or inner voice, as in the Locatelli variations. Nor do the Berlin sets contain the slightest hint of imitation. All this points to Emanuel’s adoption of a new, more fashionable or galant approach to writing variations at Berlin, probably for amateurs or pupils. Much of the virtuoso writing in the Locatelli set remains slightly awkward if not gauche, although sometimes in a way of which Sebastian might have approved, as in the slightly crabbed counterpoint of the first variation ($ex. 4.7). Elsewhere the apparent awkwardness seems playful and intentional, as in the almost Beethovenian variation 13 ($ex. 4.8). Unlike his father and older brother, Emanuel would come to rely on variation technique not only in actual variation sets but in innumerable revisions and varied reprises in later works. His variation sets are not his greatest compositions; the best of them, including the Locatelli set, remain less substantial than all but his least serious sonatas. But unlike most of his variation sets, including those in the early woodwind sonatas, the Locatelli set comprises genuine variations in the

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44 chapter four later sense, not merely a series of varied realizations of a bass line.23 Bach varies the complete texture, writing not just idiomatically for the keyboard but also contrapuntally. Only one later variation work, the set on “Ich schlief, da träumte mir” (W. 118/1) published in 1761 and extended in 1771, reveals similarly ambitious dimensions while exploring canonic counterpoint. Some of Bach’s more extensive revisions in other works, including the Berlin renovations, would show the same imagination. An example occurs in the first movement of the G-Minor Sonata W. 65/11. Listed in NV as his first Berlin work for solo keyboard, W. 65/11 was composed in 1739, before Frederick’s accession as king and Bach’s official appointment; it is his first really impressive sonata, at least in its revised version. As NV lists no renovation, it is possible that the second version, which substitutes a new and distinctly more mature final movement, dates from well after the 1740s. Yet in its early form the sonata can be understood as the culmination of what Bach had learned as a keyboard composer by the time he left Frankfurt.24 The first movement, still by far the longest and most ambitious, moves swiftly from one idea to another. But the contrasts are by no means limited to changing types of decorative melodic writing, as in Locatelli’s sonatas. Although one recognizes formulas from galant arias and chamber music, there is also passagework comparable to Sebastian’s, as well as flashes of idiosyncratic, slightly demonic writing that no one else except perhaps Friedemann might have put into a keyboard sonata at this date ($ex. 4.9). Despite the colorful diversity of the melodic surface, the movement is in a clearly articulated sonata form, with distinct retransition and recapitulation passages—demonstrating that Bach now understood how to make the return the pivotal moment in the piece, even though the single most dramatic moment occurs a few measures later: the returning main theme is interrupted by a full measure of rest (m. 59) after an augmented-sixth chord, an intensification of the conventional ploy à la Hasse. The only disappointment in this version of the sonata is that the promise of the first movement is not entirely fulfilled by what follows. The Presto that ends the work remains a relatively small binary form, apparently borrowed from an early form of what became the Sonatina W. 64/2. This movement is an almost silly exercise in what would later be termed Sturm und Drang; the first section, which fails to modulate (ending with a half cadence), employs a crude quasi-orchestral texture with a repeated octave pedal point in the bass ($ex. 4.10). Later versions substitute an entirely different movement, originally designated Cantabile.25 If, as seems likely, this Cantabile dates from the 1740s, it confirms the impression that at Berlin Bach’s conception of the sonata as a genre had matured. The new third movement, rather than echoing the bluster of the first, now completes an emotional trajectory from “storm and stress” to resignation or quiet contemplation. This new third movement is also a fullfledged three-part sonata form.

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from leipzig to frankfurt (oder) and berlin 45 The next few keyboard sonatas, composed at Berlin in 1740, seem to have been conceived from the start as comprising three movements of equal weight. This step marked the advancement of the keyboard sonata from a small-scale imitation of ensemble sonatas (like Locatelli’s flute sonatas) to a serious genre in its own right. The B-Minor Sonata of just a year later (W. 65/13) even opens with a Poco allegro in cantabile style; its final movement is a fiery Allegro di molto, reversing the emotional arc of W. 65/11. The C-Major Prussian Sonata of 1741 (W. 48/5) follows a similar scheme, as does Bach’s second Berlin concerto, W. 5 in C minor. If, in its original form, W. 65/11 shared a certain immaturity with Bach’s Frankfurt sonatas and variations, this might have been the sort of thing that led Crown Prince Frederick to describe a “son of Bach”—presumably Emanuel— as “very strong in composition, but his taste [gout] is not formed.”26 In fact, although he understands the fashionable music of the day, Emanuel repeatedly swerves away from it, inserting elements of his father’s style as well as passages that display his own virtuosity as both performer and composer. A musically capable prince might well have considered this a failure of “taste,” finding the same in Sebastian’s music. An astute judge of character would also have understood that one impulse behind such music was a desire to surprise and astonish—an element of the old stylus fantasticus that a German municipal organist might still cultivate but was no longer proper in a court musician. Frederick could have been interested in Bach as a composer and potential accompanist of flute solos. But as crown prince he must also have been imagining greater musical things, including a revival of the orchestral performances heard at court during his grandfather’s reign and a royal opera surpassing that of Dresden. As long as his father was alive, discretion required him to be silent about these things, even in letters to his sister. Nor does he mention compositions by any “son of Bach,” although it seems possible that Emanuel’s early flute solos were performed by if not written for Frederick. Still, how many woodwind sonatas Bach composed before his arrival in Berlin is uncertain. In addition to flute sonatas in G major and E minor (W. 123 and 124), an undated G-Major Sonata (W. 134) may also have originated at Frankfurt, although Oleskiewicz provides strong arguments that the existing version is from Berlin.27 Another solo left undated in NV, Bach’s solitary oboe sonata (W. 135), seems more rudimentary in style. Yet its simplicity might reflect caution in writing for an instrument with which Bach was less familiar. Its overall form, concluding with a little set of variations, is the same as that of W. 123 and 124. On the other hand, brief imitations between soloist and bass in the opening Adagio do not recur in the slow movements of other sonatas. Such things could be more typical of Leipzig, although more extensive imitations and even a fugue occur in the quick movements of slightly later sonatas.28 In any case, the oboe sonata reveals the same awkward details as other early works—in particular, a tendency to incorporate stuttering repeated notes into the little explosions

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46 chapter four of florid embellishment that erupt from time to time in the slow movements ($ex. 4.11). These make sense within the quasi-rhetorical style of these works, yet they are difficult to play convincingly and would have contributed to a later perception of Bach’s style as zerhackte (chopped up), that is, comprised of many small melodic fragments.29 The outstanding work among the early woodwind solos is surely the Flute Sonata in E Minor (W. 124). Later compositions, including the first Berlin flute sonatas of 1738–40, reveal more ambitious dimensions and a more balanced conception of the whole three-movement work. Yet the opening Adagio of W. 124 is remarkable for its remote chromatic modulations. These first occur as part of a digression to G minor, after the movement has already moved to the relative major. This sort of tonal excursion, embedded within a secondary key area, demonstrates a firm command of modulation and tonal relationships, anticipating more extended and remote digressions in later works. Here the modulation coincides with an apparent echo of Sebastian’s B-minor flute sonata ($ex. 4.12). The following Allegro seems inspired, on the other hand, by Hasse. It repeats the type of half cadence with augmented-sixth chord (mm. 13–14) that has been noted elsewhere, yet it shares its quasi-ritornello form with the first movement of Sebastian’s work. Such echoes of Emanuel’s father’s music would grow fainter in later compositions.

Cadenzas One detail in many of Bach’s early sonatas that reflects an evolving aspect of his compositional thought is the presence of a cadenza—at least in the extant versions. The soloist’s practice of embellishing final cadences probably arose in Italian arias, where, as Quantz noted, it might occur at the end of all three sections of a da capo aria.30 Although never called for in Corelli’s works, with the following generation the cadenza became a fixture in sonatas and concertos. Contrary to later practice, however, the explicit indication for a cadenza, in the form of a fermata over the penultimate (dominant) harmony of a solo passage, was most common in slow movements—those of solo and trio sonatas, as well as concertos. For this reason, the cadenza was often more expressive than superficially virtuosic. Such is the case with most of the examples in a collection of written-out cadenzas that Bach prepared probably at Hamburg. By the time of the existing manuscript copy, Bach had long been incorporating written-out cadenzas into the body of certain compositions.31 In such works—notably the six concertos of W. 43, published in 1771—the cadenza is no longer an embellishment; rather it is an integral part of the composition, as in later concertos by Beethoven and Mendelssohn. That development could not yet have been glimpsed, however, at Frankfurt or even during Bach’s first years at Berlin. Many of Bach’s written-out cadenzas, although probably late in date and composed for keyboard instruments, still conform to Quantz’s dictum that

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from leipzig to frankfurt (oder) and berlin 47 a flute cadenza should be short enough to be played in one breath. Bach’s instructions in his own Versuch are less detailed than those of Quantz, who devotes an entire chapter and numerous examples to the subject. But Bach’s remark that “embellished cadences resemble impromptu compositions” implies that they could be more extended than Quantz suggests, and one can imagine Emanuel improvising at length within a performance of a sonata or concerto, at least before he reached Berlin.32 Quantz’s preferred type of cadenza does not always refer to the thematic material of the movement, and the same holds for many of Emanuel’s cadenzas. Some, however, including two for the relatively early concerto W. 11, develop motives from the main body of the movement. Although the extant cadenzas are of a late date, Bach probably improvised comparable things earlier in his career. Certainly Bach was aware of the lengthy “capriccios” that Italian violinists inserted into concertos. Sebastian had adapted two of these for organ in his arrangement of Vivaldi’s “Grosso Mogul” Concerto for violin (BWV 594). Locatelli’s Arte del violino included examples as well, and Emanuel’s copy of the keyboard concerto BWV 1052a contains indications for something similar: the marking Cadenza all’arbitrio in the string parts corresponds to the words ad libitum at one point in the solo part.33 These indicate an impromptu extension of the climactic solo passage of the last movement. Written out in Sebastian’s final version of the work (BWV 1052), the passage, like the corresponding one in the Fifth Brandenburg Concerto, represents an extended solo improvisation, not merely the elaboration of a cadence. Except in BWV 1052a, opportunities for improvised cadenzas or capriccios are rare in Sebastian’s music, and leaving an important element of a composition up to the performer runs contrary to musical practices that we associate with the Bach household.34 Yet cadenzas were routinely performed at Berlin, even where not explicitly called for by the presence of a fermata.35 Emanuel would revise the slow movements of some early works to permit cadenzas, even if the latter still are not marked by a fermata, as in the Cantabile of the Suite W. 65/4. Yet the renovated version of that movement implicitly demands a cadenza, closing with a formula that invites the soloist to pause on and elaborate the 46 chord in the last measure ($ex. 4.13). The final cadence of the earlier version might also have been embellished, but it is not prepared by any of the standard types of passages that in later works lead to a decorated cadence ($ex. 4.14). It is possible that Emanuel did not regularly play or call for such cadenzas until after his arrival at Berlin. The first of his concertos composed there still provides no opportunity for a cadenza in the earliest extant version of its slow movement (see ex. 5.8 in the next chapter).36 The Andante of the early flute sonata in G (W. 123) already ends with a cadenza formula, but not the Adagio of the following sonata in E minor (W. 124), composed at Frankfurt as late as 1737. In any case, the cadenza itself remained extraneous to the

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48 chapter four musical structure of the work throughout the Frankfurt and early Berlin years. Occurring most often at the end of the slow movement, it served to extend the latter and thus to further heighten anticipation of the following allegro, which in the solo and trio sonatas is usually the longest and most virtuosic of the three movements. But only much later would Bach make the cadenza an integral part of the composition (for more on cadenzas in Bach’s early works, see 4.4).

Bach as Vocal Composer Among Bach’s most important compositions for Frankfurt were a number of ambitious church pieces as well as cantatas or serenatas in honor of members of the royal family. Only the librettos of these survive, but in their place we have a recently discovered sacred cantata, Ich bin vergnügt mit meinem Stande. Although intended for church rather than court or concert use, and most likely composed before he left Leipzig, the cantata gives us some idea of what the young Emanuel could do as a vocal composer. It is, moreover, related stylistically to his earliest concerto (W. 1). From these two works we learn what Bach was prepared to write and perform outside the sphere of private music, that is, solo keyboard pieces and chamber music intended primarily for study or domestic use. Peter Wollny, who discovered the autograph score of the cantata in a provincial church archive, places its composition prior to Bach’s move from Leipzig to Frankfurt.37 The autograph is clearly a composing score,38 and a fair copy is unlikely to have been made for a work of this type. Performing parts, if any ever existed, are lost. How the work reached its present location is unknown, but its text is by the Leipzig poet known as Picander, author of the libretto for Sebastian’s Coffee Cantata, which Emanuel apparently performed at Frankfurt, and of church pieces performed by Sebastian Bach at Leipzig. The cantata, which comprises two arias and an intervening recitative, is for a single bass voice accompanied by strings and continuo; Emanuel omitted an additional recitative and concluding chorale included in Picander’s published text of 1728–29. The cantata is roughly coeval with W. 1, composed in 1733 and Bach’s only concerto to survive in what is probably a Frankfurt version, if not the original from Leipzig. Unlike the cantata, W. 1 remained in Bach’s repertory, renovated and acknowledged in NV, although it remains recognizably early in style if not “immature” (jugendlich).39 The cantata is, in a sense, a concerto for solo vocalist, comprising two quick movements (arias) that frame a slow one (recitative). In this it resembles the solo motets used in the Roman Catholic liturgy of the period and imitated in Sebastian’s Jauchzet Gott in allen Landen (BWV 51), which in its present form is thought to date from 1730. Both Emanuel’s

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from leipzig to frankfurt (oder) and berlin 49 concerto and his cantata are scored for soloist and strings, in three movements unified by key—as one would expect in a concerto, but not necessarily in a cantata. The concerto’s opening ritornello shares with the cantata a concern with the expressive half step that falls between the fifth and sixth degrees of the minor scale. Both works also share a general interest in chromatic and enharmonic progressions. Perhaps one would expect to find such things in the work of any Bach pupil, yet they are entirely absent from a cantata by Doles (discussed below). In both works by Emanuel, the harmony reveals signs of having been conceived by a keyboard player thinking in terms of a chordal realization of a figured bass, not in a more genuinely contrapuntal way. Sebastian does sometimes use the parallel 36 (first-inversion) chords that characterize several passages in the cantata.40 Uncharacteristic of Sebastian, however, is the absence of a fully independent bass line; Emanuel’s bass tends to move formulaically in eighths. Indeed, his first thoughts for the bass in the opening measures were apparently plain repeated notes, if what he entered in the autograph before correcting it has been correctly transcribed ($ex. 4.15).41 Sebastian likewise opened movements in his vocal works over tonic pedal points, but the harmony and counterpoint in such cases are more compelling, and the pedal point lasts longer (as in BWV 54). The main theme of Emanuel’s second aria, on the other hand, although still composed over a somewhat plodding bass line and relaxing quickly into a galant pedal point, opens over the expressive 7–6 progression used by Sebastian in, for example, the aria “Mein Verlangen” ($ex. 4.16).42

Conceptions of Vocal Music Emanuel’s early cantata raises the question of how he and his fellow pupils learned to write compositions of this sort, which would have been essential to their future work as music directors at church or court. Obvious parallels between Emanuel’s setting and two related works by Sebastian suggest that such compositions would, not unexpectedly, have been modeled on existing music.43 Daniel Melamed has shown that the cantata fragment Raset und brauset by Johann Friedrich Doles—also on a Picander text—was written while the composer was a pupil of J. S. Bach.44 Although this does not prove that Doles composed it directly under Bach’s tutelage, his work suggests that Sebastian tolerated, if he did not encourage, his students’ adoption of the homophonic, harmonically simple style characteristic of Dresden composers such as Bach’s eventual successor Harrer. The style would serve Doles well; he would in turn succeed Harrer at Leipzig in 1755, edging out Emanuel Bach, who also applied for the position. On the other hand, two sacred works by Goldberg, composed while studying in the 1740s with Sebastian, come much closer to the latter’s style. They incorporate substantial counterpoint, and it may be that Sebastian did not impose any particular style on his pupils’ work, allowing them to write

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50 chapter four in ways suitable to their particular talents. At least one of Goldberg’s two works was performed at Leipzig under J. S. Bach, yet their sources contain no signs of the latter’s oversight, nor does Emanuel’s cantata. Sebastian’s role as a teacher of composition may therefore have lain chiefly in serving as a model and letting his best pupils copy and perform his own works. One imagines that composers pass their working routines on to their pupils, and Wollny has argued that Emanuel, later in life, would draft large compositions in the form of “continuity drafts” consisting of a single melodic line with bass.45 Sebastian occasionally made brief sketches of this sort,46 but his polyphonically conceived music could not usually have been drafted in this manner. If Emanuel did adopt this type of draft as a routine, it might have been only after his move to Berlin, where such a practice would have made sense within the prevailing monodic style, derived from that of Italian opera. In that style even large ensembles frequently performed structurally simple music dominated by a single melodic line. Doles would acknowledge Hasse and Graun “as his models,” as did Bach, in effect.47 The composition that Doles apparently wrote at Leipzig is far closer to the style of Hasse and Graun than is Emanuel’s cantata. Yet Doles’s workaday filling in of the inner voices is not so distinct from that of Emanuel, whose cantata contains little real counterpoint, despite its sometimes inventive harmony. Equally uncharacteristic of Sebastian Bach is Emanuel’s use of the same instrumentation and key for both arias of his cantata.48 Telemann, however, followed similar designs in many cantatas of his Harmonischer Gottesdienst of 1725–26, which must have been another model for the present work.49 Emanuel’s chromatic and even enharmonic passages naturally remind us of Sebastian, yet the asymmetrical, somewhat short-winded melodic phrases in both arias are a legacy of Telemann—whose published vocal works might have influenced Sebastian as well. Those works certainly influenced another Bach pupil, Johann Friedrich Agricola, who arrived at Leipzig in 1738 already familiar with Telemann’s music. Agricola, Emanuel’s future colleague at Berlin, would write to Telemann that he learned from the latter’s cantatas and church pieces “how vocal music must be written in order to be beautiful”; he was drawn to imitate these while receiving Sebastian’s teaching on keyboard instruments and in “the foundations of harmony.”50 Agricola’s antithesis between Sebastian’s virtuosity or technique, on the one hand, and the beautiful or expressive music of his contemporaries, on the other, would become a cliché that Emanuel later resisted.51 Yet he must have understood what people meant by it, and his early cantata is essentially a galant composition despite incorporating elements of his father’s style. The through-composed form of the first aria is an instance of the latter. Characteristic of what is often called a “modified” da capo aria, it is rare in vocal music by anyone other than J. S. Bach.52 The three main solo sections in such an aria correspond roughly to those of a contemporary sonata or

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from leipzig to frankfurt (oder) and berlin 51 concerto movement, although the point would not be made explicit before the second half of the eighteenth century, when writers such as Riepel and especially Koch began to develop a true theory of musical form.53 Koch would describe the typical concerto allegro as a sonata form with ritornellos inserted before and after each of the three main sections; by then, however, composers such as Emanuel Bach had been following this design for decades. When, if ever, Emanuel reached the understanding of the form as articulated by Koch is impossible to say; he never addresses musical design in his own writings. During the 1740s, Emanuel’s contemporary Scheibe expressed the related idea that it is the solo episodes, not the ritornellos, that represent the “essence” of a concerto.54 Yet it is often the ritornellos that present the most memorable ideas in eighteenth-century concertos, making the rapprochement with either sonata or aria form approximate at best. Although Koch’s basic concept emerges clearly in works of the 1730s and 1740s—not only Bach’s—not every concerto movement bears it out with equal clarity. Koch’s idea is hardly discernible even in the renovated version of the opening movement of W. 1. In later concerto movements, the great length of the opening ritornello poses problems for the idea of the ritornello as mere frame; so does the frequent use of the tutti rather than the soloist to state the return at the opening of the recapitulation.55 The recapitulation as a whole is typically divided between tutti and soloist, and it frequently restates portions of the solo passagework from the second as well as the first solo episode, especially in Bach’s concertos of the 1740s. Hence, to describe a concerto movement as an unqualified instance of sonata form is potentially misleading; rather sonatas, concertos, and arias all employ common principles that we conveniently but anachronistically understand as elements of eighteenth-century sonata form. Works from the first half of the century, including Sebastian’s, incorporate those principles less consistently than do later ones. For instance, a throughcomposed da capo aria can, like a typical sonata or concerto movement, substitute an integrated retransition phrase for the stark pause found at the end of the B section in a normal da capo form. Yet a sonata or concerto movement could also come to a complete halt at the end of a central section, thereby making a dramatic reference to vocal music. A number of Sebastian’s instrumental works incorporate such moments, and many of Emanuel’s earlier sonatas and concertos likewise allude to traditional da capo aria form by coming to a full cadence and pause just before the return.56 Although Emanuel and his contemporaries continued to write conventional da capo arias until close to the end of the century, a complete halt at the return evidently came to seem out of place in a sonata or concerto movement. Its suddenness, dividing the movement into segments that are not organically connected to one another, was contrary to the principles of emerging sonata form. Instead, Emanuel learned, in movements from his Berlin sonatas and concertos, to turn the retransition into a passage whose dramatic tension at

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52 chapter four times anticipates Beethoven. Thus, in the first movement of his G-minor concerto of 1740 (W. 6), the retransition consists of passages alternating between the strings and the keyboard soloist, stating sharply contrasting material. Over the course of the passage (mm. 212–54), their entries grow shorter—the alternation becomes more urgent—leading to a climactic keyboard solo that modulates back to the tonic. Nothing so dramatic occurs in the first aria of Emanuel’s cantata, which, despite its through-composed ternary form, lacks a retransition.57 As in a conventional da capo aria, the cadence at the end of the B section leads immediately into a ritornello in the tonic, albeit an abbreviated one. High drama might not have been appropriate in an aria whose subject is contentment with one’s lot, but Emanuel’s conception of such a movement remained far from that of an instrumental work in this early composition.

The Early Vocal Works It is easy to find reminiscences of Sebastian’s music in Emanuel’s little cantata. The principal tune of the first aria revolves around the notes b′ and c″ in a way that recalls the opening of Sebastian’s B-minor flute sonata (perhaps a favorite work of this period). The B section of the second aria echoes Sebastian’s Saint Matthew Passion before taking an unexpected turn from G major to F-sharp minor (ex. 4.19).58 This is one of several radical modulations in Emanuel’s cantata that could have been inspired by Sebastian’s chorales or recitatives, although they are also logical developments of the chromaticism present in the opening ritornello of the first aria. Indeed, this cantata is student work only up to a point, for Emanuel here is already a master of chromatic harmony. He would have learned this in part from study of his father’s most difficult progressions, in part by inventing, probably at the keyboard, his own variations on them. Among these are progressions built over the B–A–C–H motive (B♭, A, C, B♮), which appears frequently in Emanuel’s music, especially in the bass (see ex. 6.8 in chap. 6).59 Already alluded to in the opening ritornello, the B–A– C–H motive occurs in transposed form (F–E–G–F♯) later in the aria ($ex. 4.20; cf. $ex. 4.17b). Yet although the remote modulation in the first such passage, E minor to G minor (m. 12), reflects the composer’s high expressive aspirations, it is not clearly motivated by anything specific in the text, and the passage cannot be judged entirely cogent. Indeed, although the opening ritornello is imaginatively conceived, after repeating its opening phrase—twice, the first time as a so-called motto (Devisen) entry—the vocal part cycles around the notes a and b somewhat uncertainly as it continues to line 2 of the text (mm. 36–41). Some hard-to-sing intervals and motifs, including written-out mordents (first at m. 79), betray the imagination of a composer trained as an instrumentalist.60 Although the strings are in four parts, they show very little rhythmic independence, and rhythmic lacunae at

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Example 4.19. (a) J. S. Bach, St. Matthew Passion, BWV 244, no. 11, mm. 35b–39; (b) Ich bin vergnügt mit meinem Stande, movement 3, mm. 115–26

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54 chapter four the ends of phrases in the melody are filled in by standard formulas. When the voice enters, it is doubled initially by the first violin. Thereafter it is sometimes independent, and the first violin occasionally has little obbligatos not unlike those that appear already in the earliest known version of the Concerto W. 1. The impression that this is the work of an imaginative, talented musician, but one still learning his trade, continues in the remaining movements. The recitative correctly marks the main division of its text by a cadence at the center, using a formula familiar from Sebastian’s music (m. 9). The final aria again betrays a keyboard player’s hand in a prominent syncopated motive idiomatic to neither voice nor violins. The motive is hardly suggested by the text, although it would have been difficult for a composer to be inspired by the “coin” metaphor that underlies Picander’s poem. Here, as in BWV 84, the preceding recitative refers to receiving one’s “daily bread,” but only in the version of the poem set by Sebastian does the following aria refer to nourishment as a divine gift (Ich esse mit Freuden). In Emanuel’s cantata, food is replaced as the subject matter by money (Groschen); the latter word eventually receives a pair of melismas, the second and longer one being reminiscent of Telemann ($ex. 4.21).61 Later in life, Emanuel would be outspoken about his pecuniary concerns; is his emphasis of this word an early expression of that tendency? Any sacred cantata was meant to be a lesson for the listeners, but if this one was the product of a composition lesson, we can imagine Sebastian’s selecting its text purposefully, perhaps for a second son who was not entirely contented with his place in life. Without the music, we can say less about the lost Frankfurt works. The six surviving libretti are all longer than that of the little Picander cantata; they indicate that the vocal compositions that Bach wrote and performed at Frankfurt during 1735–37 were substantial works, comprising at least four movements each, including arias, recitatives, and choruses. Among them is a church piece for Advent Sunday—a much more important day in the church year than Septuagesimae, the occasion for the Picander cantata—as well as works honoring the royal family.62 Whether King Friedrich Wilhelm was present for the two works performed in his honor is unknown. If so, it might have been politic for the music to avoid the more fashionable or opulent aspects of music at Dresden, for which the king might have acquired a distaste after his visit there in 1728.63 Yet, although unmusical—and as a strict Calvinist he would not have heard elaborate music during church services—the king had a surprising talent for painting and could not have been completely insensitive to the arts. More ominously, he was enough of an intellectual to understand that liberal professors posed a threat to his regime. His efforts to control teaching and thought at the two Prussian universities reflected the fact that these were the places where future administrators of his kingdom received their training. Not only his notorious expulsion of the philosophy professor Christian Wolff from Halle, but an insulting

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from leipzig to frankfurt (oder) and berlin 55 debate with his court jester (lustiger Rath) Morgenstern, which he forced on the Frankfurt faculty,64 represented the same thinking that leads contemporary reactionaries to attack universities and restrict academic tenure. Despite the king’s efforts, Frankfurt must have been an outpost of independent thought, scholarship, and artistic patronage. Crown Prince Frederick would have been pleased by Emanuel’s serenata performed there on January 24, 1737, which names him “friend of the Muses.” It takes the conventional quasi-dramatic form of a dialogue, here between Hope and Love. These two compare Frederick to the Roman emperor Trajan—one of the “good” emperors, and a perspicacious choice, given his fame for rebuilding the city of Rome (as Frederick would build Berlin). The author of the text clearly knew of and was prepared to praise Frederick’s artistic interests; evidently by 1737 there was no danger in lauding these. It is possible, too, that by this date Bach’s playing was known to his future royal employer, who had auditioned a “son of Bach” less than two years earlier. Whatever Bach might have performed for Frederick in private, a politically inspired, public vocal work would surely have drawn on the crown prince’s preferred Dresden style—as did works in praise of the Saxon ruling family that Sebastian was performing in Leipzig during the same decade. Inasmuch as the repertory of Emanuel’s collegium seems to have included the Sinfonia from his father’s Easter Oratorio, as well as Sebastian’s Trio for two flutes and continuo (BWV 1039),65 we can assume that Frederick’s favorite wind instrument was also available for Emanuel’s vocal works. But the basic instrumentation must have been the same as in Emanuel’s cantata and early concertos: a core of strings, perhaps already tending toward the two- and threepart textures that predominated in opera seria. Trumpets and timpani would have been expected in the grander works, but these were probably not essential to the counterpoint (as they are in Sebastian’s Easter Sinfonia), rather secondary and even optional, as in the D-Major Ouverture BWV 1068 and in many of Emanuel’s own later compositions.66 The extant libretti contain almost the full range of text types that one would have expected in such works, including bible verses (chiefly from the psalms). The first and last of the psalm verses in the Advent piece are designated “Tutti” and presumably were fully scored choruses, perhaps even fugues. Absent are stanzas from chorales, although the sacred works could have been supplemented with four-part chorale settings, perhaps even ones taken from Sebastian’s church pieces. The arias include types whose versification implies not only da capo form but other designs. The texts of the second and third arias in the Advent piece employ the two-strophe form typical of a da capo aria, with a common ending rhyme. On the other hand, none of the aria texts in the serenata for Frederick follow this form; the second comprises four short lines plus a rhyming couplet, implying a bipartite design. The latter text, incidentally, obliquely expresses a desire for Frederick’s coronation;67 it would have

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56 chapter four been best set quietly, perhaps with flutes, despite the assurance in the preceding dialogue that Frederick is a devotee not only of Apollo but also of Mars. The German text of this work could not have appealed to the crown prince. But setting the eight double-column pages of German poetry that survive from Bach’s six early works, with their diverse formal types and subject matter, would have provided him with considerable experience in the musical treatment of his native language. Like his father, he would have approached the task of setting these poems as an exercise in emulating various Italianate models. But he would have had to consider how thoroughly to adopt the fashionably mellifluous style of Hasse while toning down not only the more rhetorical elements of his Picander cantata, presumably inspired by Telemann, but also any suggestions of counterpoint taken from his father. He might also have had to resist his own interest in harmonic adventures. It is possible that Emanuel was later embarrassed by these works, whose poetry would have seemed amateurish and old-fashioned after his exposure to the literati of Berlin and Hamburg. Their music, although doubtless more polished than that of the early cantata, surely contained some gaucheries, even if it brought him notice not only from fellow students but from members of the ruling house. Wollny suggests that five of the Frankfurt vocal works were “occasional pieces for large orchestra” (with singers) and that only two were “smaller pieces.”68 But if Bach by now had adopted the thin textures prevailing in the fashionable Italian style, composing music for large ensembles would not have been appreciably more taxing than writing for smaller ones. On the contrary, greater care might have been required in composing chamber works, whose listeners could have been more discerning. Of course it is impossible to know how these libretti were actually set. Nor can we be certain that all the texts designated as arias in large works like the 1735 Advent cantata were scored for soloists, as opposed to four-part chorus or another type of ensemble. Only two singers are mentioned in an invoice that Bach prepared for a 1737 serenata in honor of Margrave Friedrich Wilhelm and his wife, but these were evidently joined by students who were not paid.69 Bach’s invoice not only documents the forces involved in one of the more elaborate of his Frankfurt works, including payments to town and military musicians (Kunst-Pfeiffer and Hautboisten), as well as “for my own work” (vor meine Arbeit). It also demonstrates that in 1737 Bach was organizing performances as ambitious as those that he would lead much later at Hamburg, and perhaps occasionally in Berlin during the next few decades. Prior to his arrival at Frankfurt, it would not have been obvious in what musical realm he would excel. His father and older brother had begun their careers as organists, and Emanuel’s audition at Naumburg in 1733 suggests that he was then contemplating a similar career. But in going to Frankfurt he at least temporarily set aside any plans to become a church musician.

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from leipzig to frankfurt (oder) and berlin 57 Directing a collegium had proved a successful sideline for Telemann during the latter’s university studies at Leipzig. Emanuel might have hoped that doing the same at Frankfurt would lead to an appointment in a prestigious cantorship, as with Telemann. Indeed, Bach’s experience at Frankfurt served him in good stead when, thirty years later, he finally succeeded Telemann as cantor at Hamburg. Although we think of Bach primarily as an instrumental composer, it is possible that he never viewed himself that way, regarding his three decades as a court musician at Berlin merely as a long career detour. Yet it is equally possible that, after four years at Frankfurt, he had resolved to follow a path very different from the one to which he had been led by his training. Commissions for keyboard music and chamber sonatas might have been as remunerative at Frankfurt as engagements to produce vocal works, and more important than the latter in helping him gain his position at Berlin.70 When Bach left Frankfurt for the Prussian capital, the keyboard sonata and keyboard concerto, the two genres for which he would eventually become famous, were still essentially experimental. Yet by the mid-1740s those genres would become the focus of his work. In his hands, the keyboard sonata was a serious type of piece, not merely a pedagogic one, becoming, like the keyboard concerto, a genre in its own right, rather than an adaptation of something conceived for string or wind instruments. Although he would be paid to serve as court accompanist, he would enjoy free time to make his name in a sphere of concert music entirely distinct from the courtly one in which he played professionally, and equally distinct from the churchly sphere in which he had been brought up.

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Chapter Five

Joining the Court Bach at Berlin At Berlin, Bach became a type of musician that was new in early eighteenthcentury Europe: a professional keyboard virtuoso who was neither a church organist nor a composer or director of music for a court. He arrived at Berlin without a position, and the court appointment that he soon obtained was parttime, allowing if not requiring him to find freelance work as a teacher, composer, and player. Present-day familiarity with the independent musical soloist or entrepreneur, an increasingly common type during the later eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, should not obscure for us its novelty at the time Bach began his career; he was a pioneer in a new profession. Bach was not alone in this; except for Quantz, Graun, and the Italian singers, other members of the court musical establishment, especially the keyboard players, were in situations similar to his. Their time in Berlin coincided with a phenomenal growth in interest in all sorts of music among the upper and middle classes, and the city itself was growing as well. This reflected a general improvement in economic conditions across northern Europe, despite major conflicts such as the Seven Years’ War of 1756–63. Enormous quantities of music were composed and disseminated—both in manuscript and in printed editions—to satisfy increasing demand not only for domestic use but for concerts of various types. Although the latter were at first mostly private affairs, sponsored by aristocrats or the musicians themselves (in their own homes), by the end of the century the forerunners of modern concert culture were recognizable. Many of the thousands of solos, trios, quartets, concertos, sinfonias, and other instrumental pieces composed to fill the resulting demand are utterly trivial. Public concerts were often performed by mixed ensembles of professionals and dilettantes, sightreading without rehearsal. The level of musical discernment and technical ability must have varied considerably, perhaps

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joining the court 59 even within the various “academies” that arose in Berlin during Bach’s time there. A musician seeking to profit from this situation would have had to make calculated decisions about the type of music and the level of technical and musical sophistication required, when writing to satisfy the incessant demand for novelty. Few of Bach’s contemporaries, at Berlin or elsewhere, were as successful as he. His brother Friedemann, except when writing for the church during his Halle years, probably never composed for more than a small circle of devotees. In a lifetime as long as Emanuel’s, Friedmann managed to publish only two keyboard sonatas, and only after Emanuel had already issued a dozen such works in two volumes. The problems in Friedemann’s case apparently included personal diffidence as well as reluctance to change his style or sufficiently reduce the difficulty of his music. Emanuel, on the other hand, seems to have been a valued collaborator to all who knew him, including the king. He was prepared to adapt his style as needed, to the extent that he would admit publicly that only a few of his keyboard works, including solos, trios, and concertos, were composed “with all freedom” (mit aller Freyheit) and for his own use.1 He did not clarify what he meant by “use” (Gebrauch): presumably his own performances, both in public and while practicing privately or playing for friends. Nor did he explain which pieces were written for himself, but among these were surely several extraordinary works mentioned in letters: the Concerto W. 31, one of the violin-and-keyboard trios from the 1760s (such as W. 76), and the keyboard fantasias. These are relatively late works, but already among the compositions from his first two decades at Berlin, one finds exceptional music such as the Concerto W. 23 alongside things like the two slim variation sets mentioned in chapter 4. According to his autobiography, Bach left Frankfurt (Oder) for Berlin in 1738. Two years later King Friedrich Wilhelm died, and Bach had “the honor to accompany, entirely alone, the first flute sonata that his majesty [Frederick II] played as King at Charlottenburg.”2 This is usually assumed to have been shortly after Frederick’s accession on May 31, 1740, but exactly when Bach officially joined the royal court as chamber musician is uncertain. Until then he served Frederick in an unofficial capacity, perhaps only occasionally, having canceled plans to travel with an unnamed nobleman after receiving a “call” to join the crown prince at Ruppin.3 Bach would serve the king for close to thirty years. His position brought him regularly into intimate association with one of the most powerful figures in Europe, and the most gifted of the many heads of state who have also been amateur musicians. Contrary to what is often stated, Bach became one of the king’s most highly paid instrumentalists,4 entrusted not only with accompanying his private concerts but with training other court musicians as well as the young dukes of Württemberg during an extended visit. The king’s opinion of Bach’s music is not known, but he permitted Bach to dedicate his first

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60 chapter five publication to him (the Prussian Sonatas, W. 48). In later years Frederick could not have regretted that his court keyboard player had become one of the most famous living composers and writers on music—one of the many artists, scholars, and scientists who made Friderician Berlin the intellectual and cultural capital of northern Europe. The king must also have appreciated the fact that Emanuel’s father was famed as a sort of musical scientist—though he might have preferred that Emanuel was not the godson of Telemann. The latter’s music was reportedly banned at court, at least while Frederick was crown prince, because of his settings of texts by Neumeister;5 the latter was hostile not only to Jews but to the Calvinist faith of the Hohenzollern dynasty. During Bach’s lifetime, Berlin was transformed from a provincial administrative and military center into a major European capital.6 Throughout Bach’s time there, the military presence remained strong, but Frederick’s officer corps emulated the king’s interest in the arts, and the Prussian nobility constituted a significant portion of Bach’s public. An expanding bourgeoisie—lawyers, doctors, and other professionals—participated as well, and the city’s growth made possible the emergence of musical institutions such as the Sing-Akademie zu Berlin, founded by Bach’s former pupil Fasch in 1791. Its predecessors included organizations that flourished during Bach’s years in the city, sponsoring private or semipublic performances of various types. Even the Seven Years’ War had no lasting detrimental effects on music and musical patronage in the city, despite two brief occupations of the city by Frederick’s Austrian and Russian enemies. Although the war caused a suspension of musical patronage by the royal court, this seems only to have encouraged Bach to devote greater efforts to composing pedagogic and popular pieces. Music publishing continued largely unabated, and after the war Bach appears to have increased his participation in public concerts. These developments reflected broader European trends, and Bach profited personally and financially from them, as the market for publications and performances expanded. Having arrived in Berlin as the locally famous son of a regionally famous musician, he would leave in 1768 as an author and composer whose writings and music were known across northern Europe. The war, which forced Emanuel and his family to flee the city for several months during 1758, constitutes the clearest milestone in Bach’s biography during his Berlin period.7 But although the reduction in court music-making during the war may have hastened changes in his professional life and his compositional style, shifts in both seem to have begun during the preceding years. It proves convenient to divide Bach’s Berlin period around the year 1752, which not only marks the halfway point of his time there but represents a true watershed: his father having died in 1750, he published Sebastian’s Art of Fugue in the following year, and in 1753 he issued the first volume of his Versuch. The latter, together with the eighteen keyboard pieces (Probestücke) published with it, must have taken up much of his time and thought during the preceding

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joining the court 61 two years, which saw relatively few compositions. Through 1750 his output at Berlin had been fairly consistent, comprising small numbers of keyboard sonatas and concertos each year, occasionally joined by solos and trios involving other instruments. After 1753 his output diversified and expanded, incorporating large numbers of songs and smaller keyboard pieces as well as sinfonias and other compositions for instrumental ensemble. His production of keyboard sonatas and concertos continued, but solo and trio sonatas disappeared. Further changes included Bach’s invention of a new genre, the ensemble sonatinas of 1762–64, and ultimately his return to composing and directing largescale vocal works with his move to Hamburg in 1768. Yet it was during the first half of his Berlin period that he became a composer of real consequence. He did this in the sonatas and concertos composed for his own instrument.

A Keyboardist in an Operatic World Exactly how Bach spent most of his time at Berlin, especially during the first half of his years there, is largely unknown. Hardly any relevant letters or other biographical documents survive; the chief sources, apart from court payment records, are his compositions. It is clear, however, that Bach was primarily a keyboard player and composer in a city whose musical interests and energies centered on the state opera, whose founding had been one of the first acts of the new king in 1740. It was directed by Carl Heinrich Graun, who had served Frederick since 1735 and as royal Capellmeister would compose and direct numerous operas and other works until his death in 1759. Graun’s older brother Johann Gottlieb, who had preceded him in Prussian service, would work for Frederick from 1732 until his own death in 1771. Gottlieb held the title of Concertmeister, which probably meant that he was responsible for training the royal instrumental forces and assuring their technical and stylistic unanimity, as his teacher Pisendel had done at Dresden. Both Grauns, older than Emanuel and more established members of the court music, would have been crucial for establishing the stylistic norms of music at Berlin—especially Heinrich, whose operas were the most important musical events in the city during his lifetime; afterward, repeated performances of his oratorio Der Tod Jesu would extend his influence into the nineteenth century. (For this reason, the name “Graun” alone normally referred to Carl Heinrich, as is the case here.) Another long-term member of the court music who preceded Bach in the king’s service was František (Franz) Benda, best known today as a violinist and composer but in his younger days also a singer. Whereas Bach’s relationships with the Grauns might have been cordial but somewhat remote—they were his superiors in the court hierarchy—he performed as a soloist with Benda, with whom he seems to have shared a reputation for conviviality and good humor, evident in his autobiography and other sources.8 Bach later recalled playing

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62 chapter five a “trio” with Benda “several times at court” (mehrmals beÿ dem Hofe); the trio must have been an obbligato-keyboard piece, as Bach, using the terminology of the later eighteenth century, describes the violinist as his accompanist.9 Benda’s younger brother Jiří Antonín (Georg) was also in Berlin until 1750. Of all Bach’s colleagues, Georg Benda would develop as a composer along lines closest to Bach’s, his output eventually including German songs and quirkily imaginative keyboard pieces, although he is now best known for his theatrical music. Bach would have renewed his acquaintance with Georg Benda in 1754 when he visited Gotha, where Benda was Capellmeister, and when Benda visited Hamburg during 1778. Bach must also have known two other musicians who had joined Frederick’s Capelle during the 1730s: Christoph Schaffrath and Johann Gottlieb Janitsch. The first probably alternated with Bach as keyboard accompanist to the king, being succeeded in 1745 by Christoph Nichelmann, who, like Schaffrath, was also a composer, especially of keyboard concertos that superficially resemble Bach’s. The bass player Janitsch had been Bach’s predecessor as director of the Frankfurt collegium. He also organized one of the first Berlin musical clubs, known simply as the “Akademie,” and Bach’s early concertos and other works must have received some of their first performances at its gatherings. A somewhat later arrival was Johann Friedrich Agricola, who had studied at Leipzig with Sebastian after Emanuel’s departure, then with Quantz at Berlin. Agricola eventually succeeded Graun as the king’s chief opera composer, but he never attained the title of Capellmeister. He is best known today for his expanded version of Tosi’s Italian manual on singing,10 one of the three major Berlin treatises of the 1750s, alongside Quantz’s and Bach’s; he was also an important copyist of music by Bach and other Berlin composers. Quantz is now, apart from King Frederick, the best known of Bach’s fellow musicians in Berlin, but he did not arrive there to stay until 1741. As the king’s flute teacher and flute maker, and the senior member of the court music, Quantz exerted a crucial influence on instrumental music at Berlin. During three decades there Bach must have played continuo in most of the hundreds of flute sonatas and concertos by Quantz that belonged to the king’s repertory. The king himself was not only a discerning patron but a player of true distinction, to judge from contemporary accounts, and although his compositions are not of the first rank they reveal flashes of genuine originality. The fact that several of his sonatas include instrumental recitative (as do Quantz’s) cannot be irrelevant to the fact that Emanuel employed the same device in the first sonata in his own volume of keyboard sonatas dedicated to the king. Whatever Frederick’s personal feelings toward Bach or his compositions, he was surely a good enough judge of music and of character to respect Bach, and not only musically; considerable trust is evident in his allowing Bach to teach the visiting dukes of Württemberg as well as several musicians employed by the court.

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joining the court 63 Accounts of music at Berlin inevitably focus on Frederick’s court and opera, neglecting the less well documented musical establishments and activities of other members of the ruling family—and of visitors such as Duke Carl Eugen of Württemberg, whom Bach taught during the mid-1740s. The musical “academies” usually rate a mention as well, although until recently little could be said about their membership or repertory, especially during Bach’s early years at Berlin.11 His works are well represented, although not overwhelmingly so, in collections of manuscripts that probably preserve the repertories of these organizations.12 Bach could not have been personally involved in every performance of his music or in every manuscript copy made of it, yet he must have devoted considerable time and energy to composing and performing outside official court environments. Even Quantz reportedly played “most” of his hundreds of flute concertos in private concerts organized during the Seven Years’ War by the amateur composer and writer Krause.13 Doubtless Bach performed his far less numerous keyboard concertos under similar circumstances. Whether he also played at the opera is uncertain; if he did, he presumably would have been second keyboardist to Graun, playing only in the sinfonias and arias, not recitatives. Nevertheless, his instructions for accompaniment in the Versuch are especially relevant to vocal music and may well reflect his experience playing in Graun’s works. (For more on the Berlin opera, see 5.1.) Whether he played in them or merely heard them or studied them, Bach must have come to know Graun’s operas as well as Quantz’s sonatas and concertos. Yet opera performances at Berlin were normally limited to Carnival season, and Bach was required to attend the king only periodically, at least after a rotation system for the keyboard players had been established. At other times, then, Bach was largely on his own, free to continue composing, performing, and teaching as he probably had done since coming to Berlin in 1738. Although he might have arrived hoping for patronage from the crown prince and other members of the royal family, he probably could not have anticipated that within three or four years he would be a royal chamber musician. Hence it is not surprising that in some respects his work at Berlin was a continuation of that at Frankfurt. Although he no longer directed a collegium or wrote large vocal works, his attention was at first focused on the same types of instrumental music he had been composing. His output from even the first few years at Berlin appears to have survived largely intact; he was never as prolific as Quantz or the Grauns, perhaps because he took greater time and trouble over individual works—or perhaps because his music was never in as steady use as theirs. When he arrived at Berlin, Bach was already a seasoned composer, not a student. Therefore, none of the composers already established there (or soon to be, such as Quantz) necessarily exercised a formative influence on him, in the way his father had done. Their music, however, established stylistic norms ranging from common thematic types and cadential formulas to customary

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64 chapter five formal plans for whole movements, as well as conventionally approved expressive categories: “rage,” “flattery,” and the like, defined above all by arias of each type. Unlike his brother Friedemann, Emanuel appears to have had no scruples about adopting the assumptions of the prevailing style. His Berlin sonatas and concertos usually follow formal plans codified in works by Quantz and the Grauns—plans that Bach was already using regularly at Frankfurt. Meanwhile, obvious echoes of his father’s style, so prominent in the early A-Minor Concerto, grow fainter. Hence Emanuel’s creativity in most of his Berlin instrumental works consists, in essence, of variation, not only in the specific sense of melodic embellishment, which was prized at Berlin as an essential element of both composition and performance,14 but in the more general sense of composition as the elaboration of a template. For this reason, a nagging question that arises in Bach’s works of these years, however brilliant, is whether they are individually distinct in anything other than their superficial thematic material and figuration. Of the three D-minor concertos, is W. 23 merely the most effective realization of what is essentially a type or formula? Rosen implied as much by his characterization of Bach’s style as “North German mannerism”; this suggests that the individuality of his music occurs on the surface, not at more profound, deeply structural, levels.15 Bach’s sonatas and concertos, for all their superficial variety, lack the diversity found in his father’s works, whose individual movements include fugues, ostinato forms, binary forms with varied reprises, and ritornello forms of diverse character.16 One searches in vain for comparable variety in Emanuel’s Berlin works, and he may even have eliminated some instances of it when “renovating” his early compositions. Emanuel’s revisions rather brought his early works into conformity with compositions by his Berlin colleagues. The high degree of conventionality in this repertory must have been encouraged by its use in small, rigorously organized social gatherings of like-minded patrons and players. Within such a culture, small departures from established norms would have been sharply felt, and references or parallels to familiar works, including arias from recently performed operas, would have been quickly recognized. That Bach’s works composed for such a narrow environment nevertheless had broader appeal is clear from their dissemination across northern Europe, mostly in manuscript copies, some in printed editions. Yet the distinctiveness of this music may indeed lie close to the surface.17 To be sure, present-day unfamiliarity with the music of Bach’s contemporaries, including the operas of Graun and all but one overplayed concerto by Quantz, has left it unclear even to specialists how Bach’s works of the 1740s relate to the general Berlin style of the period. That style incorporates more variety than is usually assumed; Graun, Quantz, and even Frederick had a broader range as composers than one might conclude on the basis of a few uninformed comments by Burney, among others.18 That Bach took ideas

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joining the court 65 directly from their works is suggested not only by near-quotations but by less obvious parallels. For instance, the opening ritornello theme of the D-Minor Concerto W. 23 shares its bass line and the slashing octaves of its melody with the corresponding passage in an aria from act 3 of Rodelinda, Graun’s first Berlin opera ($ex. 5.1). Bach’s theme is not a direct quotation, not even in the same meter, yet the identity of key, character, foreground voice leading, and specific rhythmic and melodic motives makes the two movements more than merely two examples of a common type.19 Similar parallels connect the last movement of the D-Major Concerto W. 13 to the aria “Su le sponde del torbido Lete” from Graun’s opera Artaserse : both open with leaps of a fifth and then a fourth, followed by a descending scale ($ex. 5.2). Artaserse, premiered in 1743, was revived just a year later during festivities that preceded the wedding of Princess Luise;20 W. 13 was the second of the three concertos Bach wrote that year. This same concerto movement also incorporates a more general fixture of Graun’s style, shared with Quantz and Hasse: the opening phrase of the first solo entry concludes with multiple echoes of the last measure or two. Originally perhaps a rhetorical gesture—repetition is the simplest form of emphasis—by the mid-eighteenth century this device had become routine. Other elements of compositional syntax at Berlin also must have originated in musical rhetoric; the halting pauses in Rodelinda’s aria “La mente mia sentisti” find an echo in the slow movement (also in E) of Bach’s Third Württemberg Sonata, composed two years after the opera’s first performance ($ex. 5.3). Another syntactical idea that is also probably operatic in origin—although it does not seem to occur in contemporary arias by Hasse or Graun—is that of the concerto or trio “with two themes,” in which the soloist enters with a cantabile idea that contrasts sharply in rhythmic and expressive character with a much livelier ritornello.21 An instance in a trio by J. S. Bach has been identified as an example of what the theorist Scheibe called the Sonate auf Concertenart— the “sonata in concerto style,” for which Quantz is supposed to have supplied a model.22 Berlin copies of similar trios by Graun suggest that these were actually viewed somewhat differently, as sonatas mit zwei Themata (with two themes).23 The Greek rhetorical term thema was probably understood more concretely than today, perhaps with as much reference to affective content as to melodic material. The “two themes” function quite differently from the first and second themes in a Classical sonata form, for here both are initially stated in the tonic. The second, moreover, marks not the latter part of an exposition but a sort of second beginning at the entrance of the soloist, after the ritornello. Bach employed the underlying idea in many concerto movements—above all the opening Allegro of W. 15, from 1745 ($ex. 5.4)—but only in one trio, W. 76 of 1763, unless the much earlier BWV 1020 and BWV 1031 are really his.24 Whether or not this particular device came from vocal music, Bach extends and develops his ideas in ways not envisioned by Graun or Hasse. The opening

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66 chapter five ritornello of W. 23 pauses suddenly after a striking chromatic appoggiatura that has no parallel in Graun’s aria “Quest’ o dio!” Although Bach’s D-Major Concerto, originally for flute, would have ingratiated any admirer of Hasse’s or Graun’s music at Berlin, the first movement modulates far enough to give the flutist tricky passagework, in keys as remote as F-sharp minor and C-sharp minor. In the Concerto W. 15, Bach revised the solo entrance probably soon after its first composition, giving the keyboard player the same motive as the ritornello. This eliminated the idea of “two themes,” but the contrast between tutti and soloist was actually deepened, as Bach extended the soloist’s first two phrases with entirely new passages in fantasia style (ex. 5.5). Fantasia style returns in subsequent solo entries, so that the movement fuses a variety of sonata form with Bach’s famous improvisatory style, as he would do again in the G-Minor Sonata W. 65/17 of the following year.25

Works at Berlin Bach issued five major publications during the period under consideration, that is, before publishing part 1 of his Versuch in 1753. In these publications he negotiated between the Scylla and Charybdis of popularity and originality, simultaneously respecting convention and challenging it. His first two publications, the Prussian and Württemberg sonatas for keyboard, were followed by the concertos W. 11 and 25 and the Two Trios W. 161. By the time the latter appeared, in 1751, Bach had probably achieved a measure of renown through public performances of these and similar works, many of which were already circulating in manuscript copies. When the two volumes of sonatas came out in 1742 and 1744, however, Bach was only beginning to become known; engraving and printing the two volumes were probably possible only with support from their dedicatees, first the king and then the reigning duke of Württemberg. (On Bach’s instruction of the duke and other pupils at Berlin, see 5.2.) The great majority of Bach’s works composed during this period remained unprinted during his lifetime. To judge from the dates in NV, Bach composed at an uneven pace—and, by contemporary standards, in a rather leisurely manner—during his first fifteen years at Berlin. This approach evidently allowed him to develop his ideas and to revise works as he wished, rather than in response to commissions or other external factors. We do not know, however, when Bach began recording the dates of his works, and the loss of composing drafts from Berlin, as from Leipzig and Frankfurt, makes it impossible to verify dates whose surviving documentation was prepared many decades later. Yet from the mid-1740s onward we have increasing numbers of autographs and other sources that are datable with some precision, and these raise few questions about the general accuracy of the dates in NV. More important, it is clear that, although Bach may have completed only a few compositions during his

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joining the court 67 Example 5.5. Concerto in E Minor, W. 15, late version, movement 1, mm. 37–46

earliest years in Berlin, by 1742, when the Prussian Sonatas appeared, he had achieved complete mastery within the realm of the keyboard sonata. His first publication of a concerto, that of W. 11 in 1745, provides similar evidence for that genre.26 Unlike the compositions from Leipzig and Frankfut, few of the Berlin works, and none of those that Bach published, were ever renovated. Yet many received revisions, in some cases as extensive as those acknowledged in NV.27 The disappearance of Bach’s composing scores, together with the absence of distinct early versions for most of the works that he published, leaves the precise chronology of his development at Berlin uncertain. But by 1742 he had fully adopted Berlin conventions governing the length, texture, expressive type, tonality, and form of each movement in his sonatas and concertos. For the next thirty years those conventions would go largely unchallenged, allowing the composition of each new sonata or concerto—and the renovation of old ones—to proceed according to a preestablished plan. Quantz, Hasse, the Grauns, and other contemporaries at Berlin followed the same conventions,

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68 chapter five which may strike us as limiting the scope of the composer’s creativity. In fact, like the da capo aria in opera, these conventions allowed considerable freedom while ensuring that the resulting works would satisfy demand for rational, readily comprehensible music. Although keyboard sonatas and concertos form the bulk of Bach’s work at Berlin before 1753, he also produced smaller numbers of solo and trio sonatas, chiefly during a few limited periods. (See 5.3 for a detailed breakdown of Bach’s work during this period.) The only other major works, however, are the Sinfonia W. 173 from 1741 and the Magnificat of 1749, isolated exercises that, however, provided experience relevant to later works.28 Renovations of keyboard sonatas, concertos, and trios composed at Leipzig and Frankfurt also constituted a significant part of Bach’s work during this period. Even if NV is not entirely reliable in confining most of the “renovations” to a few years, the impression that he systematically reworked his earlier music during the mid1740s seems accurate. In doing so he probably had his father’s model in mind. Sebastian Bach is now famous for repeatedly revising his instrumental works, and modern commentators have seen this as the outcome of an urge to achieve perfection; he probably also intended to adapt older compositions for pedagogic use by his pupils. Although he revised works throughout his career, the best-known instances took place relatively late in life, when he gathered together various older compositions into compilations such as the Latin masses and the “Great 18” organ chorales. That Emanuel Bach, age thirty or so, carried out a general renovation of music written just a decade earlier suggests different motivations. In view of his relatively small output, it implies a cautious composer, intent on demonstrating his brilliance and on flawlessly working out his ideas, but also wishing to seem fashionable, as capable of elegance and easy comprehendibility as his more fluent contemporaries at Berlin. Bach’s initial failure to produce much beside keyboard music during this period similarly suggests a reluctance to challenge his more established colleagues on their own turf. Quantz’s arrival in 1741 might not have had anything to do with Bach’s failure to produce new flute music during the next few years. But when Bach returns to writing solo and trio sonatas in the mid1740s, both types of composition are somewhat longer, less discursive, and more virtuoso in style than before. This could reflect a better understanding of wind and string instruments; perhaps, too, Bach was now composing such works for concerts rather than for amateur use. Concerts were surely the most likely venue for Bach’s two solo sonatas for viola da gamba, which, like the flute sonatas, circulated little. Although not reaching the extraordinary level of difficulty found in other Berlin gamba compositions, they are spectacular virtuoso exercises, and there could have been little popular demand for their scores. They must have been composed for specific performances by a player who has yet to be positively identified.29 The two sonatas differ significantly, calling for

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joining the court 69 six- and seven-string instruments, respectively, and were not necessarily composed for the same circumstances; the one in C is relatively restrained and its unfigured bass could have been intended for cello alone.30 Possibly Bach wrote a third gamba solo; his lost cello sonata (W. 138), composed in 1740, was “renovated” at Hamburg, and perhaps the original version had been for the older instrument. Within Bach’s output as a whole, the gamba sonatas, a sonata for unaccompanied flute, and several exceptional trios, concertos, and keyboard sonatas, all from the middle of the decade, stand out for one reason or another. Is it a coincidence that Bach’s most productive years during the 1740s centered around his marriage in 1744? We can imagine the young composer invigorated by his new status, at the same time more confident of his place within a court musical establishment of virtuosos. The new ruler was actively promoting not only music but the arts and sciences generally, and the city was flourishing. Bach’s three children were all born by 1748, and his father’s famous second visit to Berlin, which gave rise to the Musical Offering, took place in 1747—the year in which Emanuel returned to the trio, composing four new ones (the first since 1735, apart from one in 1745) and renovating seven early ones. During the next few years, however, Bach’s output seems to trail off again. By 1751 and 1752, not only was he completing fewer works each year than before; his music seems to have lost the fire of works such as the three minor-key sonatas in the Württemberg set or the concertos composed during 1747 and 1748. Bare numbers of works do not tell the whole story, of course; the Magnificat, completed in 1749, was his largest composition of the decade and the only significant one for voices. It must have consumed more time and energy than anything else, especially if Bach also organized and directed its performance somewhere. Sebastian’s illness and death in 1750, and Emanuel’s apparent effort to succeed him at Leipzig, must also have diverted him from his compositional routines. A court trip in 1751 to Bückeburg, where Emanuel’s half brother Friedrich was employed, would also have taken up time and energy. It is possible, too, that Emanuel by the late 1740s was already writing his Versuch, although progress on that might have been slowed by other publishing projects in 1751 and 1752, which, in addition to his own music, included Sebastian’s Art of Fugue. In any case, by the end of the 1740s, Bach was evidently heading in new directions.

Renovation, Revision, and Variation Bach’s “renovations” were an important part of his activity during the 1740s. They began in 1743 and 1744, at first focusing on keyboard sonatas. Renovation of the first three concertos continued into 1745, after which Bach turned to the eight early trios; most work on the latter took place in 1747, which was

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70 chapter five also a particularly productive year for new compositions. Although we might question the dates for both composition and renovation given in NV, external factors could explain the chronologies documented there. For instance, NV places the composition of the original trios of the 1740s in Potsdam, where the king completed his famous palace Sanssouci in 1747; there he could retreat from the rigors of government and city life, playing private concerts with a select group of musicians. Although Bach later complained about them, his journeys to Potsdam probably afforded time that could be devoted to chamber music—composing, revising, and perhaps also trying out pieces, whether with the king or with colleagues. More substantial is the issue of what each renovation entailed. Some of the revised works incorporated entire movements that were either new or substituted from other pieces (as in the examples discussed in chap. 4). This type of revision, however, is less significant from the point of view of compositional craft than changes in form or additions of melodic embellishment that Bach applied within individual movements. The most systematic analysis of Bach’s compositional method, including his revisions, remains that of Rachel Wade, even if details of her study of the concertos must be set aside in the light of more recent findings. Her examination of the autograph scores of his concertos showed that Bach, not surprisingly, first composed the outer parts—usually starting with the melody—and subsequently filled in the inner voices, followed by the addition of performance markings.31 Her evidence consisted chiefly of the varying scripts and ink colors found in the autograph scores of the 1740s. Peter Wollny subsequently introduced the idea that Bach’s scores were preceded by “continuity drafts,” entire movements sketched as a melodic line written on a single staff, joined by occasional notes for the bass or an inner part. There is no direct evidence for such drafts prior to Bach’s last years at Berlin, from when some fragmentary sketches of this sort survive.32 But the melodies and bass lines in some of Bach’s autograph scores of the 1740s are written more cleanly than the inner parts, suggesting that certain passages, at least, were copied from an earlier draft of the sort described. Other passages in these same autograph scores, however, look like first drafts.33 Whatever the precise status of these autographs, the underlying structure of Bach’s scores is clear. Each consists largely of just two essential parts, melody and bass, to which Bach subsequently added additional harmony, usually in the form of a single inner part. Performance markings, including dynamics and ornament signs, followed, and sometimes further melodic embellishment or variation as well, especially in solo passages. Bach’s revisions can be studied by comparing the surviving versions of a given work. Because Bach rarely revised the same passage more than once, it is usually possible to gain a synoptic view of his revisions by examining the earliest and latest extant versions simultaneously, as shown in certain editions of his works. (For more on the editorial treatment of Bach’s revisions, see

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joining the court 71 5.4.) Although first drafts of most of Bach’s works of the 1740s are lost, subsequent revisions are amply documented. These show that Bach updated many works not once but multiple times. His reasons for making revisions probably included a desire to profit from the sale of manuscript copies; anyone wishing a reliable text for the current version of a work would need to purchase the latter from Bach, who thus had an incentive to revise his music whenever a new copy was made. Not every revision of a work constituted a renovation (Erneuerung), the term applied in NV chiefly to early works whose recasting apparently went well beyond customary embellishment and variation. Bach’s alterations in early as well as later works typically involved several distinct procedures, often producing multiple layers of revision. In some cases, each layer of revision might have been undertaken in connection with a specific event: a particular performance, or a request from a patron for a copy of a work. Publication, or prospective publication (as in the case of the Concerto W. 18), also must have triggered revisions. The most common types of revision, listed in order of increasing musical significance, were 1. 2. 3. 4. 5.

supplementation of performance markings (ornament signs, dynamics, bass figures, etc.); refinement of voice leading, especially in the inner voices and the bass; ornamentation and embellishment of melody and bass lines; more extensive alteration of melody and bass lines (“variation”); and insertion and substitution of whole passages.34

In ensemble works, some of these changes, especially those of type 1, must have begun to take place as soon as parts were prepared for performance. Indeed, Bach, like his father, probably first notated many performance markings only when parts were prepared. Such markings would not have affected the work as a whole and could have been added by the composer to parts already prepared by a copyist. Surprisingly, however, the earliest documented revisions for some works also include changes of type 2 (refinements of voice leading) and even instances of the last type (adding or removing entire measures or phrases). Such changes would have required recopying or at least updating any existing sets of parts. Nevertheless, for W. 4, Bach’s first Berlin concerto, the earliest layer of revision already included an abbreviation of the final ritornello in the last movement; in W. 5, on the other hand, Bach expanded the corresponding passage, and in future revisions he continued to tinker with the third-movement ritornello. More common are revisions of type 2 (“refinements”), which in some early works involved simplification of the voice leading, eliminating what Bach probably came to view as overly contrapuntal part-writing or excessive dissonance. Thus some independently moving bass notes as well as some suspensions were

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72 chapter five eliminated from the ritornello in the second movement of W. 4, as were a few diminished and augmented intervals in the inner voices, both vertical and horizontal.35 In W. 2, some passages for the strings that were originally in four parts were reduced to three,36 and there and in W. 6 multiple stops—a dramatic effect that Bach also used in the string parts of the Double Concerto W. 46 of the same year and in W. 9 of 1742—were removed from the lower parts.37 Improvements of the inner voices corrected details in the harmony that only a connoisseur or fellow composer would have been likely to notice, as when Bach eliminated direct motion into a perfect fifth in the opening ritornello of W. 4 (m. 2 in $ex. 5.7). More significant for the experience of ordinary players and listeners was the revised ending of the second movement in W. 4 to permit a solo cadenza (ex. 5.8). But even this sort of change did not affect the fundamental character of the work. Other revisions, although more superficial from a structural point of view, had more immediately audible results. Characteristic of these are melodic embellishments for the soloist that Bach painstakingly entered into a manuscript keyboard part for W. 4 that originally gave an earlier version (ex. 5.9). These revisions were accompanied by the addition of performance markings to all parts. The result was to make an already expressive piece much more variegated in terms of both dynamics and the florid decoration of the melodic line. In many works, Bach’s revision never went beyond embellishment and refinement; sometimes it was limited to the addition of appoggiaturas, trills, and other ornaments. But some compositions saw more substantive rewriting better described as variation. A somewhat unusual instance occurred in the last movement of the E-Minor Concerto W. 24 of 1748, where four measures prolonging a single chord (a: iv6) were shortened to two ($ex. 5.10). Usually, however, Bach’s revisions made a passage more elaborate, most often by substituting more lively figuration. Depending on the degree of elaboration, this could produce new motivic material or even alter the fundamental character of the music. Such appears to have been the case in W. 23, also composed in 1748, where the ritornello theme of the second movement emerged as the elaboration of a plain chord progression. Only a later passage of the movement is extant in its original version ($ex. 5.11), but from this one can deduce that the main ritornello theme was a product of “composition by variation” (ex. 5.12).38 Bach would continue to carry out revisions of all these types for the remainder of his career, in all sorts of works. Although absolute dates can rarely be attached to specific versions of a work, it is usually possible to deduce a relative chronology of Bach’s revisions, based on what we know of Bach’s style and compositional practice. Changing notational fashions can also help; for instance, the addition of specific ornament signs, as opposed to the generic “t” or cross symbol, is likely to have taken place only around the time of the first volume of the Versuch (1753). Bach’s treatise provides detailed prescriptions

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Example 5.8. Concerto in G, W. 4, movement 2, mm. 55b–57, violins omitted. Composite score showing early version on lower staves, later version on upper staves

Example 5.9. Concerto in G, W. 4, movement 2, mm. 10–15, strings omitted (composite score as in ex. 5.8; angle brackets mark notes changed in later version)

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Example 5.9.—(concluded)

Example 5.11. Concerto in D Minor, W. 23, movement 2, mm. 74–77, composite score showing mm. 74–77 of the late version (upper staves) with the early version from P 354 (lower staves)

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joining the court 75 Example 5.12. Concerto in D Minor, W. 23, movement 2, mm. 1–2, composite score showing the late version (upper staves) with a reconstruction of the early version (lower staves)

not only for the use of various ornaments but for tenuto indications; the latter are present only in later versions of the Concerto W. 24 (composed in 1748).39 In other cases, the addition of embellishments expanded the keyboard compass required for a work; the revised solo part for the Concerto W. 16, composed in 1745, ascends to f‴, a note that Bach does not appear to have used before the 1760s in his keyboard music.40 Embellishment and variation were doubtless the most frequent types of revision in Bach’s output as a whole. He was not alone in his concern with variation of all sorts; in part 1 of the Versuch, he mentions the popularity of varied reprises—the variation of the repeated sections of a sonata or other work—and he provides a written-out example in one of the accompanying Probestücke.41 But Bach was probably unique in the number of works in which he employed variation, both as an original element of the composition and when recasting earlier versions. Variation sets as such make up only a small number of his compositions, but in the course of his Berlin years variation became an increasingly important element in his instrumental music, ranging from the varied repetition of individual phrases to written-out varied reprises within a work. For compositions that were embellished or varied as the result of a revision, Bach might make a copy of only those passages that had undergone

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76 chapter five embellishment; these extracts could then be sent to colleagues or patrons who wished to update existing copies by writing the new variations into scores or parts they already owned. Later, probably at Hamburg, Bach assembled a collection of these “variations and embellishments of certain sonatas, for pupils” (W. 68). The collection, preserved in both an autograph and a copy from Bach’s Hamburg years, provides no verbal explanation for its contents, leaving it unclear whether the variations and embellishments were meant to replace or merely to supplement existing musical texts. But the inclusion of variations for through-composed movements (without repeats) implies that these were not meant as varied reprises, although some of the embellishments could certainly be used as such.42 The importance that Bach and his admirers attached to such variations is evident from the laborious erasure and rewriting of many individual passages within the manuscript copies of certain works. Although individually small, when applied across an entire movement these variations became an essential element of a work, “insinuating themselves into the fiber” of a composition, as Richard Kramer puts it.43 Yet from a structural point of view Bach’s variations affected only the musical surface. Although he never quite repeats himself, as one surveys the very numerous instances of this procedure in Bach’s works one gains the impression that, having hit upon certain effective types of figuration in both his new compositions and his renovations of older ones, Bach was often content to rely on what are essentially formulas to render individual works distinctive, expressive, occasionally surprising. His use of variation is, like his reliance on certain standard formal designs, another instance of his manneristic approach to composition. The reliance on variation as a compositional technique reflected its use in performance. An account of one of Bach’s performances of his own music— relatively late, but likely reflecting his practice at Berlin—suggests that he typically added impromptu variations, which must have been an attraction of hearing him play.44 But the practice can grow tiresome if essentially the same types of embellishment are applied throughout an entire movement, or if these dilute or otherwise detract from good original ideas. The first movement of the Concerto W. 16 opens with a jaunty galant ritornello theme alla zoppa, which is echoed at the beginning of the first solo episode; in the early version the echo is literal, but Bach later dissolved it into figuration (ex. 5.13). The original tune, as good as it is, is not particularly suited for projection on a keyboard instrument; no evidence survives of versions for other instruments, but this might have been the type of piece considered suitable for conversion to a flute concerto.45 The undemanding solo part of the original version suggests that it was composed for an amateur, and although such a player may not have been concerned with making his part sing for an audience, in his own performances Bach might always have varied the keyboard part, rather than playing what he had actually written. Yet the later version converts the opening theme

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joining the court 77 Example 5.13. Concerto in G, W. 16, movement 1, mm. 31–38, without strings, composite score showing (a) late and (b) early versions

into figuration that is livelier but arguably less meaningful than what Bach originally wrote. One who already knows the original might find the variation fascinating, even exciting, but there is a loss as well. Two decades after its composition, the original might have sounded dated, with its galant syncopations and appoggiaturas, but these are motivic and potentially expressive, whereas the figuration in sixteenths that replaced them is merely decorative. Richard Kramer has pointed to another problem in Bach’s reliance on embellishment. Sequences are a fundamental element of eighteenth-century style, but their routine use to fill out portions of a sonata or concerto movement, especially where no modulation is involved, can be a musical equivalent of treading water. Kramer notes that at least one later composer was uncomfortable with the eighteenth-century reliance on sequence: “if this was stylistically acceptable to Graun, Beethoven’s workshop papers even before 1803 show an uneasiness toward sequence.”46 Bach’s tendency to vary or embellish the later iterations of a sequential pattern—an element of his style from the 1740s onward—implies that transposed repetition alone was sometimes insufficient

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78 chapter five to achieve the desired effect of an intensification as a sequence proceeds. But an embellished sequence is still a sequence; more generally, embellishing or varying any composition, even extensively, could not alter its essential qualities. Surely Bach recognized this to some degree. He reserved the somewhat unusual expression Erneuerung for the thorough reworking of certain early pieces, indicating that this involved something more than the “variation” that occurred in others. Even the complete rewriting of the Sonata W. 51/1, which was “twice completely varied,”47 was not a renovation. Despite the substitution of new material in every measure, not a single beat was added or removed, and Bach evidently recognized all three versions of the sonata as mature compositions (though the two varied versions do seem to be significantly later, and not only because they ascend to f‴). Renovation was, then, an acknowledgment that the early version of a work was obsolete or hopelessly unfashionable—lacking taste, in eighteenth-century terminology. With time, however, the distinctions between renovations and revisions may have become blurred. Some instances of renovation may have been forgotten or overlooked in the compilation of NV, and many later cases of revision or variation approached or exceeded in scope the renovations of the 1740s. Yet the care with which NV identifies and dates the renovations suggests that for Bach these represented creative work almost as significant as his original compositions. For his patrons, information about the renovations provided assurance that the works in question, although early in origin, were as finished and would be as rewarding to perform or listen to as more recent compositions. It was also a warning that copies of these pieces already in circulation might not represent their most finished state. Bach wanted his public to come to him, or his heirs, for the most perfect versions of such compositions. For us, however, what seemed to the composer old and worn-out may sometimes have become fresh and new with age.

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Chapter Six

Bach’s Works of the 1740s Sonatas, Concertos, Trios Bach’s sonatas and concertos of the 1740s represent the first major plateau in his output, matched for their sustained originality and expressive intensity only by the solo keyboard music of his last decade and perhaps the songs of the late 1750s. His first publication, the Prussian Sonatas (W. 48), looks small and stylistically cautious within his output as a whole. Yet it was ambitious when it appeared in 1742, constituting the first set of regular three-movement keyboard sonatas issued by a German composer.1 Its publication was a coup for its twenty-eight-year-old composer, not least because the relative newcomer to the court was able to dedicate it to King Frederick, presumably with the latter’s permission and support.

Sonatas The thirty-six copper plates required for printing the Prussian Sonatas (including title page and dedication) were less than half the number used for Sebastian’s opus 1—part 1 of the Clavierübung, whose printing was completed in 1731—but the latter had been published in installments over a period of five or six years. The most ambitious of Emanuel’s earlier works, such as the Locatelli Variations or the G-Minor Sonata of 1739 (W. 65/11), may be more challenging musically. Yet even the relatively simple First Prussian Sonata belies common present-day assumptions about Berlin style, not only in the imitative texture of its first movement but also in the alternation between arioso and instrumental recitative in the second. Bach would have observed both features in flute sonatas by Quantz and King Frederick himself.2 If the two-part counterpoint of the Poco allegro that opens the volume is conventional, the threepart invention in C-sharp minor at the heart of the third sonata was not; both,

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80 chapter six however, could be understood as tributes to the king’s appreciation of counterpoint.3 Although we can imagine Bach playing all six sonatas for the king, the latter probably could have managed at least the opening one himself at the keyboard.4 According to NV, the six sonatas were composed in the order in which they were printed. Indeed the final work points toward the following Württemberg Sonatas (W. 49), not only in its somewhat greater length but in its more outwardly virtuoso character as compared with its predecessors within the volume. Although avoiding recitative, the sixth sonata incorporates other operatic gestures: not merely the rapid scales (tirate) in the initial Allegro, but the way in which these answer an opening piano phrase that breaks off after a single measure ($ex. 6.1). This dramatic musical syntax, seen again in the unison forte passages that interrupt the second-movement Adagio, was familiar from accompanied recitative; it would have been startling only for being incorporated into a formal sonata movement. Bach’s patrons, including the king, might have found this sort of thing engaging but not particularly surprising; one of Frederick’s more virtuoso allegros also incorporates passages in accompanied-recitative style.5 Disruptive gestures like the breaking off of phrases are more frequent with Bach, who also integrates them more clearly into a conception of the whole—never more than in the opening movement of the B-Minor Sonata (W. 49/6) that closes his second publication. With the incessant interruptions and changes of pace in the first two movements of the latter work, Bach went beyond what would have been acceptable or even comprehensible to unimaginative players or inexperienced listeners. Yet the numerous starts, stops, and chromatic appoggiaturas in the first movement are developed as musical ideas within a standard type of sonata form; they are not superficial allusions to operatic drama, confined to an isolated phrase or two. The second movement continues the idea of pausing on a series of expressive appoggiaturas—an intensification of the halting rhetoric also used in a previous slow movement from the set, that of Sonata no. 3 in E ($ex. 6.2; cf. $ex. 5.3b). The final movement returns to two-part imitative counterpoint, incorporated into a sonata form as in the First Prussian Sonata. Now, however, Bach transfers the theme from the treble to the bass at the middle of each section, as he had also done in the opening Moderato of the First Württemberg Sonata. For us, this procedure recalls Haydn’s “monothematic” sonata forms; for Emanuel, it echoed the inversion of the counterpoint that occurs in his father’s inventions after reaching the dominant. Although simple by the standards of J. S. Bach, these imitative devices were probably understood by Emanuel’s audiences as samples of learned counterpoint. Yet the composer was not merely writing recherché polyphony or imitating the manner of a serious solo or trio sonata: the high point of this concluding movement of the set is a dramatic passage in which the two hands, moving in precisely contrary motion, compose out a diminished-seventh chord, in four measures that could

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bach’s works of the 1740s 81 have occurred only in a keyboard piece ($ex. 6.3). (For further discussion of the Sixth Württemberg Sonata, see 6.1.) Although it now stands as the crowning work of the volume—comparable in this regard to the E-Minor Partita that closed the first part of Sebastian’s Clavierübung—this B-minor sonata may have been the second in that key that Bach wrote for the set. Roughly a year earlier he had composed W. 65/13, a work extraordinary not only for its lyrical yet harmonically complex first movement, but also for its demonic finale. Its exclusion from Bach’s second published set might only have followed his composition of the even more extraordinary W. 49/6, but on the whole Bach’s activity during this period suggests purposeful planning of composition, publication, and renovation. By the time Bach wrote the last of the Württemberg Sonatas, he had begun revising his Frankfurt sonatas and had also composed the Concerto W. 11, whose appearance in print a year later constituted his next publishing project. Bach eventually published the majority of the forty-one keyboard sonatas that were newly composed during 1739–50. Seventeen, however, remained in manuscript, as did all but one of the sixteen earlier sonatas that he renovated at Berlin. Of the latter, only W. 62/1 was eventually published; whether or not it was really Bach’s first sonata (as indicated in NV), its borrowing of the subject from Sebastian’s F-Major Invention gave it a symbolic value comparable to that of the Concerto W. 1—which also circulated somewhat more widely than other early works. Bach’s failure to publish his remaining early sonatas must have reflected a desire to print only things that represented his best and most up-to-date work. Yet he was evidently keen to prevent the dissemination of these works in early versions, which earned him no profit and could damage his reputation. Hence his zeal in revising them, although even in their renovated versions many would have appealed only to pupils and amateurs. Certainly Bach was already catering for the latter even as he was composing extraordinary music such as the Württemberg Sonatas. In 1744, besides renovating twelve early keyboard works and composing the last of the Württemberg Sonatas, Bach also wrote W. 65/14 in D, a much less striking composition. Yet even in a modest sonata such as this, not destined for publication, the Andante represented a new type of movement that would recur in later works. Neither contrapuntal nor rhetorical, it is a slow moto perpetuo mainly in two parts, recalling Sebastian’s arpeggiando preludes although it is actually in throughcomposed sonata form ($ex. 6.4). For now, Bach would publish only works that would earn him respect as a serious composer and keyboard player. He did eventually publish a number of his simpler sonatas from this period, among them three of the 1744 works (W. 62/4, 5, and 7). But he did so only after his reputation was secure, profiting from an expanded musical public and from advances in printing technology and trade practices. Some of these pieces, including W. 65/14, seem to revert to an earlier concept of the keyboard sonata, written largely in two parts and

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82 chapter six not very distinct in style or texture from a solo sonata for flute or violin with continuo. Those that he did publish did not appear until the early 1760s, and in the absence of earlier manuscript sources we cannot be sure to what degree the published versions reflected Bach’s original thoughts. He may not have bothered to revise them very thoroughly, however. Two unpublished works that do survive in autographs from the 1740s, W. 65/16 in C major and 65/24 in D minor, seem never to have undergone subsequent revisions of any significance. Both are extraordinary, although for different reasons, and at least W. 65/16 could not have been much improved by embellishment or other types of refinement. A work of 1745, it was one of several sonatas from the mid-1740s in which Bach went well beyond the Prussian and Württemberg pieces in rethinking the keyboard sonata as a genre. Possibly it was one of several ambitious sonatas from these years intended for a successor volume to the Württemberg Sonatas that Bach was unable to bring out.6 The sonata invokes the style of an Italian opera overture of the period not only in its quasi-orchestral opening phrase, but by connecting the first movement to the second, which follows without a break as in many contemporary sinfonias. The second movement, however, then alternates between allegro and adagio phrases in the manner of an accompanied recitative before concluding on a half cadence. The juxtaposition of styles within the second movement of W. 65/16 is anticipated in the first movement, whose middle section is interrupted by a mysterious, harmonically inspired passage composed entirely of quarter notes. The passage modulates as remotely as A-flat minor, yet it is tonally circular, finally cadencing in A minor, the key already reached just four measures after the double bar ($ex. 6.5). Hence, from a formal point of view, the passage is extraneous, though hardly so in the expressive trajectory of the movement. The passage, moreover, challenges the formal coherence of the first movement even as Bach integrates the cycle as a whole, not merely by connecting the first two movements but by retaining the opening motive of the first movement for the allegro phrases of the second. Bach’s next sonata was even more imaginative, incorporating elements of fantasia style.7 The first movement of W. 65/17, a sonata in G minor from 1746, alternates between unmeasured, cadenza-like passages and more conventional passages, all integrated into a through-composed sonata form. As in W. 65/16, the first movement proceeds without a break to the second, and the three movements together form an equally convincing cycle, albeit one with a very different emotional arc. The following year Bach composed another extraordinary sonata, W. 65/20, which, although avoiding both the alternating tempos of W. 65/16 and the unbarred writing of W. 65/17, challenges sonata conventions even further through its radical juxtapositions of style. These present even greater challenges to the player than the fantasia-like sonatas of the two previous years, for it is harder to bring off the sudden transitions in the first movement of this piece while maintaining a unified tempo (ex. 6.6).8

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Example 6.6. (a) Sonata in G Minor, W. 65/17, movement 1, opening; (b) Sonata in B-flat, W. 65/20, movement 1, mm. 1–17

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84 chapter six Bach would create only a few more such works before his late years, yet clearly he was paying attention to the expressive design of the cycle as a whole. To be sure, Bach never entirely abandoned the conventional model, founded upon the flute and violin sonatas of the period. He retained this especially in lighter sonatas such as W. 65/22 of 1748, which ends with a minuet-like Allegro in simple rondo form, recalling some of Graun’s sinfonias. A D-minor sonata of the previous year (W. 69) even ended in a little Allegretto in binary form, with variations. But unlike the rather perfunctory variations that close some of Bach’s early woodwind sonatas, this is an extended series of nine imaginative settings. The final variation is unexpectedly quiet, as remote as possible in character from the opening movement, whose ersatz orchestral writing points toward the D-Minor Concerto (W. 23) of the following year. This sonata was, then, an imaginative expansion of a conventional type. The Sonata W. 69 is unique in its detailed instructions for registration on what was evidently a special harpsichord. Yet Bach, like most contemporaries, was slow to adapt his keyboard writing for specific types of instrument. Although some pieces, such as the B-Minor Sonata W. 65/13, may be best suited for the clavichord,9 even the presence of multiple levels of dynamics in the Württemberg Sonatas does not make them uniquely suited for the latter instrument (or the fortepiano). W. 69 remains fairly generic in idiom, despite its indications for harpsichord registration.10 By the end of the 1740s there are signs that Bach was drawing back from the radicalism of the middle of the decade, his sonatas tending toward emotionally neutral writing largely in two parts.11 Experimentalism like that seen in W. 65/16 and 17 is evident only in the odd little D-minor sonata W. 65/24 of 1749, which comprises five connected movements, each quite short and individually quite conventional in style. These, however, form a series of connected fragments, and the work might reflect an origin in improvisation, albeit of a type that produced a sort of medley rather than the cadenza-like passages of the earlier Sonata 65/17. If the latter looks like another clavichord work, W. 65/24, ending with an archaic “Allabreve,” rather suggests improvisation on the organ.12 (For discussion of several further sonatas from the 1740s, see 6.2.) Although it is the more ambitious and challenging sonatas of the 1740s that have attracted the most attention, the lighter and less imposing pieces of these years signaled where Bach was headed. Yet the lightness of a sonata such as W. 62/7 of 1744 should not lead us to overlook the cleverness with which a plain repeated note serves not only as a thematic motive but as a drum bass, after invertible counterpoint moves it into the lower part. There it incorporates the B–A–C–H motive (ex. 6.8), which recurs with at least a hint of drama in the final section, leading to a fermata ($ex. 6.9). The drum bass employed here, as in so many of these works, was by the 1740s a routine element in all sorts of music by Bach’s contemporaries, ranging from slow movements in flute sonatas to quick orchestral pieces. Sebastian

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bach’s works of the 1740s 85 Example 6.8. Sonata in C, W. 62/7, movement 1, mm. 1–21, with B–A–C–H motive in bass, mm. 18–21

almost never used it, and later composers regarded it as unidiomatic to the keyboard; even Emanuel mentioned the stiffness that the drum bass could produce in the player’s left hand when doubled in octaves in a continuo part.13 Yet he persisted in using it throughout his career, particularly in sonatas such as W. 62/5 in E major, also of 1744, which is overtly symphonic in style. At that point Bach had composed only one actual sinfonia, W. 173 of 1741, which he arranged as a solo keyboard piece in 1745. Despite its orchestral style, the arrangement (W. 122/1), as well as the E-Major Sonata, is entirely idiomatic to the keyboard, unlike some clumsy later arrangements of doubtful authenticity (see chap. 7). The two- or three-part texture of most contemporary orchestral writing made adaptation for the keyboard fairly easy. Tremolos and other string figuration had to be converted to types of passagework more idiomatic to keyboard instruments, but even when imitating orchestral style Bach avoided such writing until the 1760s; by then he had evidently grown comfortable with the brilliant and colorful, if facile, keyboard textures that this produced. The last sonata of 1744, W. 65/15 in G, was another of Bach’s efforts in simpler style, at least before he added a layer of florid embellishment (probably late in the Berlin period). Even in its original form, the work reveals the composer’s discovery of how to infuse a sonata with real humor, going beyond mere cleverness and belying the notion that “his passion lacked wit”—a verdict that arose from taking a few late works more seriously than necessary.14 The concluding Prestissimo of W. 65/15 is in the usual sonata form, but the two outer

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86 chapter six sections end with a long ascending arpeggio that simply breaks off, followed by a measure of rest. The middle section lacks even this, merely exhausting itself on a fermata after modulating to B minor. The return, in the tonic G major, follows immediately, producing a non sequitur that nevertheless sounds completely right in retrospect ($ex. 6.10). Such things would become common in Bach’s late style, and in the C-Major Sonata W. 62/10 of 1749 he produced something surprisingly close to works of thirty years later, in the incessantly broken-off phrases and bursts of eccentric figuration of the quick movements. The sonata nevertheless ends quietly, with the same self-deprecating humor heard in the ending of W. 65/15. By contrast to the keyboard works, Bach’s flute sonatas and other “solos” of the period remain relatively conventional if more ambitious and demanding than his Frankfurt compositions of this type. This is true even of the famous work in A minor for unaccompanied flute (W. 132), composed in 1747 and published in 1763. Although it must, to some degree, be a response to Sebastian’s Partita for solo flute in the same key, in form as well as in details of style and phraseology it reflects Emanuel’s other works of the 1740s, as well as those of Quantz (as in the Quantzian echo of m. 3 within the opening phrase of the second movement). Still, this is the earliest unaccompanied flute sonata known. Among the few similarly scored works by earlier composers, the most important, apart from Sebastian’s Partita, were certainly the twelve fantasias that Telemann had published in 1732–33. But Emanuel, unlike Telemann, avoids exploring various genres such as fugue, instead demonstrating the possibility of writing a conventional Berlin flute sonata without a separate bass part. Naturally, Bach gives the flute a “polyphonic” melody that incorporates bass notes as well as implied inner voices, and this leads to writing that is often bifurcated between the extreme high and low notes of the instrument, as at the very beginning of the sonata. The resulting leaps are among the work’s technical demands, which exceed those of Bach’s other flute compositions; another is the prominent early use of f‴, which was difficult to produce on most contemporary instruments.15 The work is, moreover, the longest and certainly the most serious of Bach’s solo sonatas, as is already clear from its opening slow movement. As in the preceding D-Major Flute Sonata (with continuo, W. 131), the initial movement is a through-composed ternary sonata form with concluding cadenza, but now nearly twice as long and containing some notably chromatic if not unusually remote modulations. Also in common with the D-major sonata—and with the two sonatas of the same period for viola da gamba (W. 136–37)—is the presence of concerto-style passagework in the two allegro movements. This was a nod toward the genre in which Bach was presumably making his mark as a public virtuoso on his own instrument during these same years.

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bach’s works of the 1740s 87

Concertos Like Bach’s sonatas of the period, the concertos of the 1740s vary in style and in the demands they make on players and listeners. A virtuoso work incorporating grand gestures for both soloist and ripieno might be followed by a modest one that is witty or conversational in character, as with W. 9 and 10 of 1742. Simpler works are not necessarily any less original than others; W. 10 is disarmingly modest, yet there is great ingenuity in the way soloist and ripieno answer one another’s phrases in the first movement. That Bach worked carefully on both types, probably making multiple drafts of a work before it circulated, is evident from his relatively small output during the period and the sometimes baffling variants between the surviving sources of any given concerto. Many of these works survive in more than a dozen manuscript copies, which often transmit distinct versions, products of multiple stages of revision. Although autograph scores survive for about half of Bach’s concertos from before 1753, most if not all of these are revision copies based on earlier sketches or drafts of some type. These circumstances make it difficult to generalize about how Bach worked on his Berlin concertos. Only for the Oboe Concerto W. 164 of 1765 do we have significant autograph sketches, and these consist of a not entirely cogent succession of melodic ideas—hardly a coherent “continuity draft.” They do confirm the impression gained from Bach’s finished compositions that the composer thought more in terms of complete melodies (or at least melodic phrases) than individual motives that could be developed or subjects that could be worked out contrapuntally. In sketches for the Oboe Concerto, a triplet figure for what was probably to have been an opening theme was later incorporated into a solo passage in the first movement ($ex. 6.11). But the motive itself is never singled out as a distinct idea in either the sketch or the finished composition, and there is little in these sketches that seems to have been conceived specifically for a concerto, as opposed to any other type of instrumental piece. (For more on the sketches for W. 164, see 6.3.) At the formal level, concerto movements were modeled, more or less explicitly, on the aria, which established certain conventional types of themes and phrasing, especially for ritornellos. Yet the view of the soloist in a concerto as a metaphorical stand-in for the voice must have come into focus only gradually. In early concertos, including Sebastian’s, neither the form nor the style of most concerto movements is particularly close to that of an aria—notwithstanding the use of what today is too easily described as ritornello form. As in the aria, the alternation between soloist and ripieno was not the fundamental element of the design. In arias, the form of the text and its presentation were paramount. The underlying design of a concerto movement might be that of a sonata-allegro, a rondo, even a fugue or a set of variations—but rarely da capo form.16

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88 chapter six Emanuel’s first concertos must have been composed under the direct influence of his father’s—either in their familiar versions for keyboard or in lost early versions for other instruments. In Sebastian’s concertos, as in those of other late-Baroque composers, the soloist (unlike a singer in an aria) performs as a member of the tutti. Solo episodes therefore are defined not by the entry of the soloist but by the dropping out of the ripieno strings. The function of the latter, therefore, is to reinforce the soloist in tutti passages, underlining the structural function of the ritornellos as islands of tonal stability, the goals toward which the solo episodes modulate, sometimes via dramatic passagework. Although the ripieno parts may have contrapuntal lines independent of the soloist’s, many concertos can be played by the soloist alone. This does not mean that such works were initially conceived as solo pieces without ripienists17—but a draft in such a form would look very much like one of Bach’s postulated continuity sketches. This is a different conception of the concerto from the now-customary one of a confrontation between soloist and larger ensemble. The modern view is already implicit, however, in the printed parts for W. 11, published in 1745, which include basso continuo figures for the soloist during ritornellos. These figures—absent from the autograph score—confirm that by 1745 Bach expected the keyboard player to accompany the strings during ritornellos, taking a leading role only with the first solo passage. Yet many manuscript copies of Emanuel’s concertos continue to give the soloist the melody in the ritornellos, doubling the first violin (as in Sebastian’s concertos). Emanuel himself seemingly reverted to the older conception of the concerto as late as 1772, when he included the ritornello melody in the printed keyboard part for the six concertos of W. 43, giving the soloist the option of performing alone or with strings. The practical question in such cases—whether the soloist should play with the violins or furnish a basso continuo realization during the ritornellos—is less important than the conceptual one: to what degree is such a concerto fundamentally a keyboard work with optional ripieno parts, as opposed to a dialogue between orchestra and soloist? In fact, the latter concept of the concerto is clear enough in W. 11 and other works from the mid-1740s onward. It is less distinct in the Leipzig version of W. 1, more so in Bach’s first Berlin concerto W. 4, and fully drawn in the renovated versions of W. 2 and 3, for which no earlier form survives. Hence these last two concertos, although drafted at Leipzig and Frankfurt, respectively, are effectively Berlin works. Like other Berlin concertos—and unlike W. 1—they incorporate relatively long ritornellos that are subdivided into distinct phrases; one or two of the latter may be in a contrasting mode or played at a distinct piano dynamic level, and they may be dramatically articulated by fermatas or silences. The same features occur in the ritornellos of opera arias from the 1740s, which had grown in length and complexity over those of two or three decades earlier. As a result, Emanuel’s Berlin and Hamburg concertos—all, that is, except W.

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bach’s works of the 1740s 89 1—are fundamentally different from those of Vivaldi or Sebastian Bach, representing almost a new genre. Of course, the solo keyboard concerto was brand new when Emanuel took it up; the early version of W. 1 is the first example by anyone that can be dated with reasonable certainty. Yet by the time he reached Berlin, dozens more had probably been composed by his new colleagues there, including Graun, Schaffrath, and Nichelmann.18 The earliest such works must have been modeled on older ones for violin and strings, although whether Tartini or any other single violinist-composer was a formative influence may be doubted.19 Nor must the invention of the new type be traced to any one musician; even if Sebastian or Emanuel Bach was the first to write an original concerto with a solo keyboard part, the idea could have occurred to any virtuoso harpsichordist or organist, at a time when the violin concertos of composers such as Vivaldi were being imitated by Quantz and others writing for their own instruments. In most works of the younger generation, however, nearly every movement is in sonata form, with the three main sections framed by ritornellos. Fugues, rondos, binary forms, and ostinato movements were all becoming rare by the 1730s. Most of the newer concertos remained chamber music, typically performed by a single player on each part, and the thin textures of their ritornellos made a continuo accompaniment desirable, even if this was not yet a universal practice. Many ritornellos in Emanuel’s concertos are remote from anything idiomatic to a keyboard instrument, requiring a virtuoso string ensemble that would have been available at Berlin, drawing on players from the royal opera. The initial ritornellos of several concertos from the mid-1740s (W. 7, 12, and 15) are contrapuntal in texture; that of W. 27 of 1750 is in grand orchestral style. When the soloist repeats the opening ritornello theme of W. 23, it is in a variation adapted to the keyboard idiom. A keyboard doubling of these passages would be superfluous, obscuring the genuine dialogue between keyboard and strings that emerges in Bach’s concertos of the 1740s. This dialogue is more than simple alternation or antiphony, one interlocutor merely repeating material stated by the other. Nor is it just a matter of contrast, as when the soloist appends to the conventional restatement of the ritornello theme the sequential passagework that was now mandatory in a quick concerto movement. Bach’s dialogue often involves dramatically contrasting rhythms or textures—a heightened form of the idea of the “second theme” present in some trios (see ex. 5.5). It may dramatize the development of a motive, in a way more reminiscent of later Classical style than Bach’s usual manner (ex. 6.12). An acceleration in the rate at which strings and keyboard exchange material or interrupt one another may generate wit, drama, or both (as in $ex. 6.26). Although one may catch glimmers of such things in earlier concertos, they emerge with full force in Emanuel’s works of the 1740s. The twenty-six concertos

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90 chapter six Example 6.12. Concerto in E Minor, W. 24, movement 3, mm. 98–111

composed during the first half of his Berlin period—twenty-nine if one includes the three renovated works—are arguably the most significant examples of the genre by anyone composed up to 1753, and surely the most important part of his own oeuvre from these years. Lacking the original versions of W. 2 and 3, and probably also of the first few Berlin concertos, we cannot be sure exactly how Bach’s concept of the genre developed during the crucial years before 1745. His concertos pale in number beside the more numerous examples by Schaffrath, probably also Graun and Nichelmann—not to mention the dozens of fine flute concertos that Quantz was writing during the same period. These doubtless provided ideas for Bach, but so too did his father’s

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bach’s works of the 1740s 91 concertos. As in Emanuel’s sonatas of the period, it is easy to detect occasional thematic parallelisms to Sebastian’s music; Emanuel often composes out chromatic progressions and modulations using varieties of keyboard figuration similar to ones found in his father’s concertos. At a more profound level, however, Sebastian provided a model for extending the notion of what a keyboard concerto could be. The very idea of writing virtuoso keyboard parts in a concerto was part of his father’s legacy, at a time when Hasse and the Grauns were fashioning such works primarily for amateur players of limited ability, producing polite drawing-room entertainments, not impassioned dialogues or dramatic confrontations.

Bach’s First Concertos How the concerto as a genre was transformed in Emanuel’s hands becomes clear from a consideration of W. 1, which survives in both an early version and its presumed renovation of 1744. Whether it really was his first concerto cannot be demonstrated. That it was seen as important by Bach and those who knew him is suggested by the survival of its earliest known version in multiple manuscript copies. Bach undertook its renovation only after revising his second surviving concerto, W. 2, which, together with W. 3, is extant only in its renovated version. Even in its revised version, W. 1 recalls Sebastian’s style more than any other instrumental work of Emanuel’s. Its opening theme, unlike that of W. 2, avoids galant formulas, instead employing a rhetorical—or fussy—motive whose repeated notes emphasize a characteristic half step. The first solo passage almost quotes Sebastian’s B-Minor Flute Sonata in a particularly prickly chromatic modulating sequence ($ex. 6.13). Yet the work also incorporates elements foreign not only to Sebastian’s music but to the “Berlin” style—really a Dresden style—that already predominates in the renovated versions of the next two concertos.20 Peculiar to Bach are some quirkily expressive rhythms and melodic writing in the slow movement, whose first solo episode begins with two oddly embellished phrases, each repeated. There is more of the same in the closing phrase of the same solo episode ($ex. 6.14). These passages— which were entirely replaced in the renovated version—owe something to the Italianate bizzarria occasionally emulated by Friedemann as well, as in the latter’s relatively early concerto F. 45.21 The presence of such passages in W. 1, together with some not entirely polished voice leading, suggests that this really was Emanuel’s first concerto. That it was preserved and disseminated might have reflected not only its importance to him personally but curiosity among admirers about his early work. If so, this was something new in the reception of music, with players and listeners seeking out a work not because of its inherent interest but because of what it told them about the compositional biography of a famous author.

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92 chapter six At the time of Bach’s arrival in Berlin, however, he was a youthful virtuoso establishing his reputation. If an “anxiety of influence” had previously led him to take up elements of the style of his father and older brother, even while distancing himself from them, his goal now was to distinguish himself from Graun, Quantz, and his other senior colleagues, while adopting mandatory elements of the Dresden or Berlin manner.22 The renovation of W. 1 included substantial changes in all three movements, but particularly in the second, which lost most of its bizzarria. Emanuel rewrote almost everything after the second half of the first measure, retaining only the harmonic skeleton of some further passages in the ritornello, as well as a few motives introduced later into the piece. This was to go well beyond the most elaborate embellishment that Emanuel is known to have applied in the renovation of other early slow movements. The early version of W. 1 had already evinced a fairly sophisticated understanding of formal design, with real dialogue between tutti and soloist within the slow movement. But although this dialogue remains (from m. 31 of the new version), after that point the modulating scheme changes. The central ritornello (at m. 41b) is in D minor, not G minor, that is, in the relative minor rather than ii, which was a more archaic choice for a related minor key. The final solo passages are more straightforward tonally as revised, losing an affective turn to the tonic minor but gaining a cadenza (m. 56). This was to replace the imaginative but somewhat rambling design of the early version with a more rationalistic one, concluding with an imitation of operatic practice—the cadenza—favored at Berlin. The outer movements underwent less thorough recasting, retaining their original plans as well as most of their original thematic material. In the third movement, the ritornello was expanded by the insertion of a somewhat pedestrian eight-measure sequence; the solo episodes were revised to eliminate a recurring passage over a dominant pedal point ($ex. 6.19). The inserted sequence in the ritornello incorporates triple and quadruple stops for the violins that sound exciting in other Berlin concertos, such as W. 46. Bach would use the same basic idea in a much later work, the Sinfonia in B Minor W. 182/5, where slashing chords for the strings underline the fact that the third movement has begun in the “wrong” key. Here, however, the sequence is merely a circular diatonic progression, its sole purpose to expand the ritornello in a way that had become routine at Berlin. Removing the pedal-point passage in the solo passages likewise assimilated the movement to Berlin norms, but at the cost of eliminating one of the more distinctive ideas of the original version. Bach did retain the restatement of the concluding passage from the first solo episode—the only substantial instance of recapitulation in the original version (mm. 53–56 are restated in mm. 155–58). But in the revised version the chromaticism of the passage loses its edge, becoming conventional in the absence of the pedal point that originally raised the level of dissonance, in a way reminiscent of Sebastian’s music. In sum, the Erneuerung of 1744, although

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bach’s works of the 1740s 93 rationalizing and embellishing Bach’s first ideas, also eliminated much that was remarkable, if a little rough, in the original. By substituting more polished but predictable sequences and pedal points, Bach produced something that would be acceptable at Berlin; one could almost say that in these passages “taste” replaced “genius.” (For more on W. 1, 2, and 3, see 6.4.) The renovated versions of W. 2 and 3 are as much products of the mid1740s as W. 11 and other original compositions of those years. The choice to publish W. 11 in 1745 and not an earlier work, nor a renovated one, was surely undertaken very deliberately. It would have made little sense to go to the trouble and expense of printing a work already in circulation, and W. 11, the only new concerto of 1743, was probably composed with publication in mind. Its bright D-major key makes things relatively easy for both the soloist and the string players, and its first movement breathes the spirit of Graun’s grander arias. It shares, too, the syntax of Hasse’s and Quantz’s flute concertos, with numerous repeated phrase fragments within the opening ritornello and a lyrical “second theme” for the initial solo entry (accompanied by the two violins, as in many flute concertos). Connoisseurs, however, would have immediately recognized Bach “swerving” away from the influential styles alluded to in the opening phrases of all three movements.23 Emanuel’s turning away from convention is palpable in the many harmonic and rhythmic discontinuities already encountered within the opening ritornello. More come later, especially at the end of the second solo episode (mm. 125–31). There the frenetic passagework comes close to dissolving into the type of fantasia writing incorporated into sonatas and other works of a few years later. Still, the final movement of W. 11 spares the player the physically uncomfortable passagework present in W. 2 and other works that remained in manuscript.24 Whether Emanuel undertook the renovation of W. 1 and 2 before or after the composition of W. 11 is impossible to say,25 yet the latter is in some ways a less sophisticated work than the renovated W. 2. The difficulties of the latter did not prevent it from circulating, at least among the cognoscenti. Like W. 3, as well as the original concertos of the early Berlin period, it survives in multiple copies that belonged to, or were copied by, Berlin musicians such as Agricola, Fasch, Possin, Zelter, and Bach’s pupil Friedrich Wilhelm Rust.26 Such a provenance suggests that even Bach’s more difficult works were performed in local concerts or “academies,” as we know was the case for W. 11.27 Agricola, whose copies of Bach’s concertos often preserve early versions, may well have sponsored performances of those very works in his own home, where he convened the academy known simply as “Das Concert.”

Later Concertos The D-Major Concerto W. 11 is not the only work of the 1740s in which Emanuel seems deliberately to have toned down the most inventive or

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94 chapter six unconventional elements of his style. Another is W. 13 of 1744, also in D but composed originally for flute, not keyboard. It is unknown whether Bach’s cautious or restrained style here reflects the choice of solo instrument, which might have been the result of a commission, but surely the keyboard version could not have been intended primarily for his own use. In adapting a woodwind concerto for the keyboard, Emanuel probably followed his father’s example, although with Sebastian only the keyboard versions survive.28 For Emanuel the transfer of the solo part from one instrument to another was simply another variety of revision. Changing a flute part—or, in later concertos an oboe or cello part—into one for keyboard involved substituting figuration idiomatic to the latter instrument; often the accompanying strings were unchanged.29 Adaptation was, then, chiefly a matter of embellishment and variation, sometimes accompanied by other types of revision. Another D-major concerto, W. 18 of 1745, was evidently designed to be even less demanding than W. 13. This is signaled already in the opening ritornello, which opens somewhat like that of W. 13 but is shorter and simpler, lacking phrases in a contrasting dynamic or mode. The second movement, in G— avoiding the minor mode—is characterized by almost constant motion in triplet sixteenths. This gives it the character of a slow or moderately paced motus perpetuum, which in several sonata movements of this type yields a pleasantly meditative rather than frenetic sort of movement (as it would be in a quick tempo).30 Instructions for the copyist added later to the autograph of W. 18 suggest that Bach contemplated publishing this work,31 perhaps hoping to appeal to the type of amateur who enjoyed playing the simpler concertos of Hasse and other contemporaries. In the event, however, Bach subsequently published only the more interesting and ambitious concertos W. 25 and 14 (in that order), as well as the six concertos of W. 43, issued much later at Hamburg. The latter are explicitly aimed at dilettantes, but by then Bach had learned how to incorporate real originality into music that was relatively easy to read, if not to play really well. Why, however, Bach returned in 1760 to W. 14, publishing a work composed sixteen years earlier, is uncertain. That he continued to play and rework his early concertos during his last years in Berlin is, however, suggested by revisions of other works that apparently took place after 1760.32 In any case, W. 14 is of interest not only for its somewhat unusual key of E major, used also in the Sonata W. 62/5 of the same year, but also for the considerable amount of genuine counterpoint for the strings in the first movement.33 There is little such art in W. 18, composed the following year (1745), even if the first solo entrance in the second movement employs a favorite contrapuntal device of Sebastian now known as Soloeinbau: the violins restate the ritornello theme as the keyboard introduces a new melody.34 Apart from that, however, W. 18 comes as close to being devoid of original ideas as anything by Emanuel Bach. Even when, in the last movement, he introduces a moderately

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bach’s works of the 1740s 95 engaging phrase in the ritornello, with imitation in all four string parts (mm. 16–20), this is merely repeated verbatim in subsequent ritornellos. The only development of the idea occurs in a brief retransition tutti that prepares the solo return, through what will be termed a “tonic preparation” ($ex. 6.27).35 But the following solo episode consists entirely of tired formulas.36 This concerto, like some of the simpler sonatas from the same period, raises an issue that comes up increasingly in Bach’s later years: his willingness, not shared with his father or older brother, to produce considerable amounts of inconsequential, even trivial, music for the public. Emanuel in effect admitted to this when he said that he had written only a few of his works for himself. This has led to criticism of Bach’s supposedly mercenary character, yet it is also possible that some degree of creative exhaustion was involved. Although not prolific by the standards of the day, he was especially busy during 1744 and 1745, and those years as well as the next few saw him producing uninspired works alongside original ones. There is never any question of deficient or negligent craft; indeed, not only W. 13 but another relatively simple concerto, W. 16 of 1745, cost Bach some trouble in his thorough rewriting of the solo parts. But perhaps he found it necessary to relax in such works after composing more demanding ones. (For more on W. 16, see 6.5.) In both works, Bach probably assumed that a professional soloist would embellish the original version. A subsequent work, W. 17 of 1745, also eventually underwent “variation”; in D minor, it is not one of Bach’s works in a simpler or more popular style, but the subsequent revision of both W. 16 and W. 17 obscured any distinction that Bach originally intended between the two types.37 That Bach nevertheless associated “easy” keys such as G and D major with relatively straightforward music in a popular style is confirmed by his fourth concerto in D, W. 27 of 1750. The work is remarkable for the later addition of wind and timpani parts to its original strings, creating a sumptuous sonority that would have been heard at Berlin during the 1740s only in Graun’s grandest arias.38 Yet the underlying texture often consists of just two real parts or even unisono writing, and the expanded instrumentation is not accompanied by any formal innovations or new types of harmony or modulation.39 Today Bach is best known not for the simpler concertos of the 1740s in major keys but for several contemporaneous minor-key works. The choice of key in each concerto was certainly deliberate. Bach’s first three concertos in D were composed in consecutive years—1743, 1744, and 1745; all relatively uncomplicated, they must reflect an effort to meet the demands of dilettantes even as he was publishing the challenging solo sonatas of the Prussian and Württemberg sets in difficult keys such as E major and A-flat major. Even among these sonatas, however, only four, and just one from the Prussian set, are in minor keys. On the other hand, seven of the thirteen concertos composed during 1745– 50 are in minor keys, including four written consecutively in 1747–48; two of these, W. 22 and 23, are both in D minor. Hence, for a few years during which

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96 chapter six his sonatas were tending toward the simpler or less demanding type, Bach’s concertos were leaning in the other direction. Bach’s focus during the second half of the decade on more challenging and expressive types of concerto began with two minor-key works of 1745 that have been singled out by Elias Kulukundis: W. 15 in E minor is “a very personal work,” and in W. 17 (in D minor), “for the first time in a keyboard concerto, Bach attains full stylistic maturity.”40 This view probably reflects the presence in both works of what is sometimes termed “storm and stress.” The expression, borrowed from the title of Klinger’s 1776 play and originally applied to the literary style that it represented, was first extended to certain works of Haydn and then to earlier music, including Bach’s. It seems particularly appropriate to works such as the D-minor concerto W. 23, which, however, predates by several decades the so-called Sturm und Drang in literature. It is easy to belittle the term as signifying nothing more than the use of minor keys. Yet the rarity of the latter in Classical works assured, for example, that Mozart’s two symphonies in the minor mode (both in G) would stand apart from the many others. Bach’s minor-key concertos of the 1740s share with Haydn’s and Mozart’s minor-key symphonies an exaggerated expressivity, a tendency toward rhythmic fragmentation or unusual harmonies and modulations. On the other hand, throughout his career Bach also used minor keys in works of a more neutral expressive character, such as the Sonata W. 62/4 and the Trio W. 160, both in D minor. Even W. 24, the last of the four consecutive minor-key concertos of 1747–48, is more elegantly elegiac than stormy or stressful in character. It might reflect a deliberate relaxation of affect after the three fiery works that preceded it. Bach’s interest in writing unusually intense minor-key works is no more likely than with Haydn to have reflected a personal or professional crisis.41 But Bach’s use of minor keys during these years to express unusually intense affects extended even to the normally sedate genre of the trio, as in the E-minor work W. 155 of 1747. Among the minor-key works of the 1740s is one that probably became Bach’s best-known concerto during the twentieth century—deservedly so, for it is arguably his greatest contribution to the genre. Arnold Schering’s selection of the D-Minor Concerto W. 23 for publication in 1907 reflected his study of the unpublished works available in the Berlin library; he compared its style to that of Beethoven, mentioning the Fourth Piano Concerto and the Fifth and Ninth Symphonies.42 Parallels to those works mostly involve mere details in the motivic material, but they include several dramatic exchanges between soloist and tutti in the slow movement, and they at least point to some common expressive aspiration. A few of Bach’s other Berlin concertos were also published during the twentieth century, including W. 6, another strong minorkey work. But none would so capture the imagination of musicians as W. 23, to judge from the frequency with which it has been recorded. Indeed, W. 23 stands out from surrounding works, including the other minor-key concertos of the late 1740s, by combining the most striking elements

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bach’s works of the 1740s 97 Example 6.29. Concerto in D Minor, W. 23, (a) movement 1, mm. 1–10; (b) movement 2, mm. 1–8; (c) movement 3, mm. 1–7

of Bach’s early Berlin style in a particularly intense and assured way. The ritornellos of all three movements incorporate ideas that are distinctive not only thematically but rhythmically and harmonically (ex. 6.29). In the first movement, the opening of the ritornello (mm. 1–7) is composed over the descending bass line found in many Berlin works, distinguished here through the slashing octaves of the violins.43 Subsequent phrases include the same types of dramatic pauses and piano passages that can be found as early as W. 4 and in sonatas such as W. 49/6. But here the first pause is underlined by a striking dissonance—a prolonged chromatic appoggiatura that at first sounds like

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98 chapter six a completely out-of-key harmony (enharmonically an E♭ seventh-chord, measure 9). A diatonic sequence that follows employs a particularly athletic motivic figure, with references to the trill from the opening measures. The solo passagework is not unusually inventive or challenging, but it is accompanied by the octaves and trills of the ritornello theme, at times involving a free sort of Soloeinbau ($ex. 6.30). This produces a peculiar intensity, and the first movement is unusual in including a cadenza not only in its last but in its first solo episode, although Bach writes it out both times, in a way that makes it more an integral part of the passage than an improvised insert.44 The later movements of W. 23 are equally exceptional. The ritornello of the second movement opens on a dissonance; the out-of-key opening begins a harmonic progression similar to the one that opens Beethoven’s First Symphony. Here the progression connects the first two movements, despite the absence of an actual bridge passage (that would come later, in Bach’s Hamburg concertos). In its original form, the harmonic inspiration of the ritornello theme was much clearer (see the reconstruction in ex. 5.11). The unisono opening of the third-movement ritornello has precedents going back to W. 1, but here the octaves and trills making up the motivic material refer back to the first movement, as do the rests that break up the initial theme. If there is any fault in the work, it lies in the similarities in terms of length and design between the outer movements, which are also close to one another in affect, despite their contrasting meters. Both, like most of Emanuel’s minor-key quick concerto movements of the period, place their third ritornello in the dominant minor; the first movement, moreover, puts the second ritornello in the subdominant. Such a tonal design lacks, at least in theory, the harmonic tension generated by the more typical first modulation to the dominant or, in a minor key, the relative major.45 Potentially problematical, too, is the fact that in the third movement the third solo episode begins with a restatement of the ritornello theme in octaves. This makes the passage sound like a new beginning, even though it functions as a retransition. Such a formal design arguably dilutes rather than intensifies the expressive effect; so too does Bach’s tendency to recapitulate large portions of the material from the first two solo episodes during the final one, which therefore may seem to run on a bit too long. Yet whether anyone really senses the types of long-range harmonic tensions posited by twentieth-century analysts is open to question. Evidently Bach and his contemporaries were not troubled by the considerable amount of sequential passagework in works like W. 23, or by its recapitulation during the final solo episode of each quick movement. The aim of such a movement could not have been to create the metaphorical drama, analogous to a series of distinct scenes in an opera, that occurs in Mozart’s and Beethoven’s concertos. Rather each movement is the equivalent of an extended aria, unified through a single prevailing type of rhythmic motion and affect. This is not to say that Bach consciously followed the problematical

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bach’s works of the 1740s 99 principle of “unity of affect,” which theorists would not extend to instrumental music for several more decades (see chap. 8). But despite the frequent rhetorical pauses, sudden changes of dynamic, and other shocks, the work follows the late-Baroque tradition of sustaining a single predominant character over the course of each movement. No work met the expressive aspirations underlying that tradition more successfully than W. 23. Bach’s achievement in this work was anticipated in his concertos of the previous few years. The G-Minor Concerto W. 6 of 1740 already sustained an unusually vehement affect through both quick movements, interposing between them a sharply contrasting lyrical slow movement (marked Largo, which is exceptional for Bach). The first movement of W. 12 in F, of 1744, stood out not only for the contrapuntal texture of the ritornello but for having the soloist introduce an unusual amount of new material. The latter includes a lyrical “second theme” at the first solo entry, as well as some particularly inventive passagework in the second solo episode. Bach combined these features in the E-Minor Concerto W. 15 of 1745, although the latter achieved a really striking character only after his revision of the first movement (see ex. 5.5).46 The D-Minor Concerto W. 17 of the same year, although naturally reminding us of works that would soon follow in the same key, is actually somewhat shorter and less of a showpiece for the soloist than W. 15. Its concision is not a weakness, but, although it has been described as “the most extroverted” of the 1745 concertos,47 W. 17 is in fact a relatively restrained work. Until the second solo episode of the final movement, its rhythm and solo passagework are unadventurous by comparison with the earlier W. 6 and W. 15, and the string writing is also somewhat toned down, as Bach avoids the slightly récherché counterpoint that makes W. 15 so distinctive. The most remarkable passage in W. 17 may be the opening of its slow movement, in B-flat and marked piano sempre. As in many of Bach’s works of the decade, the ritornello makes an expressive feint toward the subdominant (E-flat). Coming just after the conclusion of the opening movement in D minor, the modulation to a key a half step away is striking, although it is immediately set aside in favor of the expected F. Later, however, Bach accomplishes another remote modulation, from F minor to G minor, in the space of just three measures (mm. 51–53). This modulation is a lasting one, leading to the movement’s second formal cadence (m. 61); the local or decorative chromaticism of the opening passage has been realized as something structural. The four minor-key concertos of 1747–48 are by no means monolithic; rather, like W. 15 and 17, they demonstrate the variety of which Bach was capable within a single type of concerto. One work, W. 22, originated as a flute concerto and must have been composed for a player who desired something comparable to Bach’s impassioned keyboard concertos of the past few years.48 That Bach had higher expressive aspirations here than in the earlier flute concerto W. 13 is evident not only from the key but from dramatic strokes

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approaching those found in his recent keyboard concertos.49 The transformation of W. 22 into a keyboard concerto, moreover, eventually involved considerably more variation than that of W. 13, whose keyboard version was already in existence by 1750 or so and involved relatively trivial alterations.50 The extant keyboard version of W. 22 reflects more serious revision, amounting to renovation; Bach expanded some solo passages and abbreviated others, as he did in W. 5.51 His renovation of the latter work dates from 1762; that the keyboard version of W. 22 is significantly later is suggested by the recurrence of a stunning enharmonic passage from the second movement in his great C-Major Fantasia W. 59/6 of 1784 ($ex. 6.31).52 Perhaps Bach worked on both pieces at the same time; if so, he still took W. 22 seriously almost forty years after its composition, even if its keyboard version is inevitably a lesser manifestation of a type in which he achieved perfection with the following work, W. 23. Bach’s previous concerto, W. 21 in A minor, belongs to a distinct type, its first two movements more rhetorical than impassioned (like those of W. 22 and 23) or lyrical (W. 24). Even in the third movement, whose ritornello approaches the more “enraged” style of the next two works, the initial solo entry is almost quiet, and the ritornello contains a particularly rhetorical type of sequential passage that involves alternating piano and forte phrases, separated by rests ($ex. 6.32). Potentially dramatic, the device is also potentially pedantic, and it was hardly new here; Bach had already used it in the first movement of W. 6, where it produced a modulating period of twenty measures, nearly half the opening ritornello (mm. 12–31). In that work, however, the device remained confined to the ritornello; here it develops into a dialogue between tutti and soloist (see $ex. 6.32b). The idea had a precedent in a concerto by Quantz,53 although as with so much in these concertos its ultimate inspiration may have lain in opera. W. 21 is unique among Bach’s works of the later 1740s in having undergone a renovation that is dated in NV (1775). Why NV lists a renovation for W. 21 and not for W. 16, W. 22, and other works that originated during the same period and also underwent substantial revision is unclear. The changes made in W. 21 were apparently no more, and possibly somewhat less, extensive than those made in other works; indeed, the embellishment of the solo part was greater in the quick movements of W. 16. Bach’s reserve in embellishing W. 21 was probably a good thing, for its keyboard part thus retained the variety of texture that tended to be diluted by the variations that Bach could spin out effortlessly by his Hamburg period. Possibly Bach recognized something special in his revision of W. 21, which incorporates a written-out cadenza as an integral part of the second movement; this occurs regularly in Bach’s concertos only within the six works of 1771 (W. 43). In addition, a cadenza preserved separately for the first movement begins by citing a motive from the immediately preceding phrase; here too, then, the cadenza was effectively integrated with the rest of the movement, in a way that was rare or unknown during the 1740s.54

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bach’s works of the 1740s 101 Bach would compose only two new concertos (W. 44 and 45) after renovating W. 21, which, like W. 22 never circulated widely—unlike its more famous D-minor cousins W. 17 and 23. Compared to those two works, W. 21 seems restrained and conventional, and this may be why it never became well known. Yet it is actually a more nuanced composition, straddling the line between wit and pathos, as in an exchange between tutti and soloist leading up to the cadenza in the first movement ($ex. 6.33). Perhaps it was this subtler composition, not the more brilliant and demonstrative W. 23, that represented the type of music for which Bach, late in life, wished to be remembered, and which in his mind more clearly distinguished his work in this genre from that of Graun and his other Berlin colleagues.

Trios at Berlin Miklós Spányi, observing a resemblance between W. 23 and Brahms’s piano concerto in the same key, suggests that both composers had “an overall inclination to very serious expression and dark colours.”55 Yet Bach’s music often reflects as well his sense of humor, which could even coexist with pathos, as W. 21 shows. Witty urbanity is the prevailing characteristic of the trios that Bach composed during the 1740s, mingling only in a few rather special examples with the virtuosity and vehemence of concertos such as W. 9 and 23. Bach composed only eight new trios during the 1740s, four of them in 1747; the same year saw his renovation of seven of the eight earlier trios from Leipzig and Frankfurt. He had turned to the trios only after completing the renovation of his early keyboard sonatas and concertos, and this implies that trios held lower priority, as does his failure to publish any of them before 1751. That the new trios of the 1740s were all composed at Potsdam suggests that they were the product of special circumstances, perhaps connected in some way with the royal court. Sebastian Bach made his famous visit to Potsdam in 1747, during Emanuel’s “year of trios,” afterward dedicating to the king his Musical Offering, whose centerpiece is a trio for flute and violin. This was the scoring used in two of Emanuel’s four new trios of that year, as well as in six of the seven early works renovated during the same period. Potsdam was then a country town, and we can imagine Emanuel working there in idyllic surroundings, trying out these pieces with his colleagues, perhaps even in Frederick’s private concerts. Yet the wide dissemination of many of these trios in manuscript copies suggests that Bach wrote them primarily for performances or patrons elsewhere. Although they are not among his most engaging or important works, Bach’s Berlin trios are of some interest as the last significant group of such pieces by a major composer. Quantz, too, wrote a relatively small number of trios during his earlier years; the Graun brothers composed them in larger numbers, but only those of Johann Gottlieb approach Bach’s in imagination and seriousness.

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From their preservation in manuscript copies owned by collectors such as Sara Levy, as well as their occasional publication, it is clear that trios, although less popular than concertos and keyboard sonatas, continued to be played until the end of the century in the same private and semipublic settings. Most make gestures toward the old polyphonic tradition, although these are often limited to simple imitations or echoes between the two melody instruments at the beginning of a movement. Bach’s trios, like those of his Berlin colleagues, are more conservative in style than other types of composition, and those involving flutes are less adventurous than those for two violins (other scorings are rare, apart from the type in which obbligato keyboard substitutes for one of the melody instruments). Bach continued to write trios into the 1760s, but apart from the four keyboard-and-violin trios of 1763 the later ones are less imaginative and distinctive than those of the 1740s. NV lists seventeen further works as trios, but these are accompanied-keyboard pieces, employing an entirely different texture from that of the trio sonata. When Bach returned, after a ten-year hiatus, to composing trios in 1745, he might have had plans for publishing some of them, but he would bring out only four such works.56 The first two new trios that Bach wrote, after renovating his Leipzig efforts, are virtuoso works with impressive through-composed opening and middle movements (W. 149 and 150). Their drum basses and highly nuanced slow movements recall Bach’s concertos of the period, and they may, like the latter, have been composed for his own concert performances, although only W. 149 survives in an obbligato-keyboard version.57 The latter is the last such piece in which Bach reassigned a flute part to the keyboard; his later trios for keyboard and violin were all apparently composed in that form from the beginning. Although Bach took these pieces seriously—as demonstrated by their carefully written autograph scores and, in some cases, parts—it is hard to believe that his heart was fully in them. His colleagues and contemporaries may have enjoyed playing them, yet to modern ears they are rarely exciting, and, with the exception of the little-known W. 155 in E minor, they lack the fire of Bach’s best sonatas and concertos of the same period. Even in W. 155, the concerto-like gestures of the last movement are incorporated somewhat incongruously into an overextended sonata form. Evidently the latter was an expectation of the genre, the product of an aesthetic that required the two melody instruments to share equally in all the thematic material of each movement, and at considerable length. Quick movements tend to maintain a steady rhythmic texture and affect over extended spans of time; slow movements are occasionally as expressive as those in other works (as in the Trio for two flutes, W. 162), but they never gained the heavy layers of embellishment added in some of the concertos. Like the later string quartet, these works must have been understood as metaphorical conversations, but only a few achieve the level of wit or expression that would make them as engaging for listeners as they may have been for players.

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bach’s works of the 1740s 103 To be sure, these pieces exhibit the compositional skill we would expect from Bach, as in the opening Allegro of W. 161/2 in B-flat. Composed in 1748 and published three years later, the movement would be a routine sonata form (with central double bar) were it not for its great length. To the extent that it engages a listener, it does so not through any substantial thematic contrast, as in later Classical sonata-allegros, but by a controlled build-up of momentum as the two upper parts, at first playing largely alone or antiphonally, come together near the end of each section in lively parallel motion. Such writing was doubtless inspired by the occasional vocal duets of opera seria, in which two soloists, at first alternating with one another, typically join in a more or less ecstatic expression of love or some other emotion by the end of each section.58 In Bach’s trios, the second part, imitating the first at either the fifth or the unison, provides little real counterpoint, rather accompanying in parallel thirds or providing short melodic interjections to fill brief pauses in the first part. The vocal metaphor is explicit in the better known of the two trios published as W. 161. This is the so-called Program Trio, whose representational element Bach explained in a famous preface: the two violin parts constitute a dialogue between the allegorical characters “Sanguineus” and “Melancholicus.” Through lettered rubrics, each matched to a passage in the score, we discover that Sanguineus’s lively interjections in the first movement repeatedly interrupt and contradict the morose musings of Melancholicus, eventually winning him over in the finale (ex. 6.34 and table 6.1). The verbal key given in the preface resembles the descriptive legend or caption that might be provided for a mathematical diagram or a drawing; it has precedents in works by Froberger and Johann Christoph Bach that Emanuel probably knew.59 The almost lawyerly forensic debate represented in this music would have appealed particularly to the learned dilettantes who formed the primary market for such a publication, many of them, like Emanuel, the beneficiaries of university legal training. The idea was timely, reflecting what was probably a common way of thinking about musical expression and drama. The two interlocutors represent generalized characters or affects abstracted from any actual situation or series of events, resolving their differences through reasoned argument. Here Bach’s music is a metaphor for polite conversation, not operatic drama. Today, when the idea of chamber music as a metaphorical conversation has become a cliché, the Program Trio may not seem very remarkable. Indeed, the contrasting tempos of Melancholicus and Sanguineus within the first movement had been anticipated in works such as Bach’s First Prussian Sonata, and even his programmatic explanation for the procedure had a precedent in Kuhnau’s Biblical Sonatas.60 By 1751, instrumental recitative was familiar to Bach’s listeners, and earlier trios and concertos “with two themes” furnished additional precedents. One of these, the A-Major Concerto W. 19 of 1746, is particularly relevant, for here the soloist enters with a slow version of the ritornello theme, which is immediately repeated in its quicker original note

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Example 6.34. Program Trio, W. 161/1, movement 1, mm. 1–36

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Table 6.1. Program Trio, W. 161/1, movement 1, mm. 1–36, rubrics from the composer’s Vorbericht (preface) (a) Bedeutet, wegen des halben Schlusses in die Quinte, eine Frage, ob der Sanguineus mit dem Melancholicus hierinne einig sey. Jener aber giebt

(a) represents, through the half cadence on the fifth, the question whether Sanguineus and Melancholicus are to be in agreement. The former, however,

(b) Durch die Verschiedenheit des Zeitmasses sowohl, als durch den ganzen Inhalt der Antwort, und noch über dem, durch den Anfang in einem ganz andern Ton, deutlich gnug zu erkennen, daß er ganz anderes Sinnes sey.

(b) not only by his different tempo but through the content of the answer, and moreover by beginning in an entirely different key, makes it sufficiently clear that he is of a completely different opinion.

(c) Heir verliert der Sanguineus mit Fleiß etwas von seiner Munterkeit, um den Melancholicus desto eher zu locken; welcher aber in der Folge hierinnen die Gelegenheit findet, mitten in seiner auscheinenden Bekehrung, wieder in seine alte Schwermuth zu verfallen.

(c) Here Sanguineus gives up some of his insistence in an effort to cajole Melancholicus, who then, however, just as he seems to be in the process of being converted, finds an opportunity to fall back into his former melancholy.

(d) Hier ist wieder eine Frage durch die Quinte; Wobey man durch eine kleine Generalpause den andern gleichsam hat ermuntern müssen, auf diesen ihm unangenehmen ganzen Inhalt, und die vorgelegte Frage, zu antworten.

(d) Here is another question on the fifth, whereby through a short general pause Melancholicus might be encouraged, as it were, to reply to the whole disagreeable subject and to the question that has been put forth.

(e) Der S. fällt dem andern, welcher bey seiner Meynung bleibt, aus Ungedult ins Wort, und widerholet seinen Satz.

(e) Sanguineus, impatient, interrupts Melancholicus, who sticks to his opinion, and repeats his statement.

(f) Der S. bricht hier fragend ab, ob der andere das noch fehlende fortsetzen wolle?

(f) Here Sanguineus breaks off, asking whether Melancholicus would like to continue with the remainder [of the statement].

(g) Welcher aber an statt dessen, aus seinem Hauptsatze ein Stück unterschiebt.

(g) Instead, Melancholicus insinuates a portion of his own main theme.

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values by the strings. The dialogue continues with even livelier outbursts from the first violin in the next two interjections ($ex. 6.35). In the Program Trio, the roles are reversed, the slower theme of the first speaker (“Melancholicus”) being parodied in a more lively version by the second (mm. 47ff.). The alternation, moreover, begins earlier in the movement and involves more frequent and more sudden interruptions than in the concerto. The Program Trio nevertheless is only a more explicitly programmatic epitome of a common type, which we can imagine being enjoyed by listeners whose academies and collegia provided forums for actual witty banter and lively debate of the type represented here musically. It has been suggested that a trio by J. G. Graun provided a model for Bach’s work.61 A manuscript copy of Graun’s trio indeed describes it as “Trio Melancholig et Sanguin.,” and a manuscript listing perhaps the same work gives it the title “Sanguin. et Colericus.”62 But these titles more likely reflect someone’s discovery of a parallel to Bach’s Program Trio in the second movement of Graun’s work, where the two upper parts each maintain their own distinct thematic material. Bach himself included Graun’s work in the Musikalisches Vielerley of 1770, which he edited after his move to Hamburg, giving the work no title other than “Trio.” The manuscript sources for Graun’s trio nevertheless confirm that some listeners heard metaphorical conversations in such a work, even if the dialogue involves only one movement. The more extended and explicit metaphor in the Program Trio, integrating all three movements, shows how much farther and more systematically Bach was willing to go in carrying out his experiment. In later works at Berlin he would continue his aesthetic experimentation in various types of compositions, many of them involving actual voices, not metaphorical ones.

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Chapter Seven

Beyond the Court Bach’s work underwent profound changes after 1750. The period immediately after his father’s death that year saw relatively little composition, but Bach’s output soon diversified and expanded. He would remain prolific to the end of his career, although with his move to Hamburg in 1768 the nature of his output would shift drastically: he would remake himself as primarily a composer of vocal music. The transition began during the later 1750s, when Bach’s production of numerous songs (lieder) was the first signal that he was no longer to be almost exclusively a composer of instrumental music. Already by then, however, he probably was composing less than previously for his own performances. Bach was shifting from being primarily a court musician, working in a few genres favored by the king and in small “academies” modeled on court practice, to an independent entrepreneur cultivating a broadening public. The latter eventually included purchasers of printed music across northern Europe as well as church congregations in the great cities of the region. Bach would also become something of a public intellectual, not only by publication of the Versuch but through other writings, including those of other authors who cited his observations on musical matters. Although after 1750 Bach would be commonly praised for his “originality,” probably a smaller proportion of his works were as distinctive or compelling as among his compositions of the 1740s— doubtless by design. By the mid-1750s, little keyboard pieces and relatively easy sonatas had become Bach’s most numerous categories of compositions, joined in 1758 by songs. Meanwhile his production of concertos and trios diminished. Sheer numbers of compositions do not reflect how much he actually wrote, for a single large work such as the 1756 Easter Piece (W. 244) contains more music than dozens of smaller compositions. During some years that saw few new works, Bach revised or published existing music; in 1751 and 1752 he issued the two trios W. 161 and the Concerto W. 25, doubtless while working on volume 1 of the Versuch, which appeared in 1753.1 Yet a survey of his output makes clear how Bach’s regimen and focus changed, particularly in the years around 1750 and 1756, corresponding to his father’s death and the beginning of the

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Seven Years’ War, respectively. (See 7.1 for a tabulation of Bach’s works during this period.) Bach’s position as director of church music during the last twenty years of his life would shape his output after his move to Hamburg. Even then, however, Bach continued to experiment, as he began to do during the 1750s at Berlin, by writing new types of music. Some of this experimentation reflected commercial concerns, as in the deliberately simple pieces that Bach published from 1753 onward in increasing numbers. But Bach probably was also responding to discussions of music, poetry, and aesthetics in the intellectual circles that he frequented in both cities. In 1750 Bach could not have foreseen the two events that would most affect his work during the next two decades: the war of 1756–63, which profoundly affected concert life and the musical activities of the Prussian court; and his move to Hamburg. But when, after his father’s death, Sebastian’s position went to a politically connected mediocrity, it must have been clear to Emanuel that he could not count on ever obtaining such a post, and that he must make the most of his situation in Berlin. Bach’s not very onerous court responsibilities had left him considerable time to pursue his own activities even before the war put a halt to most musical activities at court. The latter never returned to their prewar level, and hence the war had more positive than negative effects for Bach, despite the general disruption and suffering that it caused. But all this was far ahead of him in 1750.

The Magnificat and the Leipzig Succession Given Bach’s strong focus on instrumental music during the 1740s—the only secular vocal compositions are a few songs—it is surprising that he completed a large Latin Magnificat in 1749. Why he wrote it remains a mystery, but its composition and subsequent performance would have claimed much of Bach’s time and energy. Although it would remain an isolated effort in Bach’s oeuvre, the Magnificat (W. 215) provided experience in writing vocal music very different from what he had composed at Leipzig and Frankfurt. It was probably heard at Leipzig shortly after its composition, during a period that also saw a performance there of Friedemann’s church piece Lasset uns ablegen (F. 80). Although only Friedemann seems to have formally applied to succeed Sebastian as cantor, both brothers might have been vying for their father’s approval if not his job. The latter, however, had effectively been promised to Gottlob Harrer, favorite of the Saxon minister Brühl. Harrer would succeed Sebastian, serving until his early death in 1755. By then the two brothers had competed again, for the position of organist at Zittau—with the same result, as another nonentity got the job. Peter Wollny has argued plausibly that Emanuel was in Leipzig in March 1750 to direct a performance of his Magnificat.2 If so, this is likely to have

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beyond the court 109 been an emotionally fraught visit; not only was his father failing, but Emanuel might have taken the occasion to reach an understanding with his father about the disposition of the latter’s estate. Sebastian’s most valuable remains were his compositions; Christoph Wolff suggests that their division between the sons was “settled separately beforehand,” probably “guided” by Sebastian himself.3 Performing parts for Sebastian’s sacred works were of immediate practical utility for Friedemann and their brother-in-law Altnickol, both practicing church musicians at the time. Emanuel had no immediate use for them, but he still held hope of obtaining a church position, as witnessed by his applications to serve at Zittau in 1753 and as cantor at Leipzig in 1755. He would have expected to receive some of this material, and his share in fact included original scores and duplicate parts for many church works, although Friedemann received the more valuable primary parts. In the event, Friedemann served as trustee for Emanuel at the division of Sebastian’s estate in November 1750. The seriousness of a disagreement over the inheritance of a triple clavichord with pedals is unclear.4 Whatever differences might have arisen between the children of Maria Barbara and Anna Magdalena Bach, Johann Christian went to live with Emanuel in Berlin for five years, presumably taking the triple clavichord with him. The instrument would have been useful for both brothers as they prepared for auditions, although there is little evidence that either ever possessed substantial pedal technique.5 Thereafter no trace survives of contact between Emanuel and his youngest brother, but Emanuel did correspond regularly with the second youngest, Friedrich, who visited Christian at London in 1778, leaving his own son there to study with him.6 Wilhelm Friedrich Ernst, the last composer descended from Sebastian Bach, remained in England until Christian’s death in 1782, then spent some time at Hamburg with Emanuel; after the latter’s death, he became Capellmeister to Queen Elisabeth Christine (Frederick’s widow). Emanuel’s surviving correspondence hardly mentions this family history, yet it is difficult to believe that he had nothing to do with the continuing association of a family member with the Hohenzollern court. Although he remained on good terms with his half brother Friedrich, Christian’s sudden departure for Italy and conversion to Roman Catholicism—to secure employment as organist at Milan—probably caused a serious rupture. Until then Christian had presumably been groomed to follow in Sebastian’s and Emanuel’s footsteps, and at Berlin he composed concertos and even a few lieder in a style close to the latter’s. A Magnificat composed in Italy seems to quote the opening of Emanuel’s, although the two works otherwise have little in common (see $ex. 7.6).7 We think of Christian’s mature style as almost the opposite of Emanuel’s, yet during the mid-1750s the latter was composing works whose pre-Classical style is close to what we now associate with Christian, as in the sonatas W. 65/28 and 65/29 and several trios and sinfonias. At Berlin, Christian would also have

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learned much from Graun, Quantz, and others, but above all he would have observed how his brother incorporated current fashions into his own distinctive works. At the time of Christian’s arrival, Emanuel’s own sons were small children. Although neither was to have a musical career, anything of musical value that Emanuel had inherited from his father would have been reserved for them. This could have caused some discomfort for Christian Bach at Berlin; perhaps, too, by the time of his departure in 1755 it had become clear that others would serve alongside Emanuel at court, and at the end of 1755 Nichelmann was replaced by the young Fasch as the other court keyboardist.8 Emanuel might have urged Christian to explore the world, as he had chosen not to do when the opportunity had arisen in 1738. Perhaps, too, Emanuel played a role in Christian’s appointment in Milan, recommending him to the Bohemian prince Ferdinand Philipp Joseph von Lobkowitz, a favorite of the king then resident in Berlin.9 What would it have meant for Emanuel to return to Berlin after seeing Sebastian for the last time? The completion and performance of the Magnificat, followed by the loss of his father, might have left him emotionally exhausted. During 1751 he saw Sebastian’s last work, the Art of Fugue, through the press, as he did his own trios W. 161. But his only new compositions were a single concerto and the retrospective Suite W. 62/12; even the concerto was probably not W. 28, which he would have performed himself, but its earlier version for cello (W. 171). Is it a coincidence that during the next few years he composed (or at least published) all seven of the keyboard fugues he is known to have written? Was the Versuch, whose first volume came out in 1753, a response to his father’s death? His father’s significance as a teacher could have inspired Emanuel to produce a major pedagogic work of his own, and Sebastian’s fame as a contrapuntist might have impelled him to compose in genres his father had favored. Yet the fugues that Emanuel wrote during the next few years are very unlike Sebastian’s, and the Versuch is by no means based on the latter’s teaching; rather it is concerned with the types of music that Emanuel and his colleagues were composing and performing at Berlin. A more immediate impetus for it must have been Quantz’s Versuch, published in 1752. But however much Bach might have been spurred by collegial competition, he probably shared with Quantz an idealistic interest, characteristic of the Enlightenment, in codifying thought and knowledge of all types. Encouraged by the king—the dedicatee of Quantz’s book—this attitude led to the publication during the same decade of Marpurg’s volumes on counterpoint and keyboard playing, Agricola’s annotated translation of Tosi’s singing treatise, and much other writing on music theory, criticism, and aesthetics. For Bach there were also commercial inducements: amateur musicians throughout German-speaking Europe constituted a large potential readership, and his Versuch could have

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beyond the court 111 helped market his keyboard music, even if the pieces published together with it—the eighteen sonata movements known as the Probestücke—never sold as well as the text volume.10 Today it would be natural to assume that Bach modeled his Magnificat on his father’s setting of the same text (the Canticle of Mary in Luke 1:46–55). Sebastian’s Magnificant dates back to his first Christmas at Leipzig in 1723, and Emanuel could have heard it, perhaps even performed in it, a number of times.11 But distinctions between the works begin with their division into movements—twelve for Sebastian, nine for Emanuel—and extend to their very different approaches to text setting. Even the obvious similarities of tone and scoring in the opening choruses were less pronounced in the original version of Emanuel’s work, which lacked trumpets and timpani.12 Both opening choruses employ a type of heterophony common in contemporary choral music, in which the voices sing what is essentially a simplified doubling of the instrumental parts. Even in Sebastian’s chorus the vocal parts are not truly independent of the instruments except in brief passages where they introduce their own material. But the texture in Emanuel’s chorus is simpler, consisting in essence of a single main melodic line played by unison violins and doubled in simplified form by the soprano, with homophonic accompaniment. Nevertheless, the opening chorus and some of the subsequent movements in the two works share fundamental approaches to form. In each work the initial chorus, as well as the “Quia respexit” and “Quia fecit,” is essentially binary, using the simple version of sonata form then standard in the A section of an aria. Emanuel’s duet “Deposuit” comprises two such forms linked by a deceptive cadence, albeit in different keys and using distinct thematic material. There are a few motivic parallels, notably between the respective settings of the words Fecit potentiam; the “Deposuit” movements also share a descending scale, used at the outset to represent the opening word (“put down,” $ex. 7.1). Yet only Emanuel incorporates traditional chant melodies for the Magnificat into his setting, and his treatment of individual verses is quite different: Sebastian’s “Fecit potentiam” is a permutation fugue in six real parts, including an independent trumpet part, whereas Emanuel sets it as a bass solo in operatic style. Many commonalities between the two works reflect the tradition of Italianate church music. Both composers knew this style through examples from the Saxon capital Dresden, where the conversion of the ruling dukeelector to Catholicism in 1697 had led to the cultivation of the same types of sacred music heard in Rome and Vienna. Emanuel’s colleagues Quantz and Graun began their careers there, and both composed sacred works in the current Italian style.13 But “Italianate” in this case does not mean literally Italian (or Catholic), for the same style occurs in Magnificat settings performed at Leipzig’s Neukirche by Carl Gotthelf Gerlach; among these is a work elsewhere attributed to “Graun.”14 Similar too are such works as a oncefamous Kyrie and Gloria in E-Flat by Gottlieb Graun, of which Bach probably

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owned a manuscript score, and the final fugue in the same composer’s setting of Metastasio’s La Passione.15 The style of these settings can recall Italian sacred works of the period, such as Vivaldi’s well-known Gloria in D (RV 589). But actual Italian settings of the Magnificat for the Roman Catholic liturgy are usually shorter and in fewer movements. Emanuel’s in fact comprises a greater number of movements than any other eighteenth-century setting examined in a recent survey.16 Even if he knew his father’s Magnificat well, it was not necessarily foremost in his mind as he wrote his own setting. Perhaps the greatest departure from his father’s supposed model comes with the final “Sicut erat” section, which in Emanuel’s work—but not Sebastian’s—is a fugue, albeit a four-voice exercise in stile antico without independent instrumental parts. Sebastian occasionally adopted the same manner, but rarely without adding idiosyncratic touches, like the obbligato trumpets in the “Gratias agimus” of the B-Minor Mass or the expressive chromaticism of the second Kyrie in the same work. Hence Emanuel’s “Sicut erat” was not modeled primarily on the “Gratias agimus” in his father’s Magnificat, although both are double fugues with similar subjects.17 In his setting, Emanuel fails to coordinate the two clauses of the text with his two fugue subjects, using the first subject initially for “Sicut erat” and later for “Amen”—which is also sung to the second subject ($ex. 7.2).18 The uncomfortable relationship between text and music reflects a failure to exploit the music-rhetorical potential of fugue, which members of Emanuel’s generation seem to have viewed simply as a venerable compositional procedure. For them, mere reference to the old polyphonic tradition was apparently sufficient in a sacred chorus; that fugal technique might be an instrument of expression or musical rhetoric, as it was routinely for J. S. Bach, probably never occurred to them. Friedemann’s choral fugues show the same lack of coordination between text and fugal design, suggesting that Sebastian never pointed out the expressive potential of fugue to his pupils. The relatively simple, conservative counterpoint of Emanuel’s setting was the norm for fugal choruses by Hasse, Telemann, and other contemporaries when composing Italianate sacred works. The reuse of a portion of the opening chorus at the end of a Magnificat was also a common practice, although Sebastian’s is the only eighteenth-century work seen here to bring back this music for the “Sicut erat” rather than for the “Gloria patri,” as in Emanuel’s work ($ex. 9.3).19 On the other hand, Emanuel’s design for the “Et misericordia” appears to be novel: passages for the full ensemble function like ritornellos, framing two passages for soloists that incorporate a double cantus firmus. Yet here too Emanuel avoids using counterpoint as an element of musical rhetoric. Rather, the most rhetorical gestures in Emanuel’s Magnificat are of the very direct type that would not be out of place onstage, as in a fermata within the “Quia fecit” that invites the singer to improvise on the word magna (“great,” $ex. 7.4).

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beyond the court 113 All these features represent Bach’s turning away from his father’s approach to vocal music, whose traces were so clear in his cantata of some fifteen years earlier. Whether or not he believed that his Magnificat gave him a realistic chance of competing successfully for the Leipzig cantorate, any comparable position would require his writing in the fashionable Italianate style. Even Telemann’s vocal music, although admired and performed frequently at Berlin, may already have seemed old-fashioned by comparison to that of a composer such as Homilius, whose sacred works, inspired by Hasse, would soon also be heard there.20 Sebastian’s Magnificat had been one of his most Italianate works, but Emanuel must have felt obliged to write in what Christine Blanken describes as a more modern version of the style, referring especially to the virtuoso character of the solos and the avoidance of concrete word painting.21 In view of the modern aspects of his Magnificat, Bach’s use of chant “tones” in several movements is surprising, yet this too was actually nontraditional. He uses these “Gregorian” melodies—psalm tones adapted for chanting the Magnificat text—much as he would later use chorale tunes in a number of lieder: always in long notes, as part of the main melody, without the additional layers of counterpoint typical of his father’s settings. Whereas Sebastian employed traditional cantus-firmus technique in the “Suscepit Israel” of his Magnificat, something closer to Emanuel’s use of chant occurs in one of the Magnificat settings attributed to Graun. Emanuel surpasses both older composers, however, by referring to not one but two traditional Magnificat melodies. The so-called fifth tone, which opens with a rising triad, is the basis for the main theme of the tenor solo “Quia fecit” (as in $ex. 7.4). It occurs again when soprano and alto sing their duet within the chorus “Et misericordia ejus,” which also incorporates the ninth tone, played as an instrumental cantus firmus.22 If, however, Emanuel here aspired to the type of contrapuntal edifice often erected by his father, he created only a facade. Emanuel’s texture comprises just three real parts, and the two chant melodies are paraphrased by the two soloists, rather than serving as foundations for the type of independent counterpoint found in Sebastian’s chorale arias, which this movement only superficially resembles ($ex. 7.5). Emanuel’s citations of Gregorian melodies, like the stile antico of the closing fugue, were an ostentatiously learned interpolation into a predominantly galant setting of the Magnificat. Similar quotations occur rarely in the more compact settings composed for Roman Catholic services, such as J. C. Bach’s 1760 work. The latter, after quoting or paraphrasing the first choral entry from Emanuel’s work—including its chant reference—moves immediately to the next few clauses of the text, which are set in the already distinctive style of the twenty-five-year-old composer ($ex. 7.6; cf. $ex. 7.3). Whether or not Christian consciously recalled his brother’s Magnificat, Emanuel certainly did, reusing all but one of its movements in his Hamburg church works. Toward

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the end of his career he performed the entire Magnificat, in a revised version, as part of a famous concert that also included the Credo from Sebastian’s B-Minor Mass and selections from Handel’s Messiah.23

Author and Publisher Bach’s next large project after the Magnificat was another leap in a new direction: the Versuch. A book was a different matter from a sacred vocal composition, but both works would be ongoing concerns. Bach would return repeatedly to the Magnificat, revising it and using it as a source for parody compositions. The Versuch would gain a second volume in 1762, and for both volumes Bach was his own publisher; advertising and selling copies of it would occupy him for most of the next three decades. In this he was sufficiently successful that he could bring out a second edition of volume 1 after just six years, in 1759. By then, Bach might have begun writing the second volume. Moreover, publication—of music as well as of the Versuch—now rivaled composition and performance for importance in Bach’s professional life. At Berlin he published only the Versuch and the Probestücke on his own, but his last fifteen years there saw him issuing over 250 compositions with other publishers. (See 7.2 for a list of Bach’s publishing projects during his last fifteen years in Berlin.) Many of these items, including individual songs and keyboard pieces, are quite small, but each required time and energy as Bach arranged for their publication and prepared copies for the printer. This is not to mention the trouble of actually composing each piece and, at least for major works, correcting proofs and corresponding with the publisher about production costs, newspaper announcements, and the like. Publications would continue at a similar rate after Bach’s move to Hamburg, but there he would issue most from his own house. In both cities, moreover, he must also have sold manuscript copies of other works. Self-publication gave him more work and more risk, but it also gave him more control over the entire process.24 Like his father, who also self-published some of his works, Emanuel came to be sufficiently well off not to have to rely on aristocratic dedicatees to underwrite his publications. At Hamburg he issued most of his works through a subscription system in which printing and distribution of each work was financed by prepublication sales. After his death, his widow Johanna Maria and daughter Anna Carolina Philippina carried on the business, probably having already taken an active role in it during Bach’s lifetime. Conceivably, Johanna Maria, a merchant’s daughter, helped establish the family’s commercial routines, but Emanuel’s letters show him taking the lead, constantly corresponding about his publications, at least during his Hamburg years.25 We might expect so much involvement in a business enterprise to have had a detrimental effect on Bach’s musical activities. Another way to see it,

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beyond the court 115 however, is that Bach’s creative process did not end with composition, rather extending to the printing and even the sale and marketing of his works. Like Charles Ives, he was simultaneously a businessman and an artist, but unlike Ives, one whose art was his business. By the end of his Berlin years, the scope of his business activity far exceeded Sebastian’s. As he continued to play for the king regularly (except during the war), and was also composing and performing music that was not published—as well as revising earlier works—after 1750 Bach must have been busier than ever. This would have required turning composition into a routine, perhaps also abandoning the painstaking process, including multiple drafts, that went into some earlier works. The autograph score of the G-Minor Concerto W. 32 of 1754 (in P 354) provides clues to Bach’s working methods. The principal line—first violin in ritornellos, upper staff of the keyboard in solo episodes—is pristine, apart from a few later refinements written in a tiny, meticulous hand. This line must have been written first, perhaps copied from a “continuity draft.” Only then would accompanying parts have been added to the score, where they show a different ink and quill and contain more frequent corrections. Paradoxically, the accompanying parts probably required more time and trouble than drafting the main lines, which Bach could write almost as if improvising. Bach never specified which of his works were written “for certain persons” or the public and which he composed “with all freedom” for his own use.26 Yet the distinction, already observable in his works of the 1740s, grew more pronounced as Bach issued a growing quantity of easy, sometimes frankly trivial, music. Although his standard of craftsmanship never slipped, the proportion of truly original works within his output diminished after 1750. Even trivial works, however, could be enlivened by the little surprises—sudden pauses, unexpected modulations—that were now routine for Bach and probably expected by his public.

The Versuch and the Probestücke The first volume of the Versuch became a classic almost instantly, to judge from the relatively brief interval before a second edition was issued. Only the Gellert Songs would go through more editions (five) during Bach’s lifetime. During the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, when little of Bach’s music was known, the Versuch continued to be reprinted and cited, albeit in distorted and abbreviated form. Although Bach eventually produced a lightly revised and expanded version of volume 1, published in 1787,27 the fact that he made hardly any substantive changes for the second edition of 1759 suggests that either he had no time to revise the work at that point, or as yet he saw no need to change anything. That an author should have been so successful with a first book is remarkable, especially as the Versuch treated its subject in unprecedented depth and

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length. Volume 1 treats of keyboard performance per se, comprising two main chapters on fingering and ornaments, and a shorter final one on more general issues. The larger second volume, published in 1762, is a treatise on harmony as Bach understood it, consisting mainly of a detailed account of figured bass realization and concluding with matter on improvisation. The numerous musical examples for volume 1, like those for Quantz’s Versuch, were published in a separate engraved volume together with the Probestücke. By the time of the second volume, technology had advanced to the point that the examples could be incorporated directly into the printed text. Hardly any earlier prose by Bach survives, but the Versuch is too well written not to have been preceded by lost efforts, perhaps in the form of personal letters, which at the time continued to be a medium of intellectual exchange. The learned but witty, lively but still formal and rhetorical conversation favored by the educated classes in eighteenth-century Europe, in which Bach must have participated on a daily basis, also would have provided good practice for a writer. Unfortunately, even a recent new edition with exhaustive textual commentary reveals nothing new about the work’s origin.28 Editorial work on the Probestücke has shown, however, that the latter probably originated after most of the text of volume 1 had been drafted; this would explain the surprisingly few concrete references in Bach’s text to the pieces that were ostensibly meant to illustrate it.29 The laborious process by which both text and music were printed at mid-century would have prevented either component of the work from being produced quickly. Bach could still have been drafting some portions while others were being typeset or engraved, printed, proofread, and corrected. The whole process would have taken a few months if not longer. It required careful editorial work by Bach, whose previous major printing project, the concerto W. 11 of 1745, had been almost as complex although quite different in character, comprising multiple engraved performing parts. Bach must have taken an active role in producing these publications, which are as much his own editions as his texts and compositions. He clearly understood the production process, having seen his father’s Clavierübung engraved (more properly, etched), printed, and published. As his own publisher, Bach could take greater pains over the engraving of the Probestücke than with his earlier publications, making many small changes both before and after publication; a number of these look like last-minute alterations of detail to correspond to things mentioned in the text.30 The text also clarifies a few unusual features of the printed notation that were made unavoidable by the cramming of an unprecedented number of fingerings and other performance markings into an already crowded score.31 Bach’s choice of topics in the two text volumes says much about what he considered important in the training and actual work of a keyboard player. The first volume presents basic material crucial for any performer; the second, with its attention to innumerable details of harmony, shows to what degree

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beyond the court 117 Bach was obsessed with pure voice leading, whether in an accompaniment or a solo fantasia. That his contemporaries in northern Germany approved and thought along similar lines is clear from the respect accorded both volumes into the nineteenth century. The first volume of Bach’s Versuch owes something to François Couperin’s L’Art de toucher le clavecin (Paris, 1716) in its inclusion of fingering as an important topic. But Bach’s organization is more logical—Couperin comments on style, fingering, and ornaments in almost random order—and more comprehensive, including a systematic account of fingerings for scales in all keys and extending to arpeggios and other figures as well. These fingerings were doubtless products of many years of teaching and experimentation—both his own and that of his father, whom Bach seems to credit with the invention of modern “thumb-under” fingering. In fact he merely claims that his father expanded the use of the thumb in response to a need for “devising an entirely more perfect use of the fingers.”32 Emanuel attributes this need to the “extraordinary change in musical style” that was under way at the time—that is, his father’s; this is probably a reference to the use of “all twenty-four tonalities” and the “diversity of figuration” that Emanuel has just mentioned in the previous paragraph.33 Many details in his treatment of fingering, however, must represent his own conclusions and experience rather than his father’s. The radical differences in texture and style that distinguish their keyboard works would have led Emanuel to take his own approach to keyboard technique, even if he believed himself to be doing only what his father had taught him. Although Bach’s extensive treatment of fingering was unprecedented, his attention to ornaments, which takes up the greatest part of the volume, was entirely traditional.34 Here, too, however, Bach’s systematic, comprehensive approach was new. And whereas his discussion of fingering probably was only a codification of existing practices, on ornaments he described several whose signs and realization had never been set down in a treatise, and which even he seems not to have used regularly prior to the publication of the Versuch. Most distinctive among these is the prallender Doppelschlag (sometimes called a “trilled turn”), whose symbol appears also in Couperin’s music, though not necessarily with the same meaning (ex. 7.7).35 Ubiquitous in keyboard works of Bach and his German contemporaries, the ornament is challenging both technically and interpretively, especially when (as is often the case) its first note is tied to the previous one. As Bach showed in a passage added for the revised edition, the ornament is more easily understood as a variation of a writtenout turn—that is, an ornament of another ornament (ex. 7.8). That he felt it necessary as late as 1787 to add this explanation while revising volume 1 of the Versuch shows to what degree he remained committed to a heavily ornamented style at the end of his career; ornaments remain as essential in his late works as in those of Couperin a century earlier. Not only instrumental music but lieder were unthinkable without them.

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Example 7.7. (a) Prallender Doppelschlag from Versuch, i, tabula 5, fig. lxiii (the tie on a' in the “realization” of the ornament is understood); (b) Couperin, Les goûts réunis (Paris, 1724), Premier Concert

Example 7.8. Performance of prallender Doppelschlag from Versuch, i.2.4.28 (2nd ed.)

Equally essential to Bach’s music is the simplest of ornaments, the one-note appoggiatura (Vorschlag), which receives particularly lengthy exegesis. Here Bach followed Quantz in distinguishing “long” and “short” versions, specifying that a long appoggiatura (signified by a small note) takes half the value of the following full-size note.36 Bach calls this a “common” rule, but although Quantz also gives it,37 it was unknown to Couperin or others writing in the first half of the century. The rule was probably a response to the increased use of long appoggiaturas in galant music, whose transparent texture made it important to avoid unintended dissonances, such as might occur when a sign for an appoggiatura was wrongly interpreted.38 Bach might have learned the rule when he first began performing with members of the royal Capelle. Yet he famously differed with Quantz on the use of unaccented passing appoggiaturas, which he described as “ugly afterbeats” ($ex. 7.9). Why such passing notes are ugly he does not say. Underlying Bach’s lengthy treatment of each ornament was the perception shared with Couperin, Quantz, and other contemporaries of the necessity for a rational explanation of the burgeoning variety of trills, mordents, and other basic Manieren. Yet neither in his account of ornaments nor in the second volume on figured bass realization does Bach ever engage in truly theoretical thinking, of the sort found in Rameau’s contemporary publications on harmony. Bach’s discussions remain practical how-to explanations of things he deems good or proper. Even the fundamental idea of style—what comprises it, why one style is judged better or more perfect than another—goes uninterrogated.39 This makes Bach a useful source for historical performance practice, but only for north-German music at mid-century. Whether or not he and his colleagues even understood Rameau, they did not share the latter’s interest in speculating about why things in music work as they do.

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beyond the court 119 From the 1740s, if not before, Bach and his colleagues must have been regularly using the ornaments treated in the Versuch. But, as Bach observes, only keyboard players were accustomed to using specific symbols for the various ornaments. Even Bach, in works written before 1750 or so, usually employed just the letter t (or a plain cross or “plus” sign), leaving it to the player to puzzle out the appropriate ornament. The only other sign that Bach used in this early period with any frequency was that for the turn—often, however, in a vertical or diagonal orientation, which he later replaced with the modern horizontal form. His shift to more explicit notation of ornaments, as advocated in the Versuch, was a small but significant change in his compositional practice, and Bach’s autographs can be dated approximately by whether or not they employ the newer signs. Although Bach initially used these signs only in keyboard music, he eventually adopted them in string parts as well, albeit only in works disseminated in manuscript. Revised versions of his earlier keyboard compositions, including those published during the 1750s and 1760s, generally substitute explicit ornament signs for “t” or “+.”40 It is curious that, despite his systematic approach to both fingering and ornamentation, Bach does not discuss the technique of actually playing notes or ornaments, but this is in keeping with a general reticence about giving specific technical advice. He describes correct posture and hand position, and he observes that instruments vary in the touch that they require.41 Yet he never explains the details of touch or the mechanics of fingering—how the individual fingers actually move in striking and releasing notes. Perhaps this was because such things varied significantly from one player or instrument to another. The Versuch, like most of Bach’s keyboard music, was intended to be usable on all of the diverse keyboard types available during the eighteenth century. Bach was equally reticent to prescribe a particular type of keyboard instrument for most of his keyboard compositions. His failure to be more explicit about so fundamental a matter as the intended medium of these compositions implies that, like his predecessors, he continued to view them as written for an abstract “clavier”—even when, as becomes increasingly clear after 1750, he calls for the capacities of a clavichord or fortepiano. These, unlike the harpsichord or organ, give the player direct control over dynamics and make possible types of chord voicing and legato phrasing previously absent from keyboard music. To produce these effects, however, or to play other things idiomatic to dynamic keyboard instruments, such as legato octaves and accented staccato notes, requires an approach to the keyboard different from that suitable to a harpsichord or organ. Today it is often supposed that the clavichord, by 1753 Bach’s preferred instrument for solo keyboard music, can be played with a light or delicate touch—a seemingly obvious inference from the instrument’s quiet sound. Bach lends credence to this, mentioning the “finger strength” gained from playing the harpsichord, by contrast to the “good performance” learned at the

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clavichord.42 But to produce a clear tone on a clavichord requires a strong, firm grip of the keys—a consideration especially important in the performance of ornaments, each note of which must be distinctly weighted if the performer is to execute the figure with the clarity that Bach takes for granted.43 Good playing on a good clavichord could include virtuoso fireworks; the poet Claudius mentioned hearing Bach play an Allegro from his misnamed Easy Sonatas (W. 53) very quickly, like a “sudden thunderstorm,” on his famous Silbermann clavichord. The instrument had a “bright, penetrating [durchdringender], sweet tone,” with a “quietly flattering” upper register (sanfter schmeichelnder Diskant), although its bass was not particularly strong. It extended up to e‴, the upper limit of Bach’s keyboard music until about 1762.44 One can hear recordings on the clavichord by well-known musicians in which individual tones of a trill or turn, or even quick passagework, are indistinct (“blocked”) due to insufficient contact between the tangents (at the ends of the keys) and the strings—a symptom of too light a touch, if not also of an inadequately prepared instrument. Modern singers likewise often perform ornaments as reflexes rather than as figures comprising distinct individual notes. Yet, as Bach notes, singers and nonkeyboard players can “do without” (entbehren) ornaments no more readily than keyboard players.45 His lieder bear this out, their scores incorporating ornaments as profusely as his keyboard works. It follows that singers, like clavichordists, must have articulated each note of every ornament—and that they sang the numerous ornaments notated in Bach’s songs, including the difficult trilled turn.46 Presumably this meant that many ornaments were performed with greater deliberation than one usually hears today, particularly in slow pieces.47 Hence, despite the distinction that must be drawn between “ornaments” (kleine Manieren) and “embellishments” or “variations” (Ausziehrungen, Veränderungen), the boundaries between them are porous. An appoggiatura, or the individual notes of a turn or trill, may be as significant as the full-size notes in a melody. The mechanics of performing scales and other types of figuration would become an obsession of nineteenth- and twentieth-century pedagogues. That Bach, despite his rationalist concern for system, fails to discuss technique suggests that his approach to the most basic aspects of performance remained intuitive, untouched by the rationalist attitude that he exemplifies in other areas of thought.48 The same selective attention to the various aspects of music and music making is evident in volume 2 of the Versuch, which entirely ignores the incipient theory of harmonic function first propounded by Rameau forty years earlier. Emanuel continues to understand harmony as the product of three, four, or occasionally five independently moving voices—never of functional chords. His conception of music remains polyphonic, despite the superficial appearance of so many compositions as a single embellished melodic line with simple bass.49 Rameau’s lack of interest in details of voice leading, especially in dissonant and chromatic progressions, probably lay at the root

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beyond the court 121 of Bach’s differences with the French composer-theorist. Indeed, volume 2 of the Versuch might have been conceived partly as a response to the treatment of figured bass in the fourth and final part of Rameau’s Traité de l’harmonie. The latter’s approach to accompaniment—and to harmony generally—would have seemed simplistic to a pupil of J. S. Bach, limited in its perception of the possibilities of voice leading and modulation. Bach’s volume 2 is not merely a traditional manual of figured bass realization; it incorporates original thoughts on keyboard accompaniment and concludes with the well-known account of how to improvise a fantasia over a bass line. Fundamental to Bach’s thinking is that the strict, sophisticated voice leading and dissonance treatment that he learned from his father must incorporate certain “refinements” (Zierlichkeiten) in order to be suitable for chamber music in the galant style. Doubtless reflecting Emanuel’s experience accompanying the king and others, including singers, the volume goes beyond previous treatments of the subject, such as Heinichen’s and Mattheson’s.50 Bach begins with a survey of figured bass symbols or “signatures.” A demonstration of their use follows, beginning with triads (35 chords) and proceeding systematically to progressions involving more complex and dissonant sonorities. This was customary, but Bach is more complete, providing more examples and more detailed commentary, and covering many more unusual progressions, than any previous writer. He is also stricter than most—particularly by comparison with French and Italian authors—in requiring proper preparation and resolution of all dissonances, even where this leads to awkward hand positions or necessitates the momentary addition of a fifth voice.51 Realization as such takes up only about half the volume; most of the second half is an equally systematic treatment of those refinements that, like the fingerings given in the first volume for the more unusual tonalities, are made necessary by current style. The refinements of a realization consist, in essence, of departures from the strict style of figured bass realization. If the latter corresponds in principle to what Sebastian taught—a sophisticated version of the traditional “church” style described by earlier writers such as Heinichen—the refinements are departures from that style developed by Emanuel in his own accompaniment of galant chamber music; they also are frequently required in the so-called theatrical style (as when accompanying recitative). The gist of these refinements is always to give the soloist the freedom to shine and, especially, to perform expressive ornaments without being constrained by a keyboardist who anticipates the resolutions of dissonant appoggiaturas or, worse, creates new dissonances by playing inappropriately heavy chords. Bach’s refinements are the subject of only one chapter, albeit one of the longest (chap. 32), but he devotes other chapters to ways of modifying the literal realization of a figured bass in order to accommodate certain ornaments in a solo part (chaps. 25–28). He follows Heinichen in illustrating the treatment of passing notes in the bass (chap. 36), but he also discusses the

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treatment of cadenzas and other things common in galant chamber music (vocal as well as instrumental). Already in the first half of the volume, his accounts of individual chords include comments on how to modify a strict four-part realization when accompanying a galant work—in particular by reducing the texture to just three or even two parts. Bach had in fact carried out this very task in “renovating” some of his early compositions. That a light, transparent texture was a positive feature of clear, expressive performance must have been a lesson that Bach learned early in his career as court accompanist in Frederick’s Capelle. He does not say so, but his advice to omit the major third in some chords may also be an elaboration of Quantz’s advice for continuo players to leave out notes whose intonation on a tempered keyboard would clash with that of a more purely tuned flute.52 (Further refinements of accompaniment are discussed in 7.3.) The eighteen Probestücke or teaching pieces that accompany volume 1 of the Versuch are not expressly for any particular instrument, but the numerous dynamic markings presuppose one that is capable of crescendo and diminuendo (indicated by successive p and f, or vice versa). Although each piece is in a different key, they are grouped into three-movement sonatas. These depart in various ways from Bach’s other keyboard sonatas of the period. Many movements are rounded binary forms, more like simple dances than the sonata forms that Bach now employed for the outer movements of regular sonatas. The through-composed opening movement of Sonata no. 5 is a motus perpetuum descended from preludes like the one in F major in WTC2. The slow movement of Sonata no. 4 ends with a long written-out cadenza, reflecting the work’s pedagogic aims but also connecting the last two movements—for the cadenza follows a modulation to the key of the following Allegro. Bach would return to this device to integrate the separate movements of later works, notably the W. 43 concertos. The last sonata is exceptional, opening with a blustery movement in F minor that is the only mature composition by Bach to explore the technique of handcrossing. Nor is there anything else in Bach’s music like the following Adagio in A-flat, whose singing upper line is accompanied by a carefully notated part for the left hand in brisé (broken) style. Its tonality makes the Adagio difficult to play on the clavichord, whose short accidental keys create difficulties in sustaining tones as required. This proto-Romantic movement would be the crowning piece of the set were it not followed by the famous C-Minor Fantasia, which closes the volume as originally published. This is the point where Sebastian would have placed an ambitious fugal movement, as at the end of part 1 and part 3 of the Clavierübung; Rameau and later composers sometimes closed with variations, as Emanuel would do in his W. 91 keyboard trios. But for Bach the free fantasia was evidently the highest form of keyboard music, and volume 2 of the Versuch would end with an account of how to improvise such a piece, although the example provided there is much shorter and simpler.

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beyond the court 123 The C-Minor Fantasia is only partly free, in the sense of unmeasured; its three parts mirror the form of the sonata as a whole, with a (measured) Largo at the center that resembles the “truncated” slow movements of some later works. Although the fantasia would provoke an enthusiastic response from at least one admirer, the poet Gerstenberg, Bach must have been disappointed by the tepid sales of the Probestücke. The fantasia proved particularly problematical, as the plate used to print its last page cracked or broke at some point, probably as a result of corrections engraved on it after it had been etched.53 Such difficulties might have been on Bach’s mind when he decided, in the early 1770s, to publish in the more fashionable genre of the accompanied keyboard sonata, which would be “more lucrative than any dark fantasy.”54 The six sonatas that make up the Probestücke are not the sole examples in Bach’s output that begin and end in different keys, but in every case one wonders whether there were extrinsic reasons for his doing so. To set the Probestücke in different tonalities made sense in a pedagogic work, as in Sebastian’s Inventions; unlike the latter, the Probestücke clearly advance in difficulty, like the eight preludes in Couperin’s Art de toucher le clavecin. Yet the precise order and, perhaps, the grouping of Bach’s pieces into sonatas were decided only during the final preparation for printing, and Bach’s first thought might have been to compose separate little pieces. The fantasia that concludes the series might not even be the piece originally intended for that purpose, possibly having been substituted for a shorter example that more precisely fits the description printed in the Versuch.55 Late in life, as he was revising volume 1, Bach composed six additional Probestücke (W. 63/7–12), called Sonatine nuove (New Sonatinas). These too are grouped in threes, but again only two movements are actually connected. These sonatinas were meant to serve as easy exercises for those who found the original pieces too difficult to play.56 In fact none of the original Probestücke are really easy, and many of the pieces that Bach composed during the intervening three decades must have been written to fill a demand for simpler teaching pieces. The pedagogic aim is explicit in Bach’s collections of sonatas and smaller pieces with varied reprises (W. 50, 113, and 114), and he is often claimed to have been a teacher of numerous musicians.57 Yet most references to his teaching, or to a “Bach school,” appear to be based on his authorship of the Versuch, not on reports of actual pupils.58 His only documented pupils at Berlin are members of the aristocracy and fellow court musicians whom he may have taught as an extension of his official duties. It seems reasonable that he would have taken occasional private students at Berlin—especially during the war—or after his move to Hamburg. Yet there is little evidence for this, and, in view of his many other activities, it would have been difficult for him to spare time for extensive teaching, no matter how well paid.59 Like most successful authors, Bach probably hoped to write more books than he was able to complete.60 Although he made significant additions to the

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Versuch in his last years, the disordered sketches known as the Miscellanea musica (W. 121) are the only trace of any comparable work.61 Comprising, among other things, canons, brief passages of figured bass, and modulating progressions in three and four parts, they reflect Bach’s obsessions with voice leading and chromatic harmony. Possibly they include the “things pertaining to the discussion of the free fantasia” that he was collecting according to a letter of 1775,62 and perhaps he contemplated writing a more detailed discussion of the genre. But there is no evidence of any accompanying commentary, which in any case is unlikely to have gone beyond the nuts-and-bolts type of account found in the Versuch.

Further Publishing Ventures By the time volume 2 of the Versuch appeared in 1762, Bach’s list of publications included numerous songs and instrumental pieces, some issued in anthologies, others in his own collections. Many of these represented new types of publishing ventures; for instance, the year 1758 saw a set of twelve “little pieces” for chamber ensemble as well as fifty-four songs on poems by Christian Fürchtegott Gellert.63 Bach also contributed to the Musikalisches Allerley (Musical Miscellany), a serialized anthology of keyboard pieces, sonatas, songs, and the like, issued in eight-page installments that came out every two weeks during 1760–62. Bach was represented by eleven works; he contributed as well to the following year’s Musikalisches Mancherley. Meanwhile he resumed publishing orchestral works with a sinfonia and a concerto issued in 1759 and 1760, respectively; he also brought out two more half-dozens of keyboard sonatas in 1760 and 1761. Most of these publications were printed with a new variety of movable type introduced by the Leipzig publisher Breitkopf in 1756.64 The choice of printing technology had an impact on how a composer worked, for the older method of music engraving had been essentially a mechnical reproduction of a manuscript score or parts furnished by the composer.65 Emanuel had engraved the plate for his own early Minuet W. 111 at the time when his father was publishing his Clavierübung, produced through the same method. The resulting publication was physically indistinguishable from an album of fine-art prints, and Emanuel’s familiarity with the process doubtless informed his later collecting of art, especially prints; his son Johann Sebastian the Younger worked in related media.66 The new system freed the composer from much of the trouble and expense of publishing music, which could also be printed more quickly and in greater numbers of copies. Bach took swift advantage of this, and printed music, produced relatively cheaply and widely distributed, quickly became a significant source of income for him, not merely a token of prestige. This must have influenced the music he was now composing. One commentator has seen in his

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beyond the court 125 work of the 1750s a new “refinement,”67 but with the latter came losses as well. Bach’s new audiences and markets were less sophisticated than the courts and academicians for whom he had been catering, and Emanuel had few reservations about appealing to them. The war of 1756–63 disrupted not only court and concert life but the new avenues of musical trade that had just begun to emerge. Yet it did not prevent Bach from issuing an unprecedented series of about a dozen publications, from Leipzig and Nuremberg as well as Berlin. Leipzig, the center of German publishing, was the chief mercantile city of Saxony, but for most of the war it was under Prussian occupation. Native Leipzigers had chafed under the rule of the Catholic electors of Saxony, and Breitkopf must have been glad to issue Graun’s Te Deum there in 1757, in a sumptuous full score that celebrated the Prussian tactical victory at Prague that May.68 Four years later Breitkopf issued a collection of symphonies and overtures by composers including Graun and Kirnberger, arranged for keyboard; the first item is the well-known symphony in D by Frederick the Great, who spent much of the winter of 1760–61 in Leipzig.69 During this season the king had a famous meeting with the poet Gellert, who declared himself an “original”; this cannot have impressed the king negatively, for he later declared Gellert “the only German that will achieve posterity.”70 The king clearly had literature, not music, in mind when he made this remark; his sister Amalia, however, would describe Friedemann Bach in similar terms.71

Music for the Clavichord? The word Clavier in the title of Bach’s Versuch is often taken to mean specifically the clavichord, as it perhaps did for many Germans in the later eighteenth century. Within the volume, however, Bach uses the term Clavichord when he means that particular instrument. Elsewhere he uses Clavier as a generic expression for any keyboard instrument.72 Yet during the 1750s it becomes clear that his solo keyboard music is indeed primarily for an instrument with more flexible dynamic capabilities than an ordinary harpsichord (or organ). Many pieces suggest the clavichord in their relatively thin textures, but others adopt a quasi-orchestral style that imitates the sinfonias that Bach began to compose again during the same period. Today these look like piano music, but they would also be effective on the harpsichords with pedal stops and Venetian swells that were being made at this time, perhaps including the Shudi instruments owned by the king.73 As entertaining as these symphonic pieces can be, their drum basses in octaves and imitations of orchestral tremolos can sound crude by comparison with the subtler pieces that Bach was writing at the same time. Even the keyboard reductions of actual sinfonias are less noisy than some of these

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“symphonic” sonatas, although not all the arrangements disseminated under Bach’s name were his own.74 On the other hand, the otherwise insignificant sonata W. 62/11 of 1750 is probably an early instance of a piece composed specifically for clavichord, as are also the easy variations W. 118/5 that preceded it in Bach’s works of that year.75 Dynamic markings are absent from the sonata, yet the clavichord is suggested by the free alternation between a single line and two-note chords in either hand; the chords, sometimes low in the accompaniment, would produce clumsy accents on the harpsichord. The latter problem is most acute in the Andante, where only a clavichord could produce a singing tone on the sustained notes of the melody, which is accompanied by repeated eighth-note chords in the opening measure. An implied crescendo on a chromatic ascending line later in the same movement constitutes the expressive climax of the entire sonata ($ex. 7.12). Presumably it took time for Bach and other musicians to discover the strengths of the large clavichords that first became common during the 1740s, when Bach acquired the famous one by (probably) Gottfried Silbermann. These instruments were not necessarily restricted to solo playing; they may as often have accompanied songs and quiet chamber music. They are equally suited to brilliant virtuoso pieces; indeed, it was precisely Bach’s capacity to play in “every style” on his Silbermann clavichord that impressed Burney when he visited Bach in 1773.76 As for the fortepiano, Bach may at first have thought of it primarily as a continuo instrument; early pianos are also quiet, but, as Bach observes, they demand careful regulation, and certain ornaments can be difficult to play on them.77 This last observation might reflect his own failure to acquaint himself fully with such instruments before the king acquired two or three by Silbermann, beginning in 1746, presumably for use in his private concerts.78 This was probably the year in which Bach acquired his own Silbermann clavichord, and it is tempting to connect the latter with the extraordinary G-Minor Sonata W. 65/17 of that year or the Fantasia H. 348. But whether a particular instrument inspired a piece or rather proved particularly effective for playing an existing one is an insoluble chicken-and-egg problem. All that can be certain is that, even if Sebastian already favored the clavichord and trained his pupils on it, a distinctive idiom demanding the instrument emerges fully only in Emanuel’s works of the 1750s, especially the Probestücke. Even then, Bach treats the clavichord as an instrument primarily for teaching or practicing. In the Versuch he writes not that the clavichord is the best or most expressive instrument but that it is the one on which a player is most conveniently judged.79 Several movements in the Probestücke call for devices unique to the clavichord: Bebung (vibrato) and Tragen der Töne (a sort of portamento), both signified by dots plus a slur, set over repeated or moving notes respectively. Yet in Bach’s music these devices tend to be more decorative than essential, as are dynamics, which often merely reinforce changes in texture or register. Throughout his career, Emanuel wrote keyboard music that

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beyond the court 127 in principle could be played on any instrument, using thick textures in the middle of the keyboard for loud passages and thin ones in the upper octave for soft ones. His keyboard idiom continued to evolve, but not obviously in response to any particular instrument. Nevertheless, by 1760 Bach was writing music that is most effective on the clavichord. At one point in the G-Minor Sonata W. 51/6, the left hand must play a singing half step, unacompanied (m. 57). There is no way to give the appoggiatura an expressive accent except through a dynamic stress, to which a clavichord player might add a little Bebung or vibrato (ex. 7.13). The idea recurs in the last movement (ex. 7.14, mm. 48–49), where the new keyboard idiom is also evident in the closely spaced dynamics. These are arguably motivic; p closely following f—an implied decrescendo (mm. 17–18)—is an integral element of the melodic line, which fades out as it ascends. The idea is developed in the middle section, first with accelerated figuration in sixteenths (mm. 41, 43), then by accelerating the pace of the alternation between low (forte) and high (piano) registers (mm. 45–46). These and other details, such as legato octaves that the left hand must play three times in the first movement ($ex. 7.15), may seem unremarkable to modern pianists but are unknown in harpsichord music.

Sonatas The G-Minor Sonata W. 51/6 was Bach’s last of 1750 and the only serious one. Like the unpublished sonata W. 65/24 of the previous year, it demonstrates Bach’s rethinking of the three-movement cycle, for the central movement never completes what starts as a through-composed sonata form. After what sounds like the first formal cadence (m. 27), the opening theme is restated, only to pause on the dominant; this leads directly to the final Allegretto, which opens on a dissonance, or rather a prolongation of the same dominant harmony that ends the previous movement (ex. 7.16). Bach repeated this idea in many works, but the integration of the present cycle involves more than the immediate connection between the last two movements. The opening Allegro is already characterized by broken-off phrases and rhetorical pauses; with the truncated Adagio, the idea of fragmentation is raised to the level of an entire movement. The Adagio, moreover, consists largely of the prolongation or repetition of a single gesture, the appoggiatura or suspension c″, which is repeatedly reharmonized in measures 5–8, again in measures 12–16 and, at the end of the movement, in measures 32–33 (ex. 7.17; see also ex. 7.16). This harping on a single note must have been a favorite device in Bach’s improvisations, recurring in the late Fantasia in C, W. 59/6 (see $ex. 6.31b). This note c″, moreover, is crucial to the integration of the entire sonata; one need not be a Schenkerian to hear it connecting to both the long appoggiatura c′ in the last measure of the first movement and the dissonant c″ in the first measure of the last.

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Example 7.13. Sonata in G Minor, W. 51/6, movement 1, mm. 56–64

Example 7.14. Sonata in G Minor, W. 51/6, movement 3, (a) mm. 17–20; (b) mm. 41–50

Like W. 62/11, W. 51/6 was composed in 1750 but published only in 1761. Whereas W. 62/11 appeared in an anthology, W. 51/6 was the last of six sonatas in a volume of Bach’s own. From 1742 to 1770 he published seven such volumes—eight if one counts the Probestücke—each containing six sonatas. These constituted roughly a third of all the solo keyboard compositions he composed at Berlin. Apart from the Prussian and Württemberg Sonatas, each volume has a distinctive title, although some of these volumes actually comprise miscellaneous works composed at various times. The Sonatas with Varied Reprises (W. 50) were all composed within a year or two of their publication in 1760 and are unified by their inclusion of written-out variations for most of the repeated sections. But their two “Continuations” (Fortsetzungen, W. 51–52) contain only two movements with varied reprises, both in the Sonata W. 51/5; the contents of the second of these volumes were composed as early as 1744. Many of the sonatas published individually in anthologies were likewise older works, and although revised for publication, these tend to be simpler

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beyond the court 129 Example 7.16. Sonata in G Minor, W. 51/6, movement 2, m. 28 through movement 3, m. 4

Example 7.17. Sonata in G Minor, W. 51/6, movement 2, (a) mm. 5–8, (b) 12–16

and less inventive than others. There are exceptions, however, like the heavily contrapuntal F-Minor Sonata W. 62/6. A few are interesting for other reasons, such as the symphonic style of several from the 1750s. Indeed, the slow movement of W. 62/18 was apparently arranged from that of the E-Minor Sinfonia W. 177, although the thin textures of Bach’s orchestral works meant that the same two- or three-part framework could serve for both versions. Thus a keyboard arrangement of Bach’s F-Major Sinfonia of 1755, which opens with decorated octaves between treble and bass—a favorite texture in Bach’s orchestral music—is indistinguishable in conception from the theme of a sonata movement composed two years later ($ex. 7.18). Like his father, Bach assembled his sets thoughtfully, although in a few cases his creativity was limited to their titles. The Easy Sonatas published in 1768 (W. 53) are not particularly easy, nor are the Ladies’ Sonatas (W. 54) published

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after Bach’s move to Hamburg but composed during his last years at Berlin. Both titles presumably appealed to the same, mostly female, amateurs, and the pieces in both volumes are at best moderately interesting. More imaginative, at least in design, were the Keyboard Pieces of Various Types (W. 112), published in 1765 and including an arrangement of a sinfonia as well as an unaccompanied concerto, alongside a sonata, shorter pieces, and songs. It has been suggested that this collection began as an “appendix” to the Probestücke,80 but that purpose, eventually served by the New Sonatinas, was more clearly fulfilled by two sets of Short and Easy Keyboard Pieces with varied reprises (W. 113–14). These pieces, published during Bach’s last years in Berlin, are indeed short but rather more elegantly crafted than similar ones issued in anthologies, and those of the first volume are almost entirely fingered, like the Probestücke. The second set is an extension of the first, more difficult and more counterintuitive—even in the opening piece, whose eccentric syncopations, treated in invertible counterpoint, would have baffled beginners.81 The various pieces in the larger collection W. 112 presuppose a broader range of facility; the collection as a whole resembles the anthologies Allerley and Mancherley, planned and composed, however, by a single author. The concerto that opens the volume is its major work, composed the year it was published. Unlike Sebastian’s Italian Concerto, which is explicitly for a doublemanual harpsichord, this work is clearly for piano or clavichord, with dynamic markings independent of the regular alternation between ritornellos and episodes. Like the sinfonia in the same volume, the concerto employs by-now routine figuration to represent orchestral writing ($ex. 7.19). But whereas the sinfonia is a keyboard arrangement, there is no reason to doubt that the concerto is an original work.82 Bach’s next keyboard concerto would also be an unaccompanied one, but H. 242 of 1767 is far less idiomatic as a solo piece and must have been meant to serve as a preliminary version of W. 42, for keyboard and strings, which Bach completed at Hamburg. The strongest of the later Berlin sets is probably the Reprise Sonatas of 1760, which continue in the pedagogical manner of the Probestücke. Ostensibly illustrating the practice of improvised varied repeats, the sonatas grow in length and difficulty and conclude—as did Corelli’s opus 5 violin sonatas—with a special one-movement sonata, here a double variation form (ABA′B′A″). In this last sonata (W. 50/6) the variations are an essential element of the design, something that is not consistently clear in the first five sonatas. The varied reprises were certainly an afterthought in the last movement of W. 50/5, a sort of rondo in which Bach embellished the returning main theme only in manuscript additions to his personal copy of the printed edition.83 The indistinct boundary between composition and improvisation in the Reprise Sonatas and in the two later sets of smaller pieces with varied reprises has troubled commentators, who have wondered whether Bach’s further embellishments for the printed sonatas, left in manuscript only, constituted

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beyond the court 131 optional decoration or mandatory revision of the original work.84 The varied reprises are probably essential in the little pieces of W. 113–14, where they constitute variations in the modern sense, frequently involving octave transposition or contrapuntal inversion of the original, rather than traditional embellishment. Yet even Bach’s embellishments are never truly improvisatory, since recurring passages are almost always embellished in the same way, as when the opening theme of a sonata is recapitulated. On the other hand, one could substitute plain for varied repetitions in most if not all of these compositions without damaging their coherence or formal integrity. The issue relates to how we define a “work”—whether we require a single text for a given composition. A player never performs anything the same way twice, and for an eighteenth-century musician the addition of ornaments and embellishments was in principle no different from varying the dynamic shadings when playing a solo piece or the continuo realization in the performance of an ensemble work; all are elements of what we call interpretation. But at a certain point interpretation becomes variation, or embellishments become worked out with such care that they need to be fixed in notation, leading to a revised text. In the Reprise Sonatas, practical considerations—chiefly the high cost—explain Bach’s failure to reprint the pieces with his revised embellishments. Whether he regarded his new embellishments as optional or essential, at the late stage of his career when he reached the decision not to publish them, he had more important things to think about.85 This suggests that Bach attached little significance to his keyboard pieces issued “for the public,” even generally admired ones such as the Reprise Sonatas. Although each set contains distinctive music, during his last decade at Berlin Bach grew increasingly commercial in his publications. Some sonatas appear to have been assembled out of separately composed movements—eliminating the possibility of the type of integration found in Bach’s more carefully constructed sonatas.86 On the other hand, during the same period Bach withheld some of his more original and ambitious pieces from publication, issuing several of them only later at Hamburg. Among these is a sonata that Bach included in the first of the famous collections for Kenner und Liebhaber (connoisseurs and music lovers); a reviewer, conveying information that could have come only from Bach, reported that it had been written on his Silbermann clavichord.87 Bach composed the sonata (W. 55/2) in 1758, a year in which the war turned against Prussia and fears of a Russian invasion led Bach and his family to flee Berlin for Zerbst, some eighty-five miles to the southwest. Then under Prussian occupation, Zerbst was the hometown of Bach’s young colleague and pupil Fasch, and Bach spent some four months with Fasch’s family, returning to Berlin only in December.88 As it is unlikely that Bach brought his instrument with him, we can imagine him composing the sonata to express his gladness on seeing it again—just as he would later write a famous farewell upon selling it to an admiring Baltic nobleman.89 Both pieces were evidently

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of some personal significance; the “Farewell” Rondo remained unpublished until the twentieth century. (For further discussion of the Zerbst sonatas and related works, including Bach’s six organ sonatas W. 70, see 7.5.)

Fugues and Petites Pièces The smaller pieces that Bach wrote in increasing numbers during this period include two groups of special interest: a few fugues, and a greater number of programmatic or character pieces. Bach worked on both types of compositions only briefly during the mid-1750s (if he wrote any keyboard fugues during studies with his father, none are known to survive). The six fugues all date from (probably) 1754 or 1755, the character pieces from 1754 to 1757.90 Although most works from both groups were eventually published, the majority came out in anthologies rather than in Bach’s own volumes. In the case of the character pieces, this may have reflected second thoughts about the value of overtly representational instrumental music; he would later claim that he had written them casually and then forgotten about them.91 Like Bach’s anthologized pieces generally, the character pieces vary in their level of musical interest and sophistication. Many are in simple rondo and da capo forms, adopted perhaps in deference to the tradition of the French clavecinistes but also, probably, to appeal to the amateurs that Bach was now cultivating. He would not compose in either genre again, nor would he ever incorporate fugue into a keyboard sonata (as even Christian Bach did in his opus 5 of 1766). But before the end of the decade he was including movements similar to the character pieces within larger works (including several of the Zerbst sonatas) and as slow movements in his sinfonias. Both types of music were probably provoking lively conversation in Berlin “academies” during the years just before the war. Although counterpoint was seen at the time as inexpressive, hence practically the opposite of “character,” both were subjects of writings by Marpurg and others during the 1750s. One thing that Bach’s fugues and character pieces do share is how different they are from his earlier compositions. Both must have been deliberate expansions of his compositional repertory, even if neither experiment continued for very long. The six fugues are disappointing for anyone who expects something resembling Sebastian’s keyboard polyphony. They reveal sound contrapuntal technique, and several recall Sebastian’s style. The C-Minor Fugue (W. 119/7) is even introduced by a brief fantasia that echoes the organ prelude BWV 546/1 in the same key ($ex. 7.22). The fugue contains passages reminiscent of several works of Sebastian that Emanuel surely knew.92 Emanuel probably owned manuscript copies of BWV 546 and other organ works by his father,93 and it would have been natural for him to turn to this idiom during the years after his father’s death, when he saw Sebastian’s Art of Fugue through the press. Yet

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beyond the court 133 Emanuel was no more successful than other pupils of J. S. Bach in integrating contrapuntal technique, including the traditional manipulations of a fugue subject (inversion, stretto, and the like), into expressive, distinctive formal designs, as in Sebastian’s best keyboard fugues. Emanuel was wise enough to avoid modeling his keyboard fugues on those of his father. Yet his most ostentatiously learned work of this type, the Triple Fugue in E-Flat (W. 119/6)—which Marpurg published with an analytical commentary—runs on for 250 measures in a style descended from the old ricercar and probably influenced by the Italianate vocal polyphony of Graun and other contemporaries. As a musical composition it is less engaging than several shorter fugues that employ more of Emanuel’s own style.94 (For more on Bach’s fugues, see 7.6.) During the same period Bach was composing his character pieces, whose very designation implies their special expressive quality. Bach probably knew that the word character derives from a Greek verb meaning to mark or engrave; in writing a character piece, he was metaphorically sketching a portrait, like an artist creating a drawing or etching.95 His own term for such compositions, however, seems to have been simply petites pièces,96 which could encompass character pieces as well as other short keyboard compositions, with or without descriptive titles. Although these “little pieces” are indeed usually shorter than movements in his larger sonatas, by the 1750s the lines between a sonata movement and a petite pièce were becoming blurred. Sonatas and even sinfonias and concertos now began to incorporate movements in the form of binary dances or compact rondos, especially in place of the traditional second-movement adagio. In the early 1760s, Bach would invent a new genre, the ensemble sonatina, which might consist of several little keyboard pieces with added accompaniment for strings and winds.97 At Hamburg he would continue to make arrangements for various ensembles of his keyboard pieces, which evidently constituted a stock on which he drew for all kinds of occasional music. (On other “little pieces” by Bach, including the so-called Solfeggietto, W. 117/12, see 7.7.) It had always been possible to cast the final movement of a sonata as a dance; now Bach could use a character piece for the same purpose. Thus “La Frédérique” (W. 117/38) also occurs as the final movement of the E-major sonata W. 65/29 of 1755, and it later circulated independently as “L’Ernestine.” Neither title has been explained, but the piece opens with a motive that recurs throughout the Berlin repertory; another version occurs in the closing chorus of a serenata that Friedemann composed for the king’s birthday in 1758.98 Whether or not Friedemann knew his brother’s piece, this might have been a melodic formula that both associated with the king. (7.8 considers several other parallels with Friedemann’s music.) Emanuel’s more strongly drawn little pieces nevertheless differ in important ways from a typical sonata movement of the period—even one that takes the form of a dance or a simple rondo. The character piece “La Stahl” (W. 117/25)

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is equal in length to the inner movements of many sonatas, and it is in a genuine (if concise) sonata form. Yet it is remarkable not only for its vivid depiction of one of Bach’s friends—evidently a forceful but changeable character, given to quick mood swings—but also for the free treatment of its opening theme, which never comes back verbatim except on the repeat of the first section.99 A new melody introduced after the double bar only alludes to the sarabande-like rhythm of the opening, and the return (m. 24) is an attenuated variation of the first measures, with altered melody, harmony, and dynamic level (p in place of a presumed f) ($ex. 7.30). Equally distinct from sonata style is the piece’s epigrammatic character, each phrase comprising just one or two gestures that break off after a measure or two, to be followed by something that contrasts strongly with what has preceded. Although such writing can be found in Bach’s sonatas and even concertos composed at Berlin, his aim in this piece to depict a particularly incisive “character” inspired him to write in a manner that he would not regularly adopt in sonatas until some of the late works for Kenner und Liebhaber. The character pieces raise some of the same aesthetic issues as the songs, which Bach began composing in large numbers during this same period. The aesthetician and amateur flutist-composer Krause was urging the composition of character pieces on the French model even as Bach was completing his last few pieces of this type in 1757.100 But not all Bach’s character pieces were meant to be musical portraits. Not quite half of them bear the names of identifiable figures among the Berlin intelligentsia; others carry abstract titles such as “Les langueurs tendres,” previously used by Couperin.101 More significant than the borrowing of a conventional title, however, is the musical modeling evident in a piece such as “La Gleim” (W. 117/19), a rondeau whose two “parts” (parties) are in contrasting modes, as in some of Couperin’s pieces.102 (Further on individual character pieces and their relationship to Couperin in 7.9.) Other pieces are remote from the style of Couperin, who after all is only one of many classic French composers whose music Bach probably knew. Although he praises French music in the Versuch for its pedagogical usefulness, he mentions Couperin by name only once, to criticize his fingering. This, incidentally, implies a failure to grasp the significance of pure sonority in French keyboard playing, which depended on finger substitution to sustain tones in a type of legato texture that Bach evidently avoided.103 Marpurg had published a set of Pièces de clavecin at Paris during the 1740s,104 and Darrell Berg has connected Bach’s interest in writing similar pieces to the old debate over French versus Italian music, stirred up by Krause in 1748 and by Marpurg in 1754.105 That these pieces may, in addition, have had something to do with conversations in Berlin salons or academies is argued by Joshua Walden, who relates them to the circle around the poet Gleim.106 That group evolved into the “Monday Club,” one of Berlin’s concert-giving associations, several of whose members, including Gleim, are depicted in Bach’s pieces.

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beyond the court 135 Bach’s interest in writing this type of music might have had less to do with its quasi-French style than with issues of philosophical aesthetics that appear to have fascinated learned amateurs in Berlin during the 1750s. That music should be expressive is fundamental to German writings throughout the century. Bach reflected this in his famous but hardly original exhortations: “A musician cannot move others unless he himself is moved”; “one must play from the soul and not like a trained bird.”107 The question of what that meant, and precisely how music ought to be expressive, now became a preoccupation. For Bach, old-fashioned “imitation” would not be the answer, whether in the traditional text painting of vocal music or the newer sort of musical representation tried out in the Program Trio. After further experiments in the character pieces of the 1750s, Bach apparently lost confidence in the ability of instrumental music to express character with any precision. He later told the poet Claudius that “one can come closer to it if one adds words,” it apparently being the unambiguous representation of character or meaning.108 His skepticism about the expressive limits of instrumental music helps explain his deepened interest in lieder in the years immediately following his brief flirtation with the character piece. Whatever their inspiration, Bach’s character pieces are in his own style and not derived from any one model. For this reason it does not matter whether it was autobiography or something else that stands behind the piece that was published under the mysterious title “L’Aly Rupalich” (W. 117/27), but which at one point was apparently called “La Bach.”109 Berg has argued that the published title referred cryptically to a prominent member of Bach’s circle, perhaps the poet Ramler.110 A more recent suggestion is that “L’Aly Rupalich” depicts Bach himself, or another family member, “actively engaged in the practice of composing.”111 Unfortunately for the latter view, the piece illustrates none of the devices associated with the arts of composition in Bach’s circle, such as counterpoint or “variation” over a bass line. Equally problematical is that the style is so distinct from that of other music by Bach and members of his family. Naturally its distinctive style and peculiar title have made “L’Aly Rupalich” the most discussed of Bach’s character pieces. Although clearly meant to be comic, it reveals serious compositional imagination, evolving from the merely quirky, at its outset, to a sort of rambunctious ecstasy, with the unusual leaps of a tenth in its final section (mm. 168–73). The varied repetition of this last passage, the piece’s one instance of conventional phrasing after a long series of fragments and non sequiturs, sounds like the sort of triumphal closing gesture one expects at the end of a difficult composition. Yet in place of a conventional cadence the work concludes with another broken-off phrase at the very end (ex. 7.34). The second of a particularly original group of seven petites pièces composed in 1755 (“La Stahl” is no. 4), “L’Aly Rupalich” is distinguished from all Bach’s other little pieces by its through-composed quasi-ritornello form,

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Example 7.34. “L’Aly Rupalich,” W. 117/27, mm. 184–94

vaguely pointing toward his modulating rondos. It is also characterized by its so-called murki bass in octaves—the more common of the two types of murki accompaniment112—and several particularly abrupt instances of the type of fragmented phrasing found in the Program Trio and “La Stahl.” Unlike those compositions, “L’Aly Rupalich” ends with such a phrase. In this it foreshadows, as do several other character pieces, Bach’s later compositions for Kenner und Liebhaber, especially the Sonata in E Minor W. 59/1 and the C-Minor Rondo W. 59/4. Perhaps it even provided a suggestion for Chopin’s Mazurka op. 17, no. 4, which ends on a VI6 chord. Clearly the piece flirts intentionally with chaos. Yet with a little reading between the lines, even its most shocking passages can be understood as regular sequences or modulations made surprising by the interposition of leaps, changes of dynamic, or rests. The initial modulation to the dominant (mm. 25–33) is rendered indirect by sudden shifts of mode, register, and dynamic level (ex. 7.35a). A subsequent move to A minor (mm. 56–63) is interrupted by a rest and fermata, momentarily juxtaposing chords of G and E; the latter is only gradually revealed to be a new dominant (ex. 7.35b). The apparent third-relation over a measure of rest (m. 58) is a precocious instance of what Richard Kramer has termed Bach’s “new modulation of the 1770s”: chromatic voice leading, coupled with fragmented phrasing, momentarily displaces normal harmonic progressions, and successive passages appear to be in unrelated keys.113 Yet Bach would later mention the progression G–E as one of several examples of “entirely common modulations” used in his double-chorus Heilig W. 217.114 Central to the effect is the momentary failure of the music to divulge that E is not another tonic but a dominant. This becomes clear only when a high d‴, left hanging by the rest in measure 58, is rearticulated an octave lower as part of a dominant-seventh chord (m. 62). Until then, we are drawn by the E-major chord “into another world,” to use a metaphor employed by the

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beyond the court 137 Example 7.35. “L’Aly Rupalich,” W. 117/27, (a) mm. 25–36, (b) mm. 56–63

novelist Wilhelm Heinse to describe the experience of hearing a distant modulation in an improvised fantasia.115 In “L’Aly Rupalich,” however, the affect is comic rather than dramatic or sublime, and this raises the problem of the title. Bach’s original choice to name the composition for himself—if this is a correct interpretation of the source—is a surprise, for in the Versuch, just published, he described the murki as a low-class teaching piece.116 Bach must have known that Couperin had composed what is presumably a self-portrait (“La Couperin”); he probably knew as well of “La Rameau” from that composer’s Pièces de clavecin en concerts (Paris, 1741, reprinted in 1752). Both are serious pieces, albeit in different ways. “La Couperin” is characterized by thoughtful chromaticism (despite its tempo marking D’une vivacité moderée); “La Rameau” is a grand virtuoso piece with hand-crossings. Compared to either, “La Bach,” although not easy to play, seems puzzling and self-deprecating as a self-portrait. After initial enthusiasm for composing musical portraits generally, perhaps provoked by Krause, Bach might have become embarrassed by such a piece, or by the seriousness with which others were taking it.117 Nevertheless, the view that this strange piece originated as a self-portrait is perhaps strengthened by the fact that it incorporates motivic ideas from Bach’s Concerto W. 20 of 1746, also in C. The ritornellos of its outer movements are among Bach’s quirkiest, and echoes of both occur in the main theme of “L’Aly Rupalich”: the tonic pedal point, the immediate reference to the subdominant (through B♭s), and the unconventional phrasing (ex. 7.36). Hence the

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Example 7.36. (a) “L’Aly Rupalich,” W. 117/27, mm. 1–7; (b) Concerto in C, W. 20, movement 1, mm. 1–6, (c) same, movement 3, mm. 1–6

distinctive musical ideas of Bach’s character piece did not originate as musical portraiture, even if he later thought they might serve as self-depiction. If so, the portrait emphasized the droll or unpredictable side of his personality, suggesting too that he could as much enjoy amusing an audience through an ironic caricature as through the more authentic type of expression for which he argues in the Versuch. It is the latter, however, that would prevail in the songs that he took up as he abandoned the character piece.

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Chapter Eight

Berlin and After Songs and the New Aesthetic of Vocal Music Bach had written significant vocal works during the 1730s at Frankfurt and in 1749 at Berlin, but not until the late 1750s did he begin his self-transformation into a serious composer for the voice. He would complete only one more large vocal work before his departure for Hamburg in 1768; this was the Easter Music of 1756, what we would call a cantata, comparable to the church works of his father and older brother. Until then he had also been occasionally writing strophic lieder, but the number of these would soon increase drastically, and for the rest of his life Bach would be the most important and one of the most prolific song composers in German-speaking Europe. Bach’s songs were a response to the same social and cultural changes that favored his increased output of small keyboard pieces. They also reflected intellectual currents during the 1750s in Berlin, which saw much discussion of relationships between words and music. This discussion presumably took place not only in print, in the literary and musical journals that now flourished under editors such as Marpurg, but in conversations in Berlin’s clubs and salons. That Bach was a frequent visitor and sometime host at gatherings where music and poetry were discussed is clear from references in the correspondence of various musicians and literary figures.1 He doubtless participated in conversation as well as by composing and performing; we can imagine many poems first read and songs first sung at these gatherings. Virtually every significant and not so significant composer at Berlin participated, contributing to anthologies of songs for voice and keyboard that appeared in large numbers during the 1750s and afterward. Even Quantz composed settings of Gellert’s sacred songs (something in which the king would have had no interest).2 The Graun brothers as well as Kirnberger, Marpurg, Agricola, and even the young

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Christian Bach also contributed to song anthologies, although none published anywhere near the number of songs that Emanuel eventually did. The composition of songs called for serious engagement with contemporary literature, requiring access to texts that in many cases were unpublished, as well as careful attention to the poetry itself. Sebastian Bach had been a sensitive reader of texts, to judge from his musical settings, yet he probably had little influence on his university-educated sons’ attitudes toward literature. Gudrun Busch, whose pioneering study of Bach’s lieder remains valuable, suggested that Emanuel, during his brief period as a university student at Leipzig, could have attended lectures by the literary critic and poet Gottsched, who had just been appointed “extraordinary” professor of poetry.3 There, and subsequently at Frankfurt (Oder), Bach might also have heard local poets such as Gottsched and Picander reciting their works at gatherings that developed into collegia or “academies.” He must, in any case, have thought seriously about and experimented with the setting of contemporary poems before he began to publish them in number. At Berlin and Hamburg, Bach seems to have known personally most of the poets of his texts, chiefly pastors and other professionals. This might have led to a cautious approach in writing vocal compositions, which would have been first heard as “readings” of poems whose learned authors were in the audience. Moreover, like the various forms of instrumental music that Bach composed at Frankfurt and Berlin, song was tightly bound by conventions that determined all aspects of a setting. Yet Bach’s songs reveal an unconstrained imagination within a genre that was undergoing a profound transformation or “rebirth” at precisely this time, due in large part to his own efforts. One senses Bach’s attention to poetry and the rhythms of the German language in his early cantata on a text by Picander. That a strophic song could be equally artistic, its straightforward poetry worthy of the same concentrated attention, would not have been obvious to a pupil at Leipzig—although it might have occurred to Sebastian as he prepared his contributions to Schemelli’s volume of sacred lieder, published in 1736. Strophic arias had played an important role in the early Baroque and were still heard in German operas from the early eighteenth century. Chorales, ubiquitous in Lutheran worship, were regarded as a variety of song or lied, originally indistinguishable in literary and musical style from secular songs. But during Bach’s formative years strophic songs, especially secular ones, received little attention from serious poets and composers. The revival of interest in such things after 1750 extended to chorales as well, with new hymnbooks appearing regularly. Yet until reading the strophic sacred poems of Christian Fürchtegott Gellert, published in 1757, Emanuel may not have considered making a sustained contribution to the genre, even if, like his colleagues Graun and Quantz, he had gained some appreciation for it through discussions with poet-musicians like Ramler and Krause. Whereas Quantz and Graun, however, tend to observe the conventions of the so-called First Berlin Song School, Bach did not. Quantz’s Gellert settings

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berlin and after 141 are chorales intended for congregational singing. These, as well as the more song-like secular lieder by the Graun brothers, have an entirely subordinate keyboard part, a modest vocal line containing few ornaments or rhythmic complications, and largely diatonic harmony. Except in his earliest songs, however, Bach writes relatively substantial keyboard parts, even as he avoids the fully idiomatic keyboard writing that would become common only for secondand third-generation Berlin song composers. What really stands out in Bach’s songs, however, is the diversity of harmony, texture, rhythm and pacing, even of meter and tempo indications. Although his songs rarely are as outwardly difficult to perform as his more serious instrumental pieces, their very diversity was a way of demonstrating his compositional virtuosity within a genre whose conventions placed narrow constraints on the type of music that was possible. Every note had to count, for vocal lines had to be simple and syllabic, with little or no repetition of words or music. Harmony was one sphere in which a song composer might exercise some originality, yet the brevity of the typical setting made it necessary for chromaticism or remote modulations to take place within the confines of a few phrases. Bach probably was not prepared to be a significant composer of lieder when he arrived at Berlin. But his discovery there of how to simplify his instrumental music, even to the point of accommodating amateur musicians, while still creating something expressive and original was valuable preparation for the composition of songs. Bach composed roughly three hundred lieder in all. Unlike other categories of his music, virtually all of them appeared in print during his lifetime, some multiple times. Indeed, his very first published work—disregarding the juvenile Minuet W. 111, which probably was not published in the sense of being offered for sale to the public—was the “Shepherd’s Song” (Schäferlied) W. 199/2, which appeared in an anthology in 1741. Bach reissued it in 1762 in a volume of his own; most of the nineteen other songs published with it were likewise revised versions of earlier compositions, reflecting the same process that Bach applied to his instrumental music during the same period. But by that point he had already issued a larger collection of fifty-four sacred songs on texts by Gellert (W. 194), as well as further contributions to anthologies. Hence, within a few years of publishing the first volume of the Versuch, on keyboard performance, Bach had abandoned his concentration on the composition of keyboard music. His lieder do incorporate keyboard parts, and because the vocal line is usually doubled verbatim within the latter, the songs can be played as keyboard pieces, an option that Bach himself mentioned.4 But keyboard music—solos and concertos—would never again constitute the largest part of his output. Although part 2 of the Versuch closes with a chapter on improvisation, the volume is otherwise concerned with accompaniment— especially that of vocal music. The volume contains but a single reference to the flute, and only one to accompanying violins (in an overture or sinfonia). In the introduction to the volume, however, Bach explains the necessity of a

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continuo realization and the selection of a keyboard instrument with reference to vocal genres only; there is a chapter on recitative, but none on any particular types of instrumental music.5 By 1762, when the second volume of the Versuch came out, the keyboard parts of songs still sometimes took the form only of a figured or unfigured bass. Continuo realization therefore remained important for domestic keyboard playing, apart from the realms of church music and opera. Bach was an experienced accompanist of the voice by the time he reached Berlin; indeed, his experience at Leipzig and Frankfurt as a composer and performer of vocal music must have been one of his qualifications for joining Frederick’s Capelle.6 It is therefore odd that we have no unequivocal evidence for Emanuel’s participation at the royal opera, although he probably played there at least occasionally until the war put an end to regular performances. We know that he played in the premiere of Graun’s Tod Jesu in 1755, accompanying Molteni, Agricola, and Therese Petrini, among others. Chamber and concert performances of cantatas and other vocal works must have regularly involved him in performances of vocal music of all types, doubtless joined by songs by 1750 or so.

Aesthetics Bach was as responsible as anyone for “the rebirth of strophic song,” as it is described by William Youngren in his verbose yet indispensable study of the poetry and music of Bach’s lieder.7 The relationship of poetry to music in a strophic song is quite different from that in the recitatives, arias, and choruses that Bach and other German composers had long written for church, chamber, and stage. This relationship was among the issues under discussion as varieties of poetry and music once deemed trivial or purely functional became respectable objects for high-minded poets and composers.

Krause Representing both groups was Christian Gottfried Krause, a well-off Berlin lawyer who was also an amateur composer. Like Bach an alumnus of the Frankfurt university, he is best known today for his writings on poetry. These express the views of a circle that also included the poet Gleim and others with whom Bach was well acquainted. Although Gleim himself left Berlin in 1747, the group subsequently evolved into the Monday Club (which still exists), meeting regularly for discussion and fellowship. Bach was never a member, but Quantz and Agricola eventually joined the group, as did the writers Lessing and Nicolai; the music copyist known only as Schlichting, who worked for Bach in the period around 1750, may also have belonged.8

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berlin and after 143 Krause’s On Musical Poetry is that rare thing, a book on music and poetry by a critic who actually understood something about both. Although technically an amateur, Krause was one of many of his generation and class in Prussia who emulated the king’s professional-level capability in the arts. Friedrich Nicolai described him as “a good orchestral violinst, a capable orchestra leader, and a not inestimable composer.”9 His writings nevertheless are directed toward general readers, not professional musicians; he avoids musical examples and pays little attention to specific musical features of actual compositions. His insistence that songs should have simple, inessential keyboard parts was an element of the French aesthetics of his teacher Baumgarten; it reflected an old antipathy in France toward the basso continuo that went back to the seventeenth century.10 In this respect Bach’s songs do not reflect Krause’s opinions, even if the keyboard parts in his songs seem plain by comparison with those of later composers. Krause is significant as a representative of contemporary views of Bach and of the types of music cultivated in mid-eighteenth-century Berlin. Krause called Bach himself a “Milton” whose music “needs to be practiced thoroughly; one must be well acquainted with his melodies before they please.”11 Yet Krause’s focus on melody is that of an amateur who gains an understanding of difficult music by playing or singing the leading line several times, not by examining the full score.12 We might not expect a serious musician to take advice from such a person, yet the lieder of Graun, Quantz, and others who now took up the composition of songs reflect views put forward by Krause. Bach must have taken them seriously as well—not least because Krause was a well-connected potential patron. When Krause’s book came out, in 1752—the same year as Quantz’s Versuch—Bach had composed only about a dozen songs (as far as we know). But he could hardly ignore a book whose opening sentence implies rare sympathy and understanding by a literary critic for music and musicians: “It is not a rare complaint of composers that it is irritating [sauer] to them to set poetry intended for music”—that is, to have to write music for mediocre verses.13 Nor could Bach have disagreed with Krause’s advice that composers should be concerned with the quality of the poetry that they set to music. He is likely, too, to have shared Krause’s belief that poetry should rely less on “depictions and paintings” than on “narration and the language of the passions.”14 Krause later expands on this, favoring “something dramatic, a scene, an action” over “long descriptions . . . of which the passions know nothing.”15 Today these remain accepted prescriptions for good writing; at the time they were a reaction against the elaborate rhetoric of Baroque poetry, encouraging the more direct style found in the song texts that Bach and others were already setting. That Bach shared Krause’s view on this point is evident in his choices of texts, rejecting the old-fashioned types of poetry used by his father and still by his brother Friedemann.16

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Less certain is Bach’s adherence to what twentieth-century musicologists called the “theory of the affects” (Affektenlehre), which supposedly prevailed among eighteenth-century composers and listeners. Krause expresses something like this in his view that, within an aria, “No matter how many passions occur, only one should predominate . . . a transition from one passion to another belongs in recitative.”17 Presumably the same precept applied to songs, and perhaps Bach would have agreed, in principle. But applying Krause’s dictum depends on what exactly it means for a single passion to “predominate.” Many works by Bach, including songs, are clearly not limited to a single affect, whatever that might mean precisely.18 (For more on Krause, see 8.1.) The significance of Krause for Bach is less the originality of his opinions than their respectability, for Krause probably expressed the views of many of Bach’s colleagues and listeners. For them, Emanuel was indeed a “Milton,” a respected but difficult writer; as Krause put it, using a conventional gender stereotype, “Milton’s Paradise does not readily please the ladies.”19 Bach, even if pleased to be compared to Milton, might have borne Krause’s comment in mind when he published a set of “Ladies’ Sonatas” (W. 54). His Berlin songs, however, include some of his most expressive harmony to date, and by the standards of the time they were as difficult as anything published for amateur musicians, even though they avoid the type of counterpoint that had become as outmoded as Baroque poetry.

Musical “Painting” One feature of older poetry that exercised Krause was “painting” (Mahlerey). Three decades later this would be the subject of a long article that Bach must have known; it was published in the Magazin der Musik, edited by Bach’s friend Carl Friedrich Cramer—son of the poet—who provided a commentary in the form of lengthy footnotes. In it Engel, a later member of the Monday Club, delineates a complete theory of musical expression.20 His theory incorporates a stronger version of Krause’s preference for unity of affect, which is now extended to instrumental music. Among the questions that Engel considers are how music can “paint” and whether there are things that it ought not to paint. As with Krause, Engel’s relevance for Bach lies in his articulation of ideas expressed in circles that Bach frequented and for which he wrote his songs and other compositions. Writing like Krause at a level appropriate to a learned reader but not a specialist, Engel hardly answers the first question, which is a matter of how a listener interprets not only language but also music; a satisfactory explanation of musical “painting” would require detailed technical discussion of both. Engel does consider several possible ways in which music can be expressive, such as choice of key or instrument. Like some modern commentators, he assumes that these can symbolize things outside of music, without explaining how. His

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berlin and after 145 second question is one of taste or preference, and here Engel makes clear his antipathy to what we call text painting—the concrete musical representation of individual words that had been common in European music since the mid-sixteenth century. Engel is more tolerant of “painting” in instrumental music, or within an instrumental accompaniment.21 Yet exactly in what sense any music can constitute painting remains vague, and he criticizes the use of pizzicato to represent the beating of the heart or of violins to imitate the hissing of snakes. As an appendix to Engel’s essay, Cramer reprinted two articles from Sulzer’s encyclopedia of the arts, the Allgemeine Theorie der schönen Künste, which included substantial contributions on music.22 Here we learn that “paintings are contrary to the true spirit of music, which should express not concepts from lifeless things but feelings of temperament.”23 The type of tone painting characteristic of Baroque vocal music is twice criticized as childish, likened to empty puns (bloß Wortspiele) in a verbal text. Like Krause, Sulzer articulates what would be the standard position of critics and music historians for the next two centuries. Yet Sulzer—also a member of the Monday Club—admits as “rather fortunate” Bach’s representation of “various characteristics of his friends and acquaintances” in his pieces, which he compares to Couperin’s.24 Here Cramer adds a footnote praising the “instrumental painting” (Instrumentalmahlerey) in Bach’s Program Trio. Cramer mentions, too, that Bach himself told him that his piece “La Pott” (W. 117/18) represented “the man’s way of walking” (der Gang des Mannes), and he expresses a wish that Bach would provide an explanatory commentary for all his character pieces.25 Even if Bach was not having second thoughts about those pieces in 1783, when Cramer published this, he certainly shared the common view of the time that there are things that music should not depict. At Hamburg he told Lessing that Telemann had depicted things “that ought not be painted,”26 and he probably thought the same of his father, whose librettos (like Telemann’s) incorporate images and extended metaphors that a Baroque composer could hardly avoid representing musically. In assembling the pastiches that comprise so much of his Hamburg church music, Bach avoided not only his father’s but Telemann’s choruses and arias. After Telemann’s death, the historian Ebeling could not avoid mentioning the problem: “he was so fond of musical painting that he not seldom used it quite absurdly, attaching it to a painterly word or idea and forgetting the affect of the whole, so that in instrumental pieces he stooped to trying to depict things that no music can express.”27 Ebeling criticizes Telemann’s poets for encouraging him in this regard; he particularly mentions Cramer’s Donnerode (Thunder Ode), which remains one of Telemann’s “most sublime” compositions despite its “too common depictions of thunder and the like.”28 The Donnerode, as well as Der Tag des Gerichts, which Ebeling also mentions, was among Telemann’s late Hamburg oratorios, both completed in 1762. Most listeners in the city probably found nothing wrong with his text

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painting, yet Telemann must have been aware that it had become controversial. Ten years earlier Graun had written to him: “I attempt to express the most important things [das Vornehmste] in the whole speech . . . however, I absolutely shun trying to give musical expression to individual words, unless it falls naturally, to avoid becoming ridiculous.”29 Graun had not always thought thus; his early German sacred works, composed for the Brunswick court before he joined Frederick’s Capelle, reveal traditional text painting.30 It is true, however, that word painting of the older type is largely absent from his Italian operas, as it is from Hasse’s, which may have helped them seem fresh and innovative when new. Text painting is usually inappropriate in strophic songs, where the musical depiction of a word present in one stanza can become meaningless in subsequent ones—hence Bach’s remark, in the foreword to the Gellert Songs, that he, like Graun, considered the “whole song” (ganzes Lied) rather than individual words when composing such a work. Yet in the same conversation in which he criticized Telemann, he praised his predecessor’s ability in an aria to depict astonishment and fear, in a way that made words unnecessary. The aria, which Bach played for Lessing, is from Telemann’s Oratorical cycle of 1730–31, so called because its texts, by the Hamburg poet Albrecht Jacob Zell, were in the form of small oratorios, with named allegorical characters. These works were still being performed in the 1760s at Berlin, where Lessing lived until 1760 and again during Bach’s last three years there (1765–67).31 The aria provides a vivid depiction of a thunderstorm. String tremolos in the ritornello might represent rain, which is interspersed with flashes of lightning, but in the B section it becomes clear that the tremolos represent primarily the speaker’s terror (“kalter Angstschweiß bricht mir aus!” $ex. 8.1). This was a conventional form of musical representation, as was the use of a long melisma on rennet (run). The aria has been noted for its “short-breathed declamation broken up by speaking pauses,”32 but it is equally remarkable for the substitution, already in the ritornello, of disconnected short motives for conventional melody; rests and wide leaps break up the first-violin line. Harmonic surprises serve the same expressive purpose, and the inventive instrumentation initially omits the continuo as the storm approaches from afar. Later the “running” melisma is set as a canon between voice and strings (playing in octaves, $ex. 8.2). It would have been these musical features and their emotional implications that caught Bach’s attention—not the “painting” of a supernatural storm as such, but the “astonishment and fear” that Telemann had expressed so well that words were unnecessary for understanding what the music “meant.”33 If Telemann’s work, composed in 1731, was being performed at Berlin ten years later, along with others from the Oratorical cycle,34 Bach might have heard it near the beginning of his time there, with potentially significant effects on his own compositions. Although he probably never performed this particular work of Telemann publicly, he did include a comparable aria by Homilius

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berlin and after 147 on a similar topic in one of his Hamburg pastiche passions.35 Indeed, after his move to Hamburg, Bach cannot have rejected “painting” as thoroughly as did Graun, who according to Bach had “too fine a taste” for this and “rarely or never painted,” usually being satisfied with a “pleasant melody.”36 This sounds almost like a criticism, and Bach must have concluded privately that not only Graun’s pleasant melodies but his bland harmony—which even Graun admitted to be characteristic of his music37—were an impediment to musical expression.

“Experiments” by Gerstenberg and Others Bach’s balanced view of musical “painting” is consistent with his lack of enthusiasm for a famous “experiment” involving his keyboard works. During the 1760s the poet Gerstenberg, with whom Bach corresponded, produced two arrangements of the C-minor fantasia from the Probestücke. Each arrangement leaves the original music essentially unchanged but adds a vocal part in recitative style, with German text; one text is a paraphrase of Hamlet’s Soliloquy, the other a monologue of the dying Socrates ($ex. 8.3). These are apparently the only surviving examples of many such texts fitted by Gerstenberg to Bach’s music. (For more on Gerstenberg, see 8.2.) Nowhere in his surviving correspondence does Bach refer directly to Gerstenberg’s practice of adding texts to instrumental compositions, although he seems to have been aware of it.38 Gerstenberg subsequently asked Bach about some programmatic concertos by Johann Nicolaus Tischler; these were evidently accompanied by verbal rubrics, somewhat like Bach’s Program Trio. Bach replied that his famous trio, like Tischler’s pieces, had been received with derision, and he therefore was not enthusastic about attempting another “experiment of this kind.”39 Yet the underlying idea of seeking new ways to relate texts to music clearly intrigued Bach and his younger contemporaries. More generally, Gerstenberg’s enthusiasm illustrates the proto-Romantic zeal with which members of his generation responded to Bach’s music. Bach, for his part, did not disdain their poetry; he would set three of Gerstenberg’s poems, notably the cantata Die Grazien (The Graces), composed in 1774 although published only in the posthumous Neue Lieder-Melodien of 1789. At least one of Bach’s contemporaries and colleagues was less enthusiastic about his compositions, and said so in print. Christoph Nichelmann, who, as a child, had studied in Leipzig with Friedemann if not with Sebastian Bach, had been alternating with Emanuel since 1745 as royal keyboardist. The two appear to have had cordial relations for a while, sharing or exchanging music.40 But in 1755 Nichelmann joined the ranks of Artusi, Scheibe, and other famously misguided music critics, publishing a tract that accused many of his colleagues, including his sometime teacher Graun, of neglecting the harmonic basis, as he understood it, of music. Not surprisingly, Nichelmann’s

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book was met by a number of replies, including one published later the same year (1755) under the name of Caspar Dünkelfeind. This has long been supposed to have been a pseudonym for Bach, but there are good reasons for questioning his authorship.41 Nichelmann’s treatise was, in essence, another experiment, though of a different sort from Gerstenberg’s. Nichelmann not only quoted numerous music examples from works by his colleagues; he demonstrated how some of these could be improved, usually by complicating the texture, rhythm, or harmony through the addition of independent inner voices or by rewriting the bass to avoid repeated notes and the like. Occasionally the melody is rewritten as well.42 The most extensive example is a complete score of Bach’s recently published song “Die Küsse” (W. 199/4), which Nichelmann rewrites in a manner that merely demonstrates his insensitivity to the poem and Bach’s music for it. Even if he was not the author of the reply attributed to “Dünkelfeind,” Bach must have been aware of both Nichelmann’s original attack and the response. If Bach learned anything from the controversy, it was how a capable musician could be blinded by ideology to the qualities, good and bad, of his own music. Nichelmann thought that his improved version of Bach’s song was varied and diverse—“polyodic,” in his terms—when it was actually more monotonous than the original work. The fussy and pointless changes of harmony that he introduced merely busied the texture of passages that depended for their effect on simplicity—a new virtue in music that Quantz was particularly happy to preach and which Bach was now more inclined than ever to follow. Knowing how much better his originals were than Nichelmann’s “improvements” could only have encouraged Bach to persist in what he was already doing. (Because “Dünkelfeind” probably was not, in fact, a pseudonym for Bach, further discussion of the matter is reserved for 8.3.)

The Easter Music W. 244 The year 1755, during which Nichelmann and “Dünkelfeind” had their initial exchange, also saw Bach applying to succeed Harrer in his father’s former position at Leipzig. Travels earlier in the decade, including a trip to Hamburg in 1751, were also presumably undertaken with the possibility of a church apointment in mind. Perhaps it was to strengthen his credentials for such a position that he composed his second large sacred work at Berlin. The circumstances of its composition remain uncertain, but it received its first performances at Hamburg in an altered version during the 1756 Easter season.43 It was not heard at Berlin until the following year, in a performance that Bach himself “accompanied” (accompagnirte), presumably leading from the harpsichord, in the same Petrikirche that a week earlier had seen a performance of a Graun oratorio, perhaps Der Tod Jesu.44

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berlin and after 149 This is the type of work now referred to as a cantata. Sebastian’s generation had reserved the expression cantata for works involving a single voice, especially secular ones with Italian texts. Large church compositions involving multiple singers and instruments were more often described as church pieces or simply as “music” for a given service, but terminology was changing by 1750. The word cantata was sometimes applied to Emanuel’s Hamburg church pieces, but the distinction will be maintained here. The Easter Piece W. 244 was Bach’s first large sacred work since the Magnificat and his first with a German text in almost twenty years. Like the E-Minor Sinfonia, also composed in 1756 and his first really distinctive work of that type, it represents an excursion into a major genre that he had not much explored. Yet in this work we already find most of the stylistic elements of Bach’s later sacred music. His thoughts about how to compose such music were therefore formed well before he left Berlin. Although he was not entirely inexperienced in this realm of composition, with this single work Bach established his own version of a type of piece that his contemporaries were turning out by the dozens or, in the case of Telemann and Graupner, by the hundreds, even thousands. For that reason it is worth a close look. Outwardly, Bach’s Easter Music of 1756 resembles those of his father’s church pieces that open with a scriptural chorus (a so-called dictum), followed by alternating recitatives and arias and concluding with a four-part chorale setting. But the ethos of both text and music in Emanuel’s work is quite different, less inward-facing, more generalizing. The text, by the Berlin court preacher Leonhard Cochius,45 focuses more on pious rejoicing than on the specific theology of Easter, looking forward to the resurrection of the dead without any of the troubling references to sin or the last judgment that we would expect in a work of the previous generation. A retreat from the directness of older Lutheran texts, which challenged each listener to confront the divine personally, is also evident in the use of periphrases such as “risen one” (Erstandner) and “prince of life” (Lebensfürst) for Jesus, who is mentioned by name only once. The music is correspondingly unchallenging, in an emotional sense, except during the two very lengthy recitatives, both of which Bach sets largely as arioso with orchestral (string) accompaniment. He divides the second recitative between two soloists, giving it the character of a dialogue and thereby heightening a theatrical element in the music that is also expressed in other ways. It is surprising, in view of what was being written at the time about musical “painting,” that the work is full of the same types of word–tone relationships that we would expect from Sebastian: a rising vocal line for the phrase “before your father’s throne” (vor deines Vaters Thron), a descending leap to a dissonance for demutsvoll (humility), both in the first recitative ($ex. 8.12). Also within the first recitative, a reference to angel choirs elicits a shift to an allegro tempo, with an arpeggio figure in the violins whose two-note slurs could be

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construed as a representation of angel wings (four years previously, Handel had used a comparable figure to accompany the aria “Waft her, angels, through the skies” in Jephtha; see $ex. 8.13). The change does not fall on the actual word Engel, however, thus weakening the link between individual word and musical device. On the other hand, Emanuel responds to emotionally charged verses in a way that is more theatrical than in his father’s works. In the first recitative the bass voice repeats a phrase—demutsvoll verhüllt (cloaked in humility)—for emphasis, something rarely if ever encountered in Sebastian’s recitatives. The string accompaniment slows to andante as the voice descends for auf die Erden (on earth), and the violins underline an enharmonic modulation after finstre Nacht des Todes (dark night of death) with a rising sequence and crescendo ($ex. 8.14).46 Points that Sebastian would have conveyed through voice and harmony alone are thus magnified through instrumentation, tempo changes, and other means that were superfluous in the older style but were now perhaps required for listeners accustomed to the intensified rhetoric of opera. The opening chorus is comparable in texture and scoring to that of the Magnificat, whose grand Italianate style was equally appropriate to the theme of resurrection. The two clauses of the present text, however, are more closely coordinated with the form, which also is more clearly a through-composed da capo or sonata design, at least insofar as the music is concerned. Yet the final (“recapitulation”) section repeats not the first but the second clause of the text, which is introduced in the middle section in a simple imitative texture; this is as close as Emanuel comes to the type of chorus in prelude-and-fugue form that Friedemann often used to open his Halle church works during this same period. Both arias are in the da capo form that prevailed overwhelmingly in eighteenth-century opera and oratorio in Germany. Only in a few later works did Emanuel use the alternatives that occur so often in his father’s music. The second aria, however, is an example of the two-tempo type, rare with Sebastian but favored by Homilius and other younger composers. The change of tempo, from andantino in the A section to andante for the B, reflects the opening line of the latter, “Sleep peacefully, tired limbs” (Entschlafet ruhig, matte Glieder, $ex. 8.15).47 Although a common idea, this might have reminded Emanuel of his father’s aria “Schlummert ein,” with its reference to matte Augen (tired eyes); Anna Magdalena had copied a version of the latter into her 1725 keyboard book.48 Emanuel’s, however, is effectively a “three-tempo” aria, abandoning the slumber theme after reaching E-flat major (the key of “Schlummert ein”). The textual refrain “Mein Heiland lebt” follows after a pause, now set with the type of energetic dotted writing that Bach would associate in many songs and arias with spiritual grandeur and like ideas. The key, too, shifts without transition to G minor, prefiguring Bach’s “new modulation” of the 1770s, a device often associated with charged antitheses—life and death, heaven and earth— as in the present case (ex. 8.16).

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berlin and after 151 Example 8.16. Aria “Wie freudich seh’ ich dir entgegen,” no. 5 from Easter Music, W. 244, mm. 95–99 (without flutes)

Nevertheless, a certain weakness shared with some of Telemann’s works can be discerned in the strung-together character of the vocal line, whose successive phrases do not always lead organically from one to the next. This was clearly intentional in example 8.16, but elsewhere it may reflect rhetorical excess not only on Bach’s part but that of Cochius, whose text comes close to requiring the composer to paint “what he should not.” In the recitative no. 4, the line “Die Gräber öffnen sich” (the graves open up) elicits an ascending phrase for the strings, with another crescendo; whether the passage constitutes concrete word painting is debatable, and perhaps for that reason it remained inoffensive to Bach ($ex. 8.17). Still, that Bach fully realizes the sublime scene musically may be doubted, and it was perhaps poor judgment on the poet’s part to expect a composer to set exclamations like “Freude!” (Joy!) and “O Majestät” (Majesty!) effectively within a long recitative. Bach makes it a dialogue between the tenor, treating of death in the first part, which is largely in minor keys, and the soprano, who turns toward major keys in the second part. There “majesty” is represented by a single tasteful measure of conventional dotted rhythm, the waking of the dead rather more imaginatively by a strange turning motive, again for one measure only ($ex. 8.18). The concluding aria, in C major with flutes, celebrates the resurrection with a text that suggests, incidentally, that the orthodox doctrine of the physical raising of the dead at Judgment Day was still taken quite literally in Enlightenment Berlin. Bach responds to it with a metrically ambiguous and perhaps overly subtle melody ($ex. 8.19). As fresh as this aria sounds at its opening, its long measures and complicated phraseology give it a slightly overworked quality. The same might be said of the piece as a whole; Bach may have felt obliged to make his mark, rhetorically, in his first German sacred composition performed

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in the city. Nevertheless, the Easter Piece established precedents for many of Bach’s later works, and he would set similar texts in similar ways later. The resurrection is presaged near the end of the Passion Cantata with another turn to C major (there much grander, recalling the emergence of light in Haydn’s Creation). In the final chorus of his setting of Klopstock’s “Morgengesang,” flutes again serve as emblems of brightness, in C major. The Easter Music originally ended with a repeat of the opening chorus, which perhaps was considered correct in Berlin. Telemann, however, replaced this with a chorale for the Hamburg performance, and Bach later did so as well, thereby shortening the piece and eliminating what may have come to seem an instance of oldfashioned or excessively zealous musical rhetoric. (For more on the musical rhetoric of Bach’s Easter Music, see 8.4.)

Songs Although the Easter Music retains much from older styles, including that of opera seria, within three years Bach signaled his mastery of the strophic lied with the publication of his Gellert Songs in 1758. This was the first of four large volumes of sacred songs that Bach would publish, alongside several smaller ones containing secular lieder and numerous individual songs issued in anthologies. Within Germany, the fifty-four Gellert Songs probably became Bach’s best-known works, appealing to a broad interest in poetry as well as demand for relatively easy music for domestic performance. Because the vocal part was typically included as the top line within a simple keyboard score, most of Bach’s songs could be performed either as written or by a single keyboard player, singing to his or her own accompaniment if desired. Busch gave some statistics: out of a total of 293 lieder, Bach wrote 81 secular and 184 sacred songs with keyboard, including 12 in chorale style (28 more are actual hymns or Kirchenlieder). Virtually all were published during Bach’s lifetime, only 8 being transmitted solely in manuscript. Some 202 appeared in his own song collections, 66 in anthologies and other publications. In addition, Busch identified 26 songs that Bach arranged for chorus and instrumental ensemble, mostly for use in his Hamburg church works.49 The precise numbers will be adjusted as scholars make progress on modern editions, but Busch’s figures remain accurate enough to give a reliable idea of the proportions. (8.5 summarizes Bach’s output as a song composer.) Hardly any of Bach’s songs resemble the Romantic type now best known from the works of Schubert and Schumann, in which an independent piano part provides introductions and interludes that may comprise a substantial portion of the composition. The songs of the mid-eighteenth century emerged from two related traditions that went back to the early Baroque: the continuo song, in which the voice was accompanied solely by figured bass (sometimes

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berlin and after 153 with optional ritornellos for instrumental ensemble before and after each stanza); and the Protestant hymn or chorale, which by the late seventeenth century was typically set in so-called cantional style. The latter was the now-familiar “simple” type of four-part harmonization best known from the many examples arranged by J. S. Bach as movements in his church pieces. Sebastian’s chorale settings are not unrelated to Emanuel’s song production, for it was apparently only after the latter began publishing collections of his own lieder that he conceived the project of issuing a printed compilation of his father’s chorale harmonizations. This came out gradually, edited with the help of Kirnberger, beginning in 1765.50 The close relationship between chorales and other songs is confirmed by Gellert’s suggestions of traditional chorale melodies for singing most of the fifty-four poems in his Oden und Lieder.51 Bach’s settings of Gellert’s poems are independent of any existing melodies, however, and are comparable to types that by the mid-1750s were customary at Berlin for lieder on secular as well as sacred topics. Many of Bach’s earlier lieder still resemble continuo songs, with a predominantly two-part texture for voice and bass.52 The Gellert Songs, however, have relatively full textures; many have the same fundamentally three-part texture characteristic of Bach’s trios and orchestral works, with frequent parallel thirds or sixths between the melody (doubled by voice and keyboard) and an inner part. Yet even Bach’s songs from earlier in the 1750s reveal keyboard parts whose texture—number of voices, register, and rhythm—varies incessantly, in response to details in the melody. Rarely if ever does Bach use a single idiomatic type of keyboard figuration, such as an Alberti bass, to accompany an entire song, as was common in Vienna and elsewhere by the end of his career. But Bach’s songs are no less idiomatic than the latter for the pianos and clavichords of his day. The constantly changing character of the keyboard writing in his songs probably grew out of the type of improvised accompaniment that was used especially for recitative and sophisticated chamber music; volume 2 of the Versuch is full of admonitions to vary the texture of a figured bass realization to respond to nuances in the principal part. But the accompaniments in Bach’s lieder also reflected the increasingly flexible texture of his solo keyboard music, which culminated in the late pieces for Kenner und Liebhaber; their highly inflected style, with expressive, constantly variegated melody, rhythm, and harmony, echoes that of Bach’s songs. To be sure, not all Bach’s songs are equally sophisticated. They include simple drinking songs as well as plain chorale-style settings. Some mirror larger types of vocal music, with keyboard parts resembling the reductions of orchestral music that Bach and others published in significant numbers after 1750. A majority lack any sort of introduction or interludes for keyboard alone, yet these do occur, even if they remain brief by later standards. Bach’s response to a poem was not simply melodic, as an amateur such as Krause would have had it, but involved harmony and texture as well. In the Gellert Songs, real

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counterpoint occurs with surprising frequency, as in the imitative openings of numbers 3, 34, 36, 38, and 49.53 The consistently polyphonic texture of “Das Gebet” (The prayer, no. 21) mingles with chromaticism elicited by the text’s references to prayer and “need” (Not). “Trost der Erlösung” (Comfort in the redemption, no. 29) adopts the manner of a grand Italianate chorus, such as the one that opened the Easter Music of two years earlier (cf. $ex. 7.3). Bach later arranged it for vocal ensemble as the “motet” W. 208/1. Although the songs look like miniatures, their music rarely occupying more than a page in a printed edition, the presence of as many as twenty or more stanzas means that a complete performance is quite lengthy. Drafting the music for some songs might have cost Bach less time than a full performance, but it would have been preceded by careful reading of the complete poem (as he suggests in his foreword to the Gellert Songs). Indeed, setting strophic poetry of this type involved more craft and discernment, in some ways, than composing an aria or chorus on a conventional operatic or sacred text. Composers in those genres were guided by venerable conventions and well-established routines, and poets rarely introduced formal innovations or inventive subject matter that would force a thoughtful response from even a mediocre composer. A song text by a good poet such as Gellert, however, comprised multiple stanzas whose prosody could be quite individual. The religious sentiments were orthodox, much of the language and imagery familiar, yet individual lines might vary considerably in length and rhythm; poets of lieder were not yet working in the pseudo-folk style that came into fashion during the 1770s. An apparently simple example from the Gellert collection illustrates the challenges faced by the composer of such a text. Each of the fifteen stanzas of “Gottes Macht und Vorsehung” (God’s power and providence, no. 16) comprises just four lines. Yet these are all of different lengths, and in several stanzas the long third line breaks from the iambic rhythm of the three others, placing an accent on the first syllable. Lines 2 and 3, in addition, have weak (“feminine”) endings on unaccented syllables (ex. 8.26 and table 8.1).54 Gellert’s virtuosity as a writer reflected a tradition that extended back to the lyric poets of ancient Greece and Rome. Their cultivation of a bewildering variety of verse forms, emulated by Renaissance and Baroque poets, remained part of the craft admired by readers of Bach’s generation. Catching the meaning and emotion of a text was only part of the composer’s task; he or she also had to grapple with the poem’s form: its meter, syntax and grammar, and division into stanzas or strophes. Daily attention to settings of German verse, which began by singing hymns and listening to his father’s church works at Leipzig, would have led Emanuel to understand how to deal with such matters as metrically weak endings and irregular line lengths. But recitatives, arias, and choruses employed a unique setting of each word, and in arias and choruses the composer could repeat phrases, lines, indeed the whole text of a poem, bringing out different elements of the text each time.

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berlin and after 155 Example 8.26. “Gottes Macht und Vorsehung,” W. 194/16 (complete)

Table 8.1. “Gottes Macht und Vorsehung,” W. 194/16, stanzas 1 and 10 Gott is mein Lied! Er ist der Gott der Stärke! Hehr ist sein Nam, und groß sind seine Werke Und alle Himmel sein Gebiet

God is my song! He is the god of strength! His name is sublime, his works great,

Nichts, nichts ist mein, Das Gott nicht angehöre. Herr, immerdar soll deines Namens Ehre, Dein Lob in meinem Munde sein!

Nothing, nothing is mine That does not belong to God. Lord, let honor of your name,

And all heaven his realm.

Your praise, be in my mouth!

Now Bach had to fashion music that not only presents an entire stanza as a complete, if brief, composition, but also serves for subsequent stanzas expressing distinct thoughts. Here a good poet helped, and Gellert took care to give each stanza not only the same poetic form but often the same syntax and grammar as the first. In example 8.26, the last line in each of the two stanzas shown expresses a complete idea, allowing Bach to repeat this line at the end of his setting. Line 3 in each case opens with an accented substantive (hehr, then Herr, practically a homonym). Yet the opening lines of the two stanzas are very different, the repeated word nichts in stanza 10, with its consonant cluster, constituting a challenge for both composer and singer. In line 3, a caesura in the first stanza (after Nam, at the comma), is absent from stanza 10, which instead

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places a comma after the first word. Poor composers ignored such difficulties, to which Bach alluded in his foreword to the collection. When Bach issued his Gellert Songs in 1758, there had been no previous Berlin volume of lieder comparable in size or devoted to works of a single composer, nor had any comprised settings of sacred poetry. Bach justified these innovations in his foreword, explaining that the poetry had inspired him to set Gellert’s entire book to music—another thing unprecedented in the history of Berlin lieder. Gellert’s poems provoked enthusiasm in many readers, making Bach’s complete setting a profitable venture. But the composer must also have been fired by genuine zeal for the poetry and for disseminating—in a time of war—the “sublime, instructive thoughts” that it expressed. Well over half of Bach’s songs, including all 156 in his four largest collections, are settings of sacred poetry of an explicitly Christian and, often, a specifically Lutheran character. Orthodox Lutheranism as practiced in Berlin and Hamburg was not monolithic, but it was remote in many respects from the more liberal, socalled evangelical type that emerged in the nineteenth century. For this reason, most modern listeners find Bach’s songs problematical. The issue arises in Sebastian’s church works as well, but there a listener can focus on the extraordinary development of the purely musical element, in the arias and choruses if not in the recitatives. Sebastian’s sacred music, moreover, tends to express meanings and affects represented by individual words—typically generalized emotions such as joy or pain—rather than the text as a whole. Emanuel, by his own testimony, set out to project musically the whole texts of his songs. These, like all lieder, resemble recitative insofar as every line of poetry is immediately audible. As a result, their religious topics can make his sacred songs distasteful, even repellent, for modern listeners. In his secular lieder, the profoundly sexist, patronizing attitudes toward women taken in ostensibly innocent songs such as “Die Küsse,” or the naive militarism expressed in the marching and drinking songs, can be equally troubling. Bach’s setting of Klopstock’s “Vaterlandslied” (Song of the Fatherland, W. 202F/1) cannot fail to provoke thoughts of where its essentializing nationalism would lead in the twentieth century (ex. 8.27).55 The unison setting of the recurring first line, “Ich bin ein deutsches Mädchen” (I am a German maiden), is a uniquely aggressive opening for a Bach song.56 The second phrase sets references to the girl’s “blue eyes” (blaues Auge) and “noble heart” (edles Herz), using a variation of a favorite Berlin sequential progression that Bach used frequently for opening themes.57 Youngren interprets the phrase as “lyrical,” but it is as likely meant to be stirring; in the twentieth century the same progression was the basis of the Soviet national anthem.58 Such considerations would be irrelevant to Bach’s song if its folkish style, which he adopted in a number of lieder of the 1770s, did not so perfectly reflect the “proud” (stolz—Bach’s tempo mark) but slightly stupid patriotic girl in the poem, whom we are meant to admire as a beautiful, true, and innocent

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berlin and after 157 Example 8.27. “Vaterlandslied,” W. 202F/1 (complete), stanza 1

symbol of the German nation. Whether Bach shared the incipient German nationalism of younger contemporaries such as Klopstock is uncertain. He had previously set a patriotic Prussian poem by Gleim, the “Herausforderungslied vor der Schlacht bey Rossbach” (Challenge Song Before the Battle of Rossbach, W. 199/20), in a more aristocratic style but expressing pride or strength in a somewhat similar way (Bach’s tempo mark here is Muthig). It is a stunning surprise when the song closes quietly on a half cadence borrowed from recitative style, but this is a conventional setting of the question posed in Gleim’s final line: “why do you slink away [dich verkriechst] from battle?” ($ex. 8.28). Bach’s open-ended conclusion is nevertheless an audaciously rhetorical gesture—a challenge to any aristocratic male reader still not under arms who came upon it at the end of Bach’s second volume of songs, the Oden of 1762. It would be contrary to the sense of the poem to read into Bach’s setting any irony, any questioning of the wisdom of Frederick’s war.59 Certainly no ambivalence can be detected in his sacred songs. Belonging to a pre-Romantic, monarchial age, they represent what writers raised under Communism, such as Hans-Günther Ottenberg, were required to designate, not entirely without reason, as “post-feudalism”—a point of view fully accepting the status quo that was shared by the minor nobility and petty bourgeoisie of pre-Revolutionary Europe.60 The texts, although less pedantic or academic than those favored by the previous generation, are often suffused with a cloying religiosity, as the questioning, self-examining character of older Lutheranism, colored by the conflicts and disasters of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, is displaced by the comfortable, self-satisfied perspective of lateeighteenth-century readers drawn primarily from the commercial classes of Europe’s northern trading centers. Gellert’s poetry is good enough to be appreciated, if not enjoyed, by a sensitive modern reader, even one who finds its explicitly “instructive” character tiresome. This cannot be said for the poetry of the Hamburg pastor Christoph

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Christian Sturm, who provided the texts for Bach’s last two large collections. Sturm could produce smug efforts such as “Die Würde des Christen” (The Christian’s Dignity), in which each stanza opens with the line “I am a Christian,”61 followed by anodyne expressions of an untroubled heart and fullness of faith. That Bach could set this in a mild-mannered and, for him, quite simple song (W. 197/8) suggests that he shared the underlying sentiments, which his setting captures all too well. A shift in the last line to a pompous melody over a bass in dotted rhythm merely reinforces the impression of a routine recitation of religious clichés, as in the confident final verse of the first stanza, “Unsterblich soll ich werden” (I shall be immortal, $ex. 8.29). If Sturm’s poem comes uncomfortably close to the lyrics of some presentday American “Christian” popular songs, Gellert is not always much better, preaching an equally self-satisfied type of religion. His poem “Demuth” (no. 47 in the Gellert Songs), while urging the listener to the humility of its title, also expresses hostility toward the Roman Catholic doctrine of good works (“beste Werke”). Bach sets the operative line with a descent to the Neapolitan ($ex. 8.30). Although many songs contemplate the suffering of Jesus, inviting the listener to identify with “a Christ,” there are probably fewer settings that dwell on the presumed reason for that suffering—the “sins of the world”—than in works from an earlier period. The glimmers of real imagination in these and other poems come too infrequently to justify complete performances of the longer songs—that is, those with numerous stanzas—today. Nearly all Bach’s settings respect the original strophic forms of the poetry; Youngren finds that only about 5 percent are through-composed. This makes it easy for performers to omit selected stanzas in most songs, but it reveals how rarely Bach in fact shaped a poem as a whole, through an individual approach to each stanza as part of a larger composition. When he did compose nonstrophically, it was not necessarily because of anything inherent in the poetry. The anonymous text of his late “Nonnelied” (W. 200/3) is a poignant narrative that surely calls for the through-composed setting that he gave it. But the same cannot be said of Ebeling’s “Holde Freude” (W. 200/17), about which Youngren concludes that Bach chose a nonstrophic setting “just because he wanted to, to try his hand at it.”62

The Gellert Songs The thirteen songs that Bach had published through 1756 are all on secular texts. In his foreword to the Gellert Songs, he implies that it was only in reading Gellert’s “spiritual songs and odes,” published in 1757, that he conceived a new, more serious type of song. His distinction between these “instructive odes” (Lehroden) and “songs for the heart” (Lieder für das Herz) echoes one made by Gellert in his own foreword.63 Bach gives the impression that he wrote

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berlin and after 159 all fifty-four settings “in a single creative act,” as Berg puts it,64 after reading Gellert’s poems. A certain impulsiveness might be seen in the order of songs in Bach’s volume, which he says is that in which he composed them; completely different from the order of the poems in Gellert’s original volume, it preserves only a single sequence of three songs from the latter.65 Gellert’s poems elicited considerable interest in German-speaking Europe for the next fifty years, although no one else published a complete setting.66 Bach does not say when or how long it took him to set Gellert’s poems, drafts of which were known in Berlin by 1755.67 The absence of substantial variants between Gellert’s printed texts and those set by Bach implies that he indeed composed the songs in a flush of compositional enthusiasm, not unlike Schumann during his “year of song” (1841). NV places Bach’s composition of the songs in 1757, a year that otherwise shows a decline from the prolific production of the previous few years, yielding a single sinfonia and ten or eleven relatively modest keyboard compositions. The decline in output must reflect the fact that the second half of 1757 saw the expansion of the Seven Years’ War into a major military conflict. Palace concerts and regular court duties for the musicians were suspended, and during 1758 most state employees, including Bach, received vouchers rather than cash payments.68 Presumably this left Bach more time than usual to devote to his own purposes, and it may be that the circumstances encouraged him to contemplate religious matters. Things cannot have been too bad at Berlin, however. Although some of Bach’s colleagues abandoned the city, and all surely had difficulty earning money as independent musicians, Bach was able to have his Gellert Songs published by Winter of Berlin; the foreword is dated February 1, 1758. Evidently there were sufficient cash and supplies on hand for music to be printed and sold.69 (Bach’s foreword explains some of his compositional choices; for a discussion of these and certain technical aspects of the poetry and music, see 8.6.) The most obviously distinctive of the Gellert Songs, as in Bach’s later collections, are those that incorporate striking dissonances, chromatic modulations, and comparable devices. Typical of these are no. 21, “Das Gebet,” whose contrapuntal texture and F-minor tonality make it particularly challenging to accompany on the clavichord (for which it is nevertheless well-suited); and no. 44, “Am neuen Jahre” (At the new year), which opens with a modulating passage over the B–A–C–H bass line, despite its lively (munter) tone of celebration ($ex. 8.35). Those who are not aficionados of the genre may be hard-pressed to discern what is so special about the less demonstrative songs, or exactly how they differ from examples by lesser composers. Youngren compares no. 45 of Bach’s Gellert Songs (“Bußlied,” Song of repentance) with settings of the same text by Doles, Gräfe, Marpurg, and the little-known Christoph Friedrich Rackemann.70 Those by Doles and Gräfe are in chorale style (more or less); Rackemann’s and Marpurg’s are in the freer idiom also used by Bach. All but Doles incorporate at least a few chromatic progressions, Marpurg even sharing with Bach the use

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of a descending chromatic bass for the first two phrases.71 Why Rackemann’s harmonically sophisticated and undoubtedly expressive setting is nevertheless “mediocre,” even boring, is not immediately apparent. Bach’s song is clearly better, though in many ways not obviously distinct, remaining in the minor mode, in common time, and only eight measures long (ex. 8.36 and table 8.2).72 Like most songs in this style, both consist largely of melodic and harmonic formulas that recur in countless other lieder, keyboard pieces, and chamber works of the period. Gellert’s text likewise is not obviously original or particularly striking. Youngren nevertheless speaks of its “chaste compression” and the “almost shocking directness of the language,” mixing “intimacy and reserve” with “clear-eyed realism and intense religious fervor.”73 It gracefully incorporates numerous biblical references (listed by Youngren) while expressing religious sentiments that are entirely orthodox but not, for that reason, any less authentic. Rackemann’s setting, however, suffers from the unvarying length (exactly two measures) of each of its four phrases.74 Bach likewise makes each phrase the same length, but his rhythm is more varied, in the accompaniment as well as the melody. In the middle of line 2 Bach’s bass begins to move in eighth notes, but off the beat, increasing the level of urgency. Unlike Rackemann, Bach marks the caesura after the fourth syllable in lines 1 and 3— scrupulously maintained by Gellert through all six stanzas. Where Rackemann closes the first half of the song with a routine little octave leap in the bass (Youngren calls it “flippant”), Bach elides the phrase division with a downward arpeggio in the left hand, perhaps one of the “supplementary themes” for the keyboard (angenommene Themata) mentioned in his foreword. All but Doles take the cue from the word gesündigt (sinned) in line 1 to write chromatically, incorporating dissonances and chromatic progressions. Youngren criticizes Rackemann for modulating to the relative major at the middle of the song, whose text provides no reason for lifting the penitential mood at any point. A cadence in the major, however, would not necessarily be inexpressive here, and Bach provides a suggestion of the major mode on this line with the A-major chord in the second half of measure 2. But this is one of Bach’s characteristic early moves to the subdominant, here rendered quietly urgent precisely because it involves the “wrong” (major) mode. When this progression recurs in measure 6, it closes on the expected minor subdominant. Rackemann too repeats himself in line 3, whose augmented sixth (in m. 5) and Neapolitan harmony (B♭, m. 6) surpass the more ordinary progressions of line 1. But only Bach balances the generally falling character of the opening phrase, with its descending chromatic bass, by having the bass ascend chromatically just before the end. Bach’s early move to the subdominant is unique among the settings of this poem. The four others all end the first phrase with a conventional half cadence, wasting the opportunity to respond more expressively to Gellert’s

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Example 8.36. “Bußlied,” settings by (a) Rackemann and (b) Bach (W. 194/46) (both complete)

Table 8.2. “Bußlied,” stanza 1 An dir allein, an dir hab ich gesündigt

Against you alone, against you have I sinned

Und übel oft vor dir gethan.

And often done evil before you.

Du siehst die Schuld, die mir den Fluch verkündigt;

You see the sin that proclaims its curse on me;

Sieh, Gott, auch meinen Jammer an!

Consider also, God, my dejection!

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opening line. Bach is already exploring relatively uncharted harmonic territory at this point, a quarter of the way through the little composition. The early brush with the subdominant gives his setting an appropriately submissive, even wilting, character. On the other hand, Bach’s melody for the first line surges upward through a tritone to f♮″. Doles, Gräfe, and Marpurg also have their melodies leap up near here, perhaps reflecting the opening words an dir (“to you,” that is, to God), but only Bach marks the leap by also beginning to modulate at the same point. The chromaticism of Bach’s setting (f♯′–f♮′) becomes more pronounced when the progression recurs in line 3, the voice repeating the high f♯″ before falling back to f♮″. Bach also repeats the opening of line 2 within line 4, but (remarkably) a fifth lower. Both phrases use consecutive quarter notes—unique to these passages within the song—to repeat the halfstep motive from the opening measure (a♯′–b′), albeit in different harmonizations. This integrates the two halves of the song more subtly than in any of the other settings. Bach also has probably paid closer attention than his contemporaries to the verbal rhythm and syntax of Gellert’s poem. Each stanza comprises two sentences, with the most important, emotionally fraught words usually coming at the beginning of line 3. Here Bach’s setting reaches its highest note—as does Marpurg’s also, but without observing the caesura that follows. That Bach “saw more in the poem” (as Youngren says of another setting), or that the various composers had distinct “visions” of it,75 is less certain than that he had a stronger intuition of how the rhythm, syntax, and affective design of Gellert’s verses could be reflected musically. That probably every one of the individual melodic figures and harmonic progressions in Bach’s song is formulaic and could be found in other works is immaterial. Assembling such things in a unique way was part of the composer’s art, which in this genre was prized precisely for not attracting attention to its originality.

Later Songs Despite the ongoing war, Bach brought out a second edition of the Gellert Songs just a year after the first. During his remaining years at Berlin he would not again compose vocal music so prolifically, his focus turning to other things. In 1759 he wrote five of the six Reprise Sonatas, published the following year; during 1761 he must have worked on volume 2 of the Versuch, which came out in 1762; and during 1762–63 he composed eleven of the twelve ensemble sonatinas, presumably for concerts as the war wound down and musical life in Berlin returned to normal. With the exception of the last, these projects during Bach’s final decade at Berlin centered around publications; even three of the ensemble sonatinas appeared in print. Perhaps publishing instrumental music proved more lucrative than songs, or perhaps Bach could not avoid becoming involved again in concert activity as the city’s cultural life was restored. Despite

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berlin and after 163 the success of the Gellert Songs, Bach produced no collections of new lieder until the Cramer Psalms of 1774. He did, however, bring out twenty mostly older songs in the Oden (Odes) of 1762, and in 1764 a third edition of the Gellert Songs was accompanied by an “appendix” (Anhang) containing twelve more lieder. Like the two “Continuations” of the Reprise Sonatas, this Gellert Appendix is unrelated to the volume to which it was attached, comprising settings of twelve poems by other authors. Youngren describes the songs in the Gellert Appendix as mostly “experimental,”76 but their heterogeneity could be a product of their having been composed over a range of time, like the songs of the Oden or the sonatas of the Continuations; clearly Bach was reaching into his backlist to fill out new volumes. It is also likely that the Appendix was meant to provide something a little simpler, for those who found the Gellert Songs too difficult, just as the two sets of keyboard pieces published during the next two years (W. 113–14) were probably conceived as simpler versions of the Probestücke. The poets of only four of the songs in the Gellert Appendix (W. 195) have been identified, and three of these are by Anna Luisa Karsch. The leading woman poet in Germany of her generation, Karsch would be the principal librettist of Bach’s first major vocal work for Hamburg, the Passion Cantata. Bach seems to have gotten to know her after her move to Berlin in 1761; the three Karsch songs (nos. 8, 10, and 11) probably date from after then.77 The one other song whose poet has been identified is no. 4, the text of which is by Leopold Franz Friedrich Lehr, pastor at Cöthen from 1731 until his early death in 1744. The poem, published in 1731 and still a familiar Lutheran hymn, is one of three in the volume that Bach set in chorale style, largely in four parts. Generic in style, it could be the product of almost any time during the two decades before Bach published it. The same could not be said of the two other chorale-style songs in the volume (one of them setting a poem by Karsch). Although of limited appeal today, solo songs in the manner of a church hymn were evidently popular, and they challenged both composer and performer to produce something expressive within particularly stringent stylistic constraints. Whether or not the last of these, which closes the volume (no. 12), is “absolutely splendid,”78 it is certainly the most original song in the collection. A setting of Psalm 88, it anticipates the chorale-style songs among the Cramer Psalms as a distinctive melding of Bach’s style with the traditional one. It is strange, incidentally, that Bach closes the volume with this most despairing of psalms, which ends with hardly a glimmer of hope. One is tempted to seek an explanation in Bach’s circumstances or some other external source, yet it is hard to find one at a time when he and his family appear to have been well and life in Berlin was returning to its normal course. More likely he chose to relegate this least accessible of the volume’s songs, one of just two in the minor mode, to the end as the traditional place for difficult or challenging music (ex. 8.37).

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Example 8.37. “Der 88. Psalm,” W. 195/12 (complete), stanza 1

Chorale-style settings such as this one raise the issue of their relationship to Sebastian’s four-part chorale harmonizations, which Emanuel began to publish in the following year. Although not consistently in four parts, the frequently chromatic, dissonant harmony of these songs is clearly a response to his father’s chorale settings. Yet neither the melodies nor the texts are traditional, and ornaments and other subtleties in the melodies make it clear that these were not intended for congregational singing. In “Der 88. Psalm,” for example, the second phrase breaks off on an unaccented syllable, followed by a brief rest (m. 5 in ex. 8.37). Perhaps an echo of the old Baroque rest-as-sigh (suspiratio), this is answered by a lyrical extension of the following line, whose last syllable is held out as the keyboard modulates chromatically to the next phrase (mm. 7–8). Both the “sigh” and the elision of the phrase ending by the keyboard belong more to the solo song than the chorale. Such things are rare in Sebastian’s chorale settings, as are Emanuel’s dynamic markings, used only in the last three songs of the volume; here they

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berlin and after 165 seem to dictate what Caccini had called the esclamatione.79 The harmony, too, is Emanuel’s own, in part because the melody is: unbound to a preexisting hymn tune, he incorporates an ascending chromatic hexachord in the upper voice, which, at least in the opening and closing stanzas, reflects specific words in the text (Geschrei, “cry,” in stanza 1; verloren, “lost,” in stanza 11). The chromatic ascent is echoed in the bass of the final cadence, where Bach manages to touch on a secondary Neapolitan—♭II of iv—as the bass negotiates the melodic inter6 val of a diminished third. Elsewhere, closely spaced 43 chords in line 4 (mm. 8–9) constitute consecutive examples of what we call the second-inversion dominant seventh. Bach consistently treats this sonority as a dissonance—as he had explained in the recently published second volume of the Versuch.80 The numerous musical examples in the latter include illustrations of tricky dissonant and chromatic progressions that resemble passages in these chorale-style songs, although precise concordances have yet to be identified. Yet, although he evidently could take an objective, “scientific” interest in chromatic or dissonant harmony, songs such as this one make it clear that for Emanuel, as for his father, this type of writing retained its traditional association with expressions of pathos or despair. Before leaving Berlin, Bach demonstrated a commitment to actual congregational singing by contributing to a hymnbook published at Halle (a Prussian dominion) in 1767. Bach would afterward contribute to two more such volumes, even while expanding his output of secular songs of quite various types. Only some of the latter eventually appeared in a collection of his own, the twenty-two Neue Lieder-Melodien (New Songs, W. 200), published posthumously at Hamburg in 1789.81 Some thirty further secular songs came out in anthologies and other serial publications, and during his last three decades Bach also produced a few compositions that stand between song and something larger. Best known among the latter is the little chamber cantata Phillis und Thirsis (W. 232) published in 1766, whose two short arias are stylistically akin to lieder—devoid of coloratura and largely syllabic, with brief ritornellos. Bach would include similar things in some of his Hamburg church works; clearly the distinctions between song and aria were becoming blurred, for Bach as they would be for Mozart in The Magic Flute. This rapprochement between song and aria is unlikely to have been a response to writers such as Krause. If Bach in his later years was influenced at all by critics and theorists, it was by one such as the poet Johann Heinrich Voß, who published a number of Bach’s songs during the 1770s and early 1780s in his annual Musen-Almanach (Muses’ Almanac). Most of these, including Klopstock’s “Vaterlandslied,” are in the pseudo-folk style that was an important element of emerging Romanticism. Bach adopts this manner as well in the “Nonnelied” (Nun’s Song, W. 200/3), a remarkably dramatic, almost Schubertian, setting of an anonymous text in Swiss dialect in which a nun laments her cloisterization.82 Is this a feminist lament for a woman’s loss of

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liberty? a Lutheran commentary on Roman Catholic custom? or Bach’s indirect expression of compassion for his spinster daughter? Bach’s admirer Türk wrote a surprisingly vehement negative review of the New Songs, containing the “Nonnelied,” objecting to Bach’s inability to achieve a truly light or “easy” style appropriate to the folk-style poem.83 Did Türk simply misread the latter? Bach’s music (like the text) differs in tone from what one finds in most of his songs, even adopting a Viennese-style broken-chord accompaniment for the nun’s wistful refrain “o Liebe!” (oh, love). But he drops the arpeggios for the last statement of that exclamation, as reality sinks in at the end of the song ($ex. 8.38). The arpeggiated accompaniment for these words was evidently part of Bach’s initial conception of the song. A rare sketch, in the composer’s late hand, consists largely of the melodic line alone, without text. But where the words o liebe would fall in the finished song, Bach jotted them down together with the accompaniment ($ex. 8.39).84 Bach continued to compose secular lieder to the end of his career. Most are strophic, but during his last two decades he was evidently more willing than previously to compose through-composed settings. Besides the “Nun’s Song,” these include a setting of Voß’s “Selma” (W. 202I/2), which Busch called Bach’s “best song.”85 The two stanzas of the latter, the first slow and in F minor, the second quick and in F major, form a stark antithesis. The second succintly represents Voß’s image of a lover “flying through death” on “wings of flame,” although this is more vivid in Bach’s later orchestral version (W. 236). Youngren described this “Selma” as one of a few “‘number’ cantatas,” not a song.86 But its style is entirely that of a lied, despite Bach’s subsequent addition of brief opening and closing passages for the instruments. More ambiguous generically is “Die Grazien,” although Bach himself designated it a cantata.87 In place of the traditional alternation between recitative and aria, it moves fluidly between conventional recitative and passages more or less in song style. This reflects Gerstenberg’s text, which alternates between prose and poetry—although Bach does not set every verse in lied style. Completed in 1774, to judge from Bach’s correspondence, “Die Grazien” appears to have been another of Gerstenberg’s “experiments,” with Bach now an active collaborator.88 Youngren explicates the text as “a poem about the joys, frustrations, and dangers of idealizing one’s lover [or rather beloved] into a goddess.”89 It remains, however, an Arcadian or Anacreontic capriccio, like the landscapes that J. S. Bach the Younger was executing before his early death. In some neoclassic wonderland, Aglaia, “most beautiful of the Graces,” impersonates Chloe, the beloved of the unnamed narrator. The latter, though at first fooled into engaging in a little kissing game with her, leads her back to her two sisters and demands the return of the real, human Chloe. Formally, Bach’s setting is comparable to the rondos and fantasias for Kenner und Liebhaber that he would begin composing a few years later: it modulates widely while also fluctuating

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berlin and after 167 continuously between various types of music, never repeating itself. It is, then, a lighter version of the type of fantasia for solo keyboard to which Gerstenberg had set his “Hamlet” text a decade or so previously. It is therefore no surprise that in “Die Grazien” it is the keyboard, not the voice, that has the most distinctive music, as well as the final say. Only with the last line of the poem, sung in unison with the keyboard, and in the instrumental epilogue, does it become clear that the Graces have played a joke on the narrator, whose Chloe seems to have vanished and perhaps never existed at all. The harsh dotted arpeggio figure in the keyboard is again associated with fate or divine power, as also in the aria “Mein Herr, mein Gott” from the Resurrection Cantata, written during the same period ($ex. 8.40). This ending is, unfortunately, the only portion of the ten-minute work whose music expresses anything very distinctly, unless one counts a rather silly passage in which the keyboard seems to represent Aglaia (in the guise of Chloe) exchanging kisses with the speaker ($ex. 8.41). Elsewhere the constant stylistic flux gives Bach no chance to develop any musical ideas sufficiently to make a strong impression.

The Cramer Psalms However seriously Bach took the composition of Gerstenberg’s cantata, or lieder like Voß’s “Selma,” it was only to religious songs that he devoted sustained attention. At Hamburg he issued three further collections of sacred lieder. The first of these, settings of the strophic psalm adaptations by Johann Andreas Cramer, had been on Bach’s mind for some time. He had apparently been aware of them since composing the Gellert Songs, and in 1768 he was ready to set them to “melodies such as he had published” for the latter.90 Although he was unable to bring them out until 1774, they evidently were of great personal significance. In a letter to Breitkopf, Bach described his Cramer settings as a “companion [Compagnon] to the Gellert odes, as it were.”91 A drawing by Andreas Stöttrup, executed in 1784, shows Bach in the room of his house that held his famous portrait collection;92 he stands in front of a depiction of King David, traditionally the author of the psalms.93 Cramer’s “translated psalms with melodies,” as Bach’s title describes them, had appeared in four volumes published between 1755 and 1764. Bach published settings of two psalms from the first volume as early as 1761, in ensemble versions.94 Only one of these, Psalm 4, was included in the 1774 collection, arranged for voice and keyboard, and Bach may not have owned Cramer’s complete version of the Book of Psalms before the poet Claudius gave him a copy in 1772.95 Bach’s correspondence reveals that he was busy writing his “psalter” during fall 1773,96 and it is possible that most of the settings were products of a brief period of sustained work, as the Gellert songs had apparently been. Against that, however, must be set the stylistic diversity of the Cramer Psalms,

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far exceeding that of the Gellert Songs. This was, moreover, a busy period for Bach, who was not only occupied by his heavy official duties at Hamburg but in 1773 also produced the six sinfonias for strings. Whether or not Bach seriously contemplated undertaking a complete setting of Cramer’s psalms, as he had done for Gellert’s book of sacred poetry, he settled on a selection. In his foreword to the published set he apologizes not only, as in the Gellert volume, for the “unavoidable constraints” involved in strophic songs, but also for the relatively simple nature of his settings. He mentions, too, that he has omitted psalms that are too long, whose meters change—that is, where Cramer used different poetic meters for different stanzas, preventing a purely strophic setting—or that do not “suit our present time.”97 A few of the poems that he does set remain inconsistent in the number of syllables included in different stanzas (Bach leaves it up to the performer to make the necessary small adjustments). Implicit in these comments is Bach’s acknowledgment that Cramer’s poetry was inferior to Gellert’s, although Bach also describes, as a positive feature, the greater variety of the present collection as compared to the earlier one. Evidently the Gellert Songs set a standard that the composer himself had trouble maintaining. Cramer’s versions of the psalms belong to a tradition of metrical vernacular translations that went back to the Protestant Reformation, but his texts so expand on the Hebrew originals that they are better regarded as paraphrases or tropes. The eleven verses of Psalm 42, for example, become a dozen strophes of six lines each—no fewer than eighty-four lines (admittedly short ones of seven syllables). Even in a brisk performance of Bach’s chorale-style setting (no. 14), a complete presentation may seem very long. Nor is it easy to sing, requiring the singer to negotiate two consecutive downward leaps of a tritone (mm. 10–12), then a diminished third in the next phrase ($ex. 8.42). Embedded in the harmony, however, such intervals perhaps no longer seemed unsingable, as they would have been to amateurs of previous generations; in one of the Sturm Songs, Bach even asks the singer to negotiate an augmented second.98 As in the Gellert Songs, both the texts and Bach’s settings are all strophic, although there is again one item that comprises two distinct musical compositions, used for different stanzas. That setting is of Psalm 8, one of several that Cramer cast as dialogues, here between a pair of choirs (stanzas 1, 2, and 7) and “The Prophet” (stanzas 3–6). In the song these roles are all taken by a single voice, but Bach later recast the work for four-part vocal ensemble with orchestra, and there a soloist sings the middle stanzas.99 Bach set just one other of Cramer’s dialogue texts—he mentions leaving out psalms with “many alternating choruses”—and perhaps, like his setting of Psalm 4, Psalm 8 had a separate history. More likely, after composing it, Bach realized that it would be impractical to set Cramer’s remaining texts of this type, for Psalm 8 is the longest and most complex song in the volume, with the busiest keyboard part.

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berlin and after 169 The first part of the setting, used for the stanzas originally assigned to the two choirs, is in the style of a choral motet, whereas part 2 (for “The Prophet”) comprises just melody and bass, with a few scattered notes for inner voices. That Bach was disappointed not to have been able to continue composing in this manner throughout the volume is suggested by his apologetic remark, in the foreword, that “these psalms would have been far more successful had they been more amply worked out.” Psalm 8 is not the only one of the settings that show wrinkles not previously seen in Bach’s songs, and not really typical of songs as such. Also in orchestral style is the other dialogue setting, Psalm 67, whose second half (which Cramer assigns to the “choir”) has an Alberti-type accompaniment. Today the latter is usually regarded as quintessential keyboard writing, but it probably originated as an adaptation of a type of orchestral texture.100 Standing at the opposite stylistic pole are settings in chorale style, which, as in the Gellert Appendix, make up a significant portion of the volume—more than a fifth of the individual items. These are now in real church style, notated in long notes with figured bass; Bach says in his foreword that he has included these “to please some of my friends.”101 Evidently these friends wished for simple congregational hymns to sing at home, or to use for practicing figured bass realization. Three further settings, although not in chorale style, use the strictly two-part texture of an old-fashioned continuo lied (nos. 15, 35, 37), although only the last of these has an actual figured bass. No realization is necessary in the other two, though for quite different reasons. In no. 15 (Ps. 46) the bass consists largely of figuration based on broken chords that fill out the harmony on their own. Number 35 (Ps. 128) is, up to its last two measures, a strict canon at the fifth between voice and bass—one of two canonic settings in the volume. The diversity of the settings, although reminiscent of earlier collections— notably the Keyboard Pieces of Various Types, W. 112—suggests that Bach took a less deliberate, more ad hoc, approach to this volume than the Gellert Songs. Youngren finds the Cramer Psalms to be organized into six “sequences of songs,” each incorporating at least one chorale-style setting and concluding with one of the more “complex, experimental settings” such as Psalm 8, which functions “as the climactic resolution of a preceding sequence.”102 Youngren’s “sequences” conclude with nos. 4, 12, 18, 23, 30, and 39 (settings of Psalms 8, 33, 67, 93, 110, and 145), each of which is indeed special in some way. Number 12, for instance, is the other canonic song, and moreover is unusually long. Number 23, like no. 4, resembles a chorus with a lively orchestral accompaniment; and no. 30 has another sort of quasi-orchestral accompaniment entirely in octaves. Yet the irregular size and content of each of these “sequences” leave Youngren’s thesis unconvincing, and there are no musical relationships, such as the use of related keys, to suggest that the songs within any of them form a group. It is strange, too, that the last three songs in the volume lie outside the scheme; indeed, Bach’s setting of the

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final Psalm 150—traditionally a pretext for elaborate musical rejoicing, with its references to drums and trumpets—is suprisingly understated, with a conventional (not “complex”) sort of keyboard part. The ersatz orchestral or choral songs nevertheless constitute a distinct type within the volume—and a problematical one, for the predominantly two-part texture of a song such as no. 7 (Ps. 19) can hardly project the grand orchestral sound to which the music refers and which the text (“The heavens declare”) and Bach’s tempo mark require (ex. 8.43). A good singer might be able to project a powerful affect, but to hear the latter in the keyboard part requires considerable imagination. Up to the cadence at the end of line 2, the ersatz orchestral writing of the accompaniment is indistinguishable in texture from the two-line reductions provided for the keyboard player in the ritornellos of Bach’s six keyboard concertos (W. 43) of 1770. Only slightly less problematical here is Bach’s tempo mark, Prächtig, aber etwas lebhaft, which prefigures nineteenth-century expressive coding in the representation of grandeur as something that is splendid and glorious but not particularly quick: the song is “grand but somewhat lively.” The dotted rhythm of the bass line is not that of the old French overture but something heavier, even ponderous, as it must be if the singer is to cleanly declaim the opening phrase of, for example, stanza 2 (“Es strömt von einem Tag zum andern”). A relatively slow tempo, however, makes it even harder to project a grand affect in the keyboard part, especially when played on the clavichord or the small square piano typical of German domestic use in the later eighteenth century. The problem is only slightly less severe in no. 30 (Ps. 110), which is meant to be a grand setting (“Jehovah spoke”), its tempo mark Majestätisch (majestic). With its keyboard part written entirely in octaves, it imitates a type of aria found in Bach’s Hamburg church works, where the voice enters with a sort of obbligato against a unison ostinato for the instruments.103 In the final phrase the octaves are extended to the voice, which proceeds essentially in unison with the keyboard ($ex. 8.44).104 Variations of this final phrase recur throughout the set, for it was a version of a common cadential bass formula (c′–f♯–g–g–c), often doubled by all parts in unisono passages going back to opera seria.105 The formula recurs in many of Bach’s larger Hamburg works; the use of these octaves in his songs therefore seems to be another allusion to a type of music other than song itself. As in other cases, however, this signifies a failure of imagination on Bach’s part, for the meaning or expressive import of the song lies in the allusion, rather than in the music itself. Much the same holds for the two canonic songs, although these lie at the other end of the scale, insofar as texture and grandiosity are concerned. Number 35 (Ps. 128) is short and strict, its two parts written in canon at the fifth up to the last line ($ex. 8.45). Number 12 (Ps. 33) is somewhat freer but unusually lengthy, an austere exercise written almost entirely in two parts until the last of its three sections breaks free of the canonic mold ($ex. 8.46). The

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berlin and after 171 Example 8.43. “Der 19. Psalm,” W. 196/7, mm. 1–9

length is the fault of Cramer, who turns the twenty-two verses of the original psalm into seven stanzas of nine exceptionally long lines each. In Bach’s setting, each line but the last begins as some form of canon, including examples of augmentation and inversion; lines 4–6 are a variation of lines 1–3, reflecting the tripartite rhyme scheme and syntax of each stanza. Perhaps these songs are best viewed simply as demonstrations of counterpoint, as the chorale-style settings are exercises in harmony. Marpurg had dedicated the second volume of his counterpoint treatise, on canons, to Friedemann and Emanuel. Four years before the publication of the Cramer Psalms, Emanuel included a palindromic minuet in the Musikalisches Vielerley, notated as a puzzle canon (the solution appeared later in the volume). Nevertheless, it is surprising to see Bach turning a psalm of rejoicing (“Jauchzt, ihr Gerechten,” rejoice, righteous ones) into a counterpoint exercise, especially one whose music so poorly fits the text. It is as if the use of canon forced Bach into uncharacteristically weak (though never exactly incorrect) declamation. Nothing in the texts of these psalms could have elicited the use of canon, which might, however, have been rationalized as part of the “instructive” or educational program of the volume. Bach’s forewords to both the Gellert Songs and the Cramer Psalms emphasize their usefulness for edification, and he would express similar aims for the Two Litanies, published twelve years later. Only in his foreword to the latter work, however, does Bach explicitly justify his use of unusual (fremde) harmony to please “those desirous of instruction” (Lehrbegierigen), as well as for the sake of expression and variety. The same ends would have been served by the songs in chorale style, which, like the use of canon, cannot be associated with any particular type of text.106 Unlike the chorales in the Gellert Appendix, these now use the traditional Hamburg notation in half notes, rather than quarters. Yet these settings are even more ostentatiously chromatic, going beyond the earlier examples in their exploration of the possibilities of swift modulation between remotely related keys. For this

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reason they are remote from the actual chorales in Bach’s Hamburg church pieces, although their tempo mark Choralmäßig must, like Prächtig, signify something slower than earlier chorale singing, permitting each unusual progression to sink in.107 That other songs in the volume were also as much demonstrations of harmony as of doctrine is suggested by at least five settings that open out of the tonic, in the middle of a modulation. Of course, when the music is repeated for subsequent stanzas, the modulation at the outset becomes part of an ongoing progression that begins with the final cadence of the previous stanza. The principle is the same as in Bach’s sonata and concerto movements whose outof-key openings follow a previous section (or are part of a repeat). In fact, two of the Cramer Psalms that open in this way, nos. 6 and 8 (Pss. 17 and 23), echo sonatas that were destined at the time for publication in the Kenner und Liebhaber series. Both W. 55/5 and 55/3, composed in 1772 and 1774, respectively, open without a clear definition of the tonic, and, like the two songs, are epigrammatic miniatures. Yet Psalm 17 is a contrite prayer, whereas Psalm 23 is a song of rejoicing—especially as Bach sets it, ignoring the pastoral implication of the opening verse (“The Lord is my shepherd,” $ex. 8.47). The tonic is established only in the sixth of the song’s eleven brief measures, where the arrival on the dominant becomes an expression of the fearlessness expressed in subsequent strophes; only here does the bass leap in athletic sixteenths. The dissonance at the outset of this song (a 24 chord) is no more an expression of pain or need than is the tritone negotiated by the voice at the beginning of no. 24 (Ps. 96). There Cramer’s opening reference to “unheard harmony” practically demands an unusual chord progression, and the first three measures modulate accordingly from F minor to the rare key of A-flat minor. The latter is in fact the subdominant minor, as becomes clear only at the end of the phrase (ex. 8.48). The phrase ungehörte Harmonie was actually Cramer’s insertion into the Hebrew poem, a periphrasis for its exhortation to sing “new songs.” Both ideas might be represented by dissonant progressions or remote modulations, but such things were traditionally expressive of pathos or despair, as they continue to be in many of these songs. Here, however, they can be understood as representations of the sublime, which Bach’s younger contemporaries certainly sensed in his larger vocal works.108 That the sublime might be invoked in simple songs as well is evident from no. 16 (Ps. 47), another very brief setting whose largely conventional harmony is interrupted by an unmediated progression from E major to D (mm. 4–5 in ex. 8.49a). Following a sudden pause, this is another instance of Richard Kramer’s “new” modulation. It suggests that in this song Bach is focused less on the superficial rejoicing emphasized by Cramer’s text (“Frohlocket ihr Völker,” rejoice, you people) than on his references to God on his heavenly throne (barely alluded to in the actual psalm). The famous aria “Die Thore Gottes” from the Resurrection Cantata, composed at about the same time, opens

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Example 8.48. “Der 96. Psalm,” W. 196/24, mm. 1–4

Example 8.49. (a) “Der 47. Psalm,” W. 196/16 (complete), stanza 1; (b) aria “Ihr Thore Gottes,” no. 21 from the Resurrection Cantata, W. 240, mm. 8–15 (voice and continuo only)

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with the identical diatonic sequence, only to be interrupted by starker pauses and more remote modulations (ex. 8.49b). Beethoven, who could well have encountered both works in his youth, echoed the idea in his Ninth Symphony. His setting there of the fifth stanza from Schiller’s “An die Freude” (“Seid umschlungen”) incorporates the same progression: a sequence of falling thirds followed, after a pause, by a downward shift of a whole tone ($ex. 8.50). The harmonic jolt is “explained” by subsequent progressions, but both passages use the interrupted progression to represent something otherwise inexpressible. The sudden D-major chord in Psalm 47 (m. 5 in ex. 8.49a) may have further significance, for the flattened seventh degree of the scale briefly suggests some archaic mode, presumably the Mixolydian. Archaism is more explicit elsewhere, in the canonic songs and in those written chorale-style, with large note values. Other songs contain references to antique choral polyphony. In no. 41 (Ps. 148) these include cantus-firmus–like octaves in the bass and oldfashioned suspensions in the melody, and Bach’s tempo mark Allabreve makes explicit the emulation of an old-fashioned choral fugue ($ex. 8.51). Possibly the text—“Preis sei dem Gotte Zebaoth” (Praise to the God of hosts)— brought to Bach’s mind choral music from earlier in the century. The Gellert Songs had been entirely contemporary in style, but the heterogeneity of the Cramer Psalms, not to mention the biblical source of their texts, perhaps made references to historical styles seem appropriate. A full-fledged fugue, as at the end of the Magnificat or the Keyboard Pieces of Various Types, would have had no place here, but this penultimate song in the volume is clearly retrospective in outlook. The “cantus firmus” in the bass (mm. 1–4) is in fact the B–A–C–H motive, played in whole-note octaves, then heard in retrograde in smaller note values within the melody (mm. 5–6, 7–8).109 For Bach’s public, these and other references to the archaic would have evoked less Sebastian’s choral works than Handel’s, which Emanuel had praised in a letter of 1769 to Kirnberger. These were being performed with some regularity in Hamburg during the 1770s; the present song faintly echoes passages from Handel’s Funeral Anthem ($ex. 8.52).110 To sign such music with the Bach name was not merely a way of appropriating a foreign style. It signified Bach’s claim to historical significance as heir to the previous generation and as a master of all the musical styles, contemporary and archaic, taken up in the Cramer Psalms.

The Sturm Songs On the whole, the Cramer Psalms are less successful as songs than as demonstrations of Bach’s ability to write in diverse styles, using various techniques. Perhaps recognizing this, in the two volumes of Sturm Songs (W. 197–98), Bach returned to the regular song style of the Gellert collection. Unlike Gellert and Cramer, whom Bach is not known to have met, Christoph Christian Sturm was

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berlin and after 175 effectively a colleague, chief pastor at Hamburg’s Church of Saint Peter when Bach’s songs came out in 1780 and 1781. Sturm is shown seated in the drawing by Stöttrup, engaged in lively conversation with Bach as Stöttrup himself executes their portraits. An illustration reproduced on the title pages of both volumes of songs incorporates Stöttrup’s double portrait bust of Bach and Sturm, borne by putti high above the city of Hamburg.111 The personal acquaintance of the composer and the preacher is thus assured, but whether their collaboration merited the almost divine adulation suggested by the picture has tended to be doubted by commentators. Some of the songs certainly were heard often at Hamburg. A local reviewer encouraged Bach to incorporate his Sturm settings into his music for the local churches; this was hardly an original suggestion, having been made previously of the Cramer Psalms, but the composer obliged by incorporating choral arrangements of at least fifteen of the Sturm Songs into larger church pieces.112 It has been suggested that Sturm himself “launched” or influenced the review, as Bach certainly did others; savvy manipulation of the local press might well have been an aspect of what Berg calls their “true collaborative effort.”113 Today, influencing a newspaper review in this way looks unseemly if not corrupt, but it was evidently acceptable in a city where even a church organist had been expected to purchase his office.114 Bach took most of his texts, including all of those published in volume 1, from a book of poetry that Sturm published shortly before Bach’s own collection.115 Sturm was known as a “physico-theologian,” a proponent of using the contemplation of nature as a form of devotion—hence the frequent nature imagery in his poetry. Like Gellert, he wrote most of the poems set by Bach as metrical parodies of existing hymn texts, suggesting that they be sung to traditional chorale melodies.116 As in the Gellert Songs, Bach avoids any obvious reference to those tunes, although a few songs incorporate phrases from other chorales. Thus, when Sturm quotes the line “Give us this day our daily bread,” Bach borrows a phrase from the chorale melody “Vater unser” (“Our father,” in W. 198/17). This, however, is as close as Bach comes to the poets’ penchant for incorporating bible quotes into their texts. Sturm advertised Bach’s settings to those favoring “simple but heartening” melody,117 and indeed there are more songs with brisk, catchy tunes here than in Bach’s previous collections. This likely reflected not not only the composer’s interest at this time in what Youngren calls folk-style songs, but also the simpler character of Sturm’s verses. A good example is no. 10 of the second set, “Fröhliche Erwartung der Auferstehung” (Joyful Expectation of the Resurrection), whose short lines and tiny eight-measure setting seem a trivial response to its theme. Perhaps this was the point, but would either the aging poet or composer really laugh off death, as this song seems to encourage? A few items approach chorale style,118 but the canons and figured-bass chorales of the Cramer set are absent. There are, however, several long and very

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serious contemplations of death and mortality, as well as a few settings that allude to choral or orchestral style, though never as blatantly as in the Cramer Psalms, nor with as difficult or complex a keyboard accompaniment. Bach evidently expected purchasers of these volumes to be less sophisticated musically than those who bought his previous ones. Barely two years after his arrival in Hamburg, Bach had expressed his disdain for the musical cultivation of the populace: “There are not many amateurs [i.e., music lovers] here, and very few connoisseurs. There is no taste here.”119 This had not prevented him from publishing the Cramer Psalms five years later, but that project was entirely his own, published by subscription to a network of Bach’s correspondents. The Sturm volumes were issued and sold by the publisher Herold, and their lists of subscribers show a very large local contingent, many of them probably as interested in the poems as in the music. The Sturm Songs sold well enough for the first volume to be reprinted a year later, when the second volume also came out. The first volume attracted over a thousand subscribers, the second only about half as many. There are no obvious musical distinctions between the two volumes. A few common patterns emerge, such as the presence of a very serious song about the crucifixion in the penultimate place in each volume, which concludes with an expression of faith in a much lighter vein (bordering on the trivial in book 2). As with the Gellert songs, Bach followed his own order, although he preserved sequences of as many as eight items from Sturm’s 1780 book of poems. He clearly felt no obligation to compose Sturm’s entire volume; eleven poems were left out, including a series of songs for a widow, an orphan, and the like, which Bach presumably considered inappropriate for his purposes. Was it only Bach’s effort to appeal to popular taste that causes these songs to seem less original than earlier ones? They are certainly more accessible and predictable, avoiding the allusiveness and the harmonic misdirections that bring some of the Cramer songs close to the pieces for Kenner und Liebhaber, on which the composer continued to work as these came out. Sturm might have been a respected theologian, noted for his “nature religion,”120 but the poetry set by Bach is even less self-searching than that of Gellert and Cramer. Some of the music in these songs seems weak in a way that corresponds to the poetry, patched together out of familiar but inconsequential phrases. “Beschleunigung der Buße” (Increasing Penance, W. 197/12) is not unaffecting, yet musically it is little more than a pair of sequences, the first based on a formula that Bach would repeat a few years later in one of his last keyboard sonatas ($ex. 8.53).121 This treatment, which breaks the melody into brief four- or five-note figures, is well-suited only for the short lines 5–6 of each stanza; its use at the beginning of the song fragments the longer verses 1–3, hardly fitting the words in most stanzas and giving the music a hackneyed quality, as if composed hastily out of easy formulas. Indeed, the opening phrase had been heard much earlier at Hamburg, in the aria “Brich, mein Herz” from

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berlin and after 177 Handel’s Brockes-Passion, which Bach knew ($ex. 8.55).122 (For more on issues in Bach’s late songs, see 8.7.) Despite suggestions of compositional haste in the two volumes, there can be no denying the power of some of the more serious songs, especially those on the passion, in which Bach, characteristically, relied on inventive harmony and modulation. The passion songs, among others, are likely to have been composed with the expectation that they would be adapted for chorus, for by 1780 Bach had already incorporated at least two of the Cramer Psalms into larger church works. Most of the Sturm songs on the passion and related themes soon appeared in choral arrangements as movements within Bach’s church works, alongside adaptations of a few other songs as well. One of the first to be so used was the “Passionslied” from the second volume (Passion Song, W. 198/6). In this song, where Sturm’s thoughts turn to the resurrection (Erquickung) in the final stanza, Bach composed the latter separately: after four quiet strophes that hardly modulate beyond the subdominant, the fifth opens with a sudden modulation from the tonic F minor to the “sharper” realm of G minor ($ex. 8.58). The shock of the chromatic modulation—marked fortissimo—at the start of the fifth stanza is transformative after the four preceding statements of much darker music. This was one of four Sturm songs that Bach reused in his 1782 Saint Mark Passion. Another of these, “Jesus in Gethsemane” (W. 198/29), reverses the modulation of the “Passionslied,” sinking enharmonically near the center of each stanza from G minor to F minor and then to D-flat, a tritone away from the tonic. This expresses the “deathly agony” (Todesqual) mentioned at this point in the opening and closing stanzas; the tritone G–D♭ that represents the song’s tonal design is also the opening melodic interval of the vocal part, g′– c♯″ ($ex. 8.59). A third song, “Der Tag des Weltgerichts” (The Day of the Last Judgment, W. 197/13), is a dramatic representation of the end of the world in the form of an earthquake. The power of this song comes less from the musical symbolism of the first four lines, with their dotted accompaniment, than from the contrast between that and the refrain, “Gott! erbarm dich unser,” which ends each stanza. The refrain, sung piano in chorale style, ends the song with a quasi-plagal cadence in the minor. This would be an anachronism if a genuinely modal effect was intended—but surely the conclusion on a minor triad is meant to sound more abjectly penitent than a conventional plagal cadence ending on a major chord ($ex. 8.60). In the choral version (W. 230), the voices sing this phrase in octaves, alluding to the unison congregational singing of a litany, which was the model for Sturm’s poem. As effective as this type of ending is, it runs the risk of growing old when Bach repeats it within both volumes. Arguably, however, the bold stroke at the end of “Der Tag des Weltgerichts” does not simply repeat but rather complements the conclusion of the penultimate song of volume 1, “Über die Finsternis kurz vor dem Tode Jesu” (On the Darkness Shortly Before the Death

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of Jesus, W. 197/29). The latter is not at all what one might expect from the title; although two sudden outbursts (marked forte) represent the cries from the cross, the song is in a limpid G major, avoiding remote and sudden modulations. It ends, after another litany—three lines sung to a traditional Kyrie melody—on the dominant major (D), representing not the scene itself but the shock and penitence of those present ($ex. 8.61). Here and elsewhere in the Sturm Songs, Bach’s significant use of mode anticipates that of Schubert. In the “Neujahrslied” in the first set (New Year’s Song, W. 197/19), Bach went so far as to write two versions, one in A minor, the other almost identical, but in A major. Most of the thirteen stanzas are sung to the first setting, but the major-mode version is used for four strophes, including the last. The song thus ends more optimistically than it begins. Long notes sung on Jahr (year) and Tage (days) in the first stanza, and on Ewigkeit (eternity) in the last, constitute old-fashioned word painting ($ex. 8.62). But the song’s straightforward yet affecting modal antithesis sounds almost like that of “Der Lindenbaum” from Die Winterreise. Such simple yet powerful gestures were among the things that Bach’s younger contemporaries most admired in his late compositions. Mozart, too, was aiming for a new simplicity in works composed just a few years later, such as Die Zauberflöte and the Clarinet Quintet. Another late work, his song “Im Frühlingsanfang” K. 597, sets the same text as Bach’s “Der Frühling” (Springtime, W. 197/14). Bach’s song, as usual, incorporates familiar formulas, yet there is something utterly charming in the way a small early gesture toward the subdominant, in line 2, is echoed in intensified form just before the end (mm. 13–14 in $ex. 8.63a). There the voice climbs to its highest and (almost) longest note; in three of the six stanzas, this coincides with words relating to the poem’s themes of new life and song. Mozart’s setting, although similar in form, is simpler and more square in its literal restatements of the first phrase; the voice never rises above its initial high note ($ex. 8.63b). The opening and closing frames for the piano, although brief, give Mozart’s setting a monumentality that Bach’s lacks—but in a setting of such a modest poem, the absence of pretence in Bach’s song makes it arguably better.

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Chapter Nine

Leaving the Court Music Mainly for Concerts After Bach completed the Gellert Songs in 1758, he returned to the types of music he had been producing before the war—chiefly solo keyboard works, presumably because of a diminished need for concertos and other ensemble music. He would publish two major ensemble works during the war, the E-Minor Sinfonia and the E-Major Concerto, as well as the Oden of 1762, containing twenty songs, but only a few of the latter were new. He composed almost nothing new in 1761, but by then he must have been busy with volume 2 of the Versuch, which had been advertised in spring 1760 but was not published until probably late in the following year.1 In addition to updating existing compositions for publication, he seems also to have revised others that remained in manuscript, presumably for sale in that form or for eventual concert use.2 He may also have been anticipating, not without anxiety, the resumption of court life that would follow the end of the war. If so, he might have been glad, when the war did end and the king returned, that Frederick had diminished enthusiasm for music. The private royal concerts resumed, and with them Bach’s commutes to Potsdam, which he dreaded because travel on the rough roads exacerbated his gout.3 Yet the king’s reduced musical activities evidently allowed Bach to devote more time than before the war to his own work. The latter took several new turns as concert life resumed and Bach returned to active composing for the public. During the war, as other members of the royal Capelle left Berlin, Bach must have considered doing so as well. Indeed, the four months he and his family spent in Zerbst constituted a tactical retreat from life in the Prussian capital. His time in a provincial town under wartime occupation cannot have been very pleasant. Although Bach reportedly stayed there with the family of his colleague and pupil Fasch, he is unlikely to have wished to succeed the elder Fasch as Capellmeister to the reigning prince. The latter had made the mistake of providing hospitality to a French spy, providing Frederick with a pretext to seize his small state. After the prince’s flight from Zerbst,

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a position at his caretaker court would have held little interest for a royal Prussian chamber musician. A place more befitting Bach’s dignity was Hamburg, the chief trading center of northwest Germany and an independent city-state within the Holy Roman Empire. It is possible that, during his visit there in 1751, Bach had already reached some sort of informal understanding with the city authorities that they would consider him, when the time came, to succeed his godfather Telemann, who had been municipal director of music there since 1721. Telemann’s performance of Bach’s Easter music in 1756 might have served as a sort of virtual audition,4 directed approvingly by Telemann himself. But Telemann’s continued long life required Emanuel to remain at Berlin longer than anticipated, and in any case his release from his court position could hardly have been taken for granted. Bach himself might have been personally free to go, but his wife and children were Prussian subjects, and Hamburg would have risked a diplomatic faux pas by engaging him without his obtaining his dismissal from the king. Nevertheless, the time did come, and there is no reason to think that Emanuel encountered serious resistance when he “broached” his request to Frederick, after receiving a formal invitation from the Hamburg government.5 That Bach had to make a “repeated humble request,” as he put it, for his dismissal was not a complaint but a way of emphasizing the king’s high regard for him.6 The king, who followed musical events in Berlin outside the court, would have known of Bach’s contributions to the culture and prestige of his capital; when Friedemann arrived seven years later and played an organ recital at the Marienkirche, Frederick was able to judge him a “great organist” but no equal of his father.7 It is impossible to know how much sympathy Emanuel’s gout, which he evidently used as a pretext for his dismissal, would have earned him from the king, who suffered from the same ailment. That Princess Amalia, however, immediately named Emanuel her honorary Capellmeister suggests that there was no royal enmity; she is unlikely to have done this without her brother’s approval. Although Bach evidently expected to be in Hamburg by January 1768,8 his arrival there was delayed until March, supposedly due to harsh winter weather, and he did not begin his formal duties until April. It is understandable that NV lists no compositions from 1768. But the following year saw the completion of his largest vocal works to date, the Israelites oratorio and his first Hamburg passion, as well as a new concerto—the sumptuously scored W. 41, probably his first to include obbligato winds in its original version. Bach’s publications continued unbroken, with his own volumes, of one sort or another, coming out nearly every year. Although he wrote some of this music while still in Berlin, his heavy responsibilities at Hamburg as cantor and director of church music in the five principal churches did not prevent him from composing and publishing at a faster pace than ever. The

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leaving the court 181 inducement for doing so is plain; it has been estimated that Bach’s profit from sales of the first set of pieces for Kenner und Liebhaber was equal to his annual salary.9 Not every publication was as successful, but Bach’s publishing activity was more than a mere sideline. Concerts, too, must have brought in income while also serving as a marketing tool for his printed works, and in the commercial city of Hamburg such activity by the municipal music director was perfectly acceptable; Telemann had published music and presented concerts for almost half a century. Bach wasted no time in offering his first public performances during April 1768, just weeks after his arrival. Bach’s inclusion of keyboard concertos in these performances has been taken as an indication of his intention to introduce himself as a keyboard virtuoso to his new Hamburg public.10 In this he was evidently successful, yet soon after his arrival at Hamburg he was saying unkind things about the status of music there. Not only his remarks to Burney, who visited in 1772, but his letter written in 1769 to Kottowsky points to Bach’s quickly becoming disappointed or disillusioned by musical conditions in Hamburg.11 Possibly these comments reflected transient irritations or illness, such as that suffered by Bach during the winter of 1772. Yet it may be that neither performance standards nor the musical sophistication of the public reached the level to which he had been accustomed at Berlin. Possibly Bach, like his father, expected more than was reasonable of ordinary mortals; Burney suggested that Berlin, too, eventually became a disappointment. Bach nevertheless maintained his prolific output right through his final year. A decade earlier, however, in 1762, as the war dragged on, Bach could hardly have been confident that within six years he would enter a new position with responsibilities for sacred vocal music. During the succeeding years he completed only a few small vocal compositions while producing many more pieces for solo keyboard and, probably, for public concerts. Among the latter were two series of compositions that represented new ventures: four impressive trios for obbligato keyboard with violin, and a dozen ensemble sonatinas. Although neither series would be continued, in composing them Bach continued his recent pattern of focusing for a relatively brief period on a distinctive group or type of compositions. The latter might be the basis for an innovative publication, such as the Gellert Songs or the Reprise Sonatas, or they might provide repertory for a series of concerts. He would continue working in this manner at Hamburg. This, like his eventual turn to vocal music, marked a fundamental change in his output. Bach’s work during his first two decades at Berlin can be summarized as a search for ways to make the keyboard sonata and the keyboard concerto his own—vehicles not only for instruction and virtuoso display but also for expression and drama. No equally simple formulation can characterize his output as he made the transition to Hamburg; by the 1760s he was involved in too many different types of music. Only some of these reflected entirely

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original musical thinking; the ensemble sonatinas, for example, although novel in design, were probably never intended to be serious compositions, as Bach in effect admitted. If one had to summarize his achievement as a composer during his last two or three decades, one might point to his incorporation of what has been called “fantasy” into received forms. He did compose a small number of actual fantasias, but more importantly his sonatas, concertos, sinfonias, and even arias and choruses became more expressive, dramatic, or witty through the incorporation of the chromatic harmony, remote modulation, and rhythmic fragmentation for which he is famous.12 In addition, he now routinely integrated the individual movements of a sonata, sinfonia, or other work into a larger whole. Bach had been doing this to some degree since the 1740s, in works like the sonatas W. 65/16 and 65/17. But only in certain Hamburg compositions does he seem to have elevated “fantasy” to a fundamental principle, particularly in the justly famous sets of concertos, sinfonias, and solo keyboard works that he published there. After 1768, sacred vocal music must have occupied more of his time than anything else, and at the end of his life Bach seems to have regarded his Resurrection Cantata, the double-chorus Heilig, and one or two other choral works as the music by which he most wished to be remembered. Yet to the very end he continued to produce substantial numbers of instrumental compositions, and in considering the work of his last thirty years one must wonder whether the latter were not in fact his most impressive and original achievements of these years. The present chapter picks up the survey of Bach’s instrumental music where it left off at the end of chapter 7. During the 1760s, Bach’s output of new instrumental compositions, which had fallen gradually during the war, recovered afterward, only to fall again once he left Berlin. The steady production of sonatas and concertos came to an end, and only with the six concertos of 1771 did Bach again devote sustained attention to the genre that had previously been his chief public vehicle. Thereafter, although a few years saw renewed interest in sonatas, other types of keyboard music, especially the rondos and fantasias published in the collections for Kenner und Liebhaber, now received greater, if not exactly steady, attention. Two years saw the production of all ten Hamburg sinfonias (1773 and 1776), overlapping with the thirteen keyboard trios (1776–77). (9.1 provides an overview of Bach’s work from 1762 onward.) Most of these works were composed either on commision or as specific publishing ventures. A few earlier groups of works, notably the trios and ensemble sonatinas from the postwar years, were probably composed for Bach’s own concert performances. Unfortunately, his concert activity at Berlin is recorded only in scattered references in memoirs and other documents. Late in life Bach described the C-Minor Concerto W. 31 as “formerly one of my Paradörs,” presumably meaning a concert showpiece, and he

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leaving the court 183 mentioned being “accompanied . . . several times at court” by his colleague Franz Benda in a “trio.”13 The latter may well have been one of the four large works of 1763 for obbligato keyboard and violin. The idea of the violinist accompanying the keyboard now seems backward, but it was the normal way of understanding such works in the later eighteenth century, when the keyboard took the leading part. This was especially true in the newer type of trio represented by Bach’s three Hamburg sets (W. 89, 90, and 91), which really comprise solo keyboard pieces with entirely subsidiary, even optional, accompanying parts (violin and cello). Bach’s reference to performing “at court” also requires glossing. Although it could mean a private concert for the king, it more likely refers to one of many public performances that the queen and other members of the royal family sponsored on a regular basis. Notices of these and other concerts appeared with increasing frequency after 1750 in newspapers in Berlin and other German cities. Although these provide few details about repertory or who performed, it is clear that modern musical life as we know it was beginning to emerge. Not until Bach’s departure does Berlin appear to have seen regular professional concerts in public places that were advertised, paid for, and reviewed more or less as they are today. But such performances were already common at Hamburg by the time Bach arrived there. Private concerts by and for the wealthy also continued in both places—some perhaps open to the public—as did performances under the auspices of musical clubs and “academies.” A few of Bach’s concertos can be connected to specific concert performances at Hamburg. But we can only hazard a guess as to precisely which composition was performed when, for example, a report mentions a “concerto for the fortepiano”; even writers with a special interest in music, such as Burney, rarely specified exactly which instrumental works they heard.14 Already Bach’s concertos and sinfonias of the 1750s, with their somewhat broader gestures and simpler textures than works from the previous decade, look like music composed for public concerts. Yet when concert activity resumed after the war, Bach’s participation seems to have been somewhat different from before, involving fewer new keyboard concertos, although he might have been playing revised versions of older ones.15 In addition to concertos, however, he now composed ensemble sonatinas, a new type of work of which Bach produced twelve in all, beginning with five in 1762. That year also saw two new concertos and the “renovation” of at least one older one (W. 5), as well as Bach’s only sinfonia of the decade and his first since 1758. A unique product of the same year, perhaps also for concert use, was the harp sonata (W. 139), Bach’s only work of the sort and his penultimate solo with continuo.16 Clearly, he was preparing for a resumption of large-scale public music-making as the war wound down. He might have needed even more new music than originally anticipated, for the royal opera, after Graun’s death in 1759 and the king’s subsequent indifference, did not return to its prewar level of activity

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until after Bach’s departure in 1768. Concerts, including those in the newly opened Justinischer Garden, likely filled the gap for listeners and musicians.17 Even during the war, however, musical life in Berlin and Potsdam had not ground to a halt. Krause held concerts at his house in Potsdam in which even Quantz performed, and although Bach is not mentioned in this context, it would be surprising if he never participated—especially if the famous portrait gallery that he later maintained in his Hamburg residence was set up in emulation of Krause’s music room, decorated by the painter Christian Bernhard Rode.18 Burney later heard one of Bach’s ensemble sonatinas in a Hamburg performance organized in his honor by Ebeling and directed by Bach himself. The composer presumably played the solo part, although perhaps not on the fortepiano that we might expect today, for Burney describes the work as “an accompanied harpsichord sonatina.” It is unclear whether “several symphonies and detached airs” that Burney also mentions were separate pieces or merely movements of the sonatina. The event was probably typical of informal Hamburg concerts of this type, “executed . . . with a reasonable degree of accuracy” by a “band . . . not in such constant practice as to be under exact discipline”—that is, an ad hoc group of mixed professionals and amateurs.19 In all likelihood a similar ensemble read through Bach’s four Orchestral Sinfonias (W. 183) four years later, in a gathering involving some forty players that was described as the largest ensemble seen in Hamburg for some time.20 Any doubt that at least some of Bach’s Berlin concertos were performed publicly is dispelled by the fact that “Clavier-Concerten” were the focus of his first public concert in Hamburg, on April 28, 1768. These were mixed with vocal works, and a week later “musical pieces on the harpsichord [Flügel]” were heard along with a setting of Ramler’s Ino, most likely Telemann’s.21 Bach had not completed any new keyboard concertos since 1763, but he had no shortage of older works to draw on. He would not have had to write out a keyboard adaptation of the solo part in either of the two oboe concertos of 1765, but neither of those would have been a particularly impressive work in which to make his Hamburg debut as a soloist.22 Hamburg’s tradition of public concerts went back at least to Telemann’s early days in the city. As elsewhere, these concerts typically combined vocal and instrumental music, most of it recently composed; visiting virtuosos, both vocal and instrumental, were often featured. It may have been Bach who introduced the novelty of programming older compositions, including his father’s, in a series specially devoted to earlier works. The famous 1786 concert combining his own works with selections from the B-Minor Mass and Handel’s Messiah was one of these. That concert comprised only vocal and orchestral works, but many programs also included keyboard solos and chamber music, such as the “trio for clavier” performed on April 6, 1778, perhaps one of the four accompanied keyboard sonatas published the previous year (W. 91).23

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leaving the court 185 The repertory was hardly confined to Bach’s music. Oratorios and other large works by Graun, Agricola, and other north-German (but not Viennese) composers were heard frequently, as was Handel’s Messiah. Bach’s were not the only concerts of this type taking place in Hamburg; by 1770 the music seller Johann Christian Westphal was also offering programs of similar repertory, including works by Bach.24 Instrumental music played a secondary role in Emanuel’s public concerts; oratorios, however, were heard regularly (both his own and Telemann’s), and when Bach performed concertos during such programs he was emulating a practice that Handel had followed as recently as the late 1750s in London. Bach’s concerts were given in various places, including the city Drillhaus, originally intended for the exercises of the city militia but used regularly by Telemann as a concert hall; and at the Handlungsakademie, a private business school founded in the year of Bach’s arrival by Johann Georg Büsch.25 Bach also led performances at the city’s Masonic hall; Bach himself is not known to have been a Freemason, but his friends Lessing and Klopstock were, and during his last year he contributed fourteen compositions to a collection of Masonic songs (W. 202N). Bach’s concerts appear to have been more important than his official duties, insofar as his creative work is concerned. It was here, not in church, that his “masterworks” and “swan songs,” as he called them, were heard. These concerts must have involved considerable logistical effort, including not only the composition or revision of the music itself but preparation of parts and engagement of musicians. One thing that these performances probably did not involve was a great deal of rehearsal; the public reading of Bach’s Orchestral Sinfonias was likely the only rehearsal they received, and it would not have been atypical of the period for concerts to be given without any rehearsal at all, especially for frequently performed works such as Bach’s and Telemann’s oratorios. Nevertheless, simply preparing the music for such occasions would have been a substantial clerical operation, involving the copying or updating of numerous manuscript parts not only for Bach’s own works but those of other composers. A famous example is provided by the Credo in the autograph score of his father’s B-Minor Mass, for which Emanuel not only added basso continuo figures but provided his own readings for several “difficult” passages; he also composed a brief instrumental “Introduction” (Einleitung), H. 848. These changes are usually mentioned in connection with the 1786 concert, but it appears that his performing versions not only of the Credo but of the Handel works on that program had actually been prepared for some previous occasion.26

Later Trios The typical Berlin concert of the 1760s may have been more modest in setting and perhaps more focused on instrumental pieces than the events that Bach

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later directed at Hamburg. But Berlin saw at least some grand concerts of the latter type, and these occasionally featured sacred works, as in the famous performance of Graun’s oratorio Der Tod Jesu in 1755, for which Bach played continuo. That performance, however, like the premiere of Graun’s Te Deum two years later, took place in a church, somewhat blurring the distinction between service and concert music. The more modest concerts held in the homes of musicians such as Janitsch and Agricola probably featured trios and concertos, both likely played by a single musician on each part. Surviving music collections such as the Thulemeier manuscripts, which probably represent the repertory heard on such occasions, are rich in works of both types, including trios in which one of the upper parts was played by the keyboardist, as when Benda “accompanied” Bach. Bach continued to produce trios of this sort until the end of his Berlin period but, as with the concerto, the character of his output changed after 1750. There had been no exact precedent for the long, conversational type of trio sonata that Bach wrote at Leipzig and in the early years at Berlin. Although less exciting than his keyboard sonatas and concertos of the same period, these trios had greater pretensions than the relatively short, sometimes entertaining or playful trio sonatas of Telemann or Quantz. Only with composers closer to Emanuel’s own age does one find trios comparable in dimensions to works such as W. 145 in D minor. Gottlieb Graun, in particular, composed many large trios whose virtuoso parts for violin and, occasionally, viola or viola da gamba would have been suitable for professional players in concert settings.27 Only a few of Bach’s trios, notably the Program Trio and the E-major trio for two flutes, both from 1749, approach Graun’s more virtuoso works in their technical demands. He never repeated the experiment of the Program Trio, with its metaphorical dialogue between the two violins. Yet the latter was not quickly forgotten after its publication in 1751,28 and the underlying musical idea recurs in subsequent works. Among these are one or two of Bach’s keyboard-and-violin trios of 1763, as well as a more or less contemporary work in G major by Gottlieb Graun, one of two trios by the latter that Bach selected for publication in the Musikalisches Vielerley.29 Although it is not one of Graun’s many trios that survive in obbligato-keyboard versions, there is nothing in it that would have prevented ad hoc performance in that manner, and it is tempting to imagine Bach joining Graun in concert performances of the work on violin and obbligato keyboard. Only in his four trios of 1763 did Bach again take up the trio with complete seriousness, however, even if some of the trios of the previous decade were also conceived as concert pieces. (On Bach’s other trios after 1750, see 9.2.) The new works, together with two other late obbligato-keyboard trios—W. 88 for viola and W. 87 for flute—represented something of a rethinking of the genre. They do not substantially anticipate the later accompanied-keyboard type of trio; all remain traditional trios as Bach and his contemporaries understood the term, with essential parts for both players. Except in the final work, with

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leaving the court 187 flute, there even remain brief passages with figured bass, where the upper staff of the keyboard has no part of its own.30 Where these differ from Bach’s earlier trios is in the increased flexibility with which he handles texture and material. The two upper parts still share most material equally, whether in imitation or alternation, but the keyboard occasionally emerges as the primary instrument. Thus, in the outer movements of the first of these sonatas, W. 75 in F, the climactic passages (mm. 45–46 and 75–79, respectively) involve keyboard figuration accompanied by the violin. Equally soloistic writing for the violin is absent, although in the slow movement of the C-Minor Sonata (W. 78) the string instrument is favored instead with sustained melodic writing. Yet, even if the keyboard is slightly predominant over the violin in these sonatas, the two parts are equally challenging, particularly in the B-Minor Sonata (W. 76), whose first movement ends with both players furiously executing keyboard-style passagework. Here the violinist might complain, as Reichardt did later, of difficulties that Reichardt traced to Bach’s insufficient understanding of string instruments ($ex. 9.1).31 Perhaps Bach had been spoiled by performing with court virtuosos such as Benda and Gottlieb Graun—the latter being a candidate, alongside Benda, for Bach’s performing partner in W. 76, which opens with the same theme as a sinfonia in the same key attributed to him or his brother.32 Could Bach have considered the trios of 1763 for publication? All are in different keys, evenly distributed between major and minor, and their demonstration of the variety possible within a given type of composition would have been consistent with that seen in the Gellert Appendix of 1764 and the Keyboard Pieces of Various Types from the following year. Three of the works open with conventional imitative or rather “duologuing” movements in sonata form, but these range in character from a perky Allegro di molto in B-flat (W. 77) to the sober Allegro moderato in C minor (W. 78).33 The opening movement of the B-Minor Sonata is a more intense dialogue of the type now sometimes described as a sonata “in concerto style” (auf Concertenart) but at the time probably understood as one “with two themes” (see chap. 5). Bach extends the idea to the slow movement in W. 78, although the basic concept there, of a sustained violin melody entering after the keyboard has begun the movement with more active figuration, came from Sebastian’s Sonata in F minor ($ex. 9.2). Emanuel’s slow movement, incidentally, is the only one in these four trios that actually emulates the form of an aria or of a movement in a concerto: the keyboard introduction serves as a ritornello, framing the violin entries at beginning and end and also within the movement, which follows Bach’s usual form for a through-composed concerto movement. In the first movement of the B-Minor Sonata Bach returned to the dialogue format used in the Leipzig trios BWV 1020 and 1031, in which he might have had a hand. None of these works resembles an actual concerto any more closely than does their alleged model, Quantz’s Trio in E-flat QV 2:18. In each case it

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is the opening keyboard solo—the supposed equivalent of a ritornello—that constitutes the virtuoso element; the other instrument answers with a cantabile theme (ex. 9.3). The nearly unbroken thirty-seconds of the keyboard in the opening passage of Bach’s B-Minor Sonata make the debate more visceral than earlier ones of this type, although the violin’s gradual assimilation to the keyboard part gives the opening movement a profile reminiscent of the Program Trio. The process here, however, takes place within a single tempo and meter, even if the two parts initially play in very different styles. The violin tentatively begins to take up the keyboard figuration about a quarter of the way through (m. 33), but only around the halfway point (m. 59) does it begin to exchange whole measures of passagework with the keyboard. The debate continues to intensify until shortly before the end, when both players join in simultaneous passagework for three unbroken measures (mm. 119–21; see $ex. 9.1). This appears, incidentally, to be the only instance of such a “reconciliation” in a Berlin trio with two themes, apart from Bach’s Program Trio—and there the phlegmatic violinist is won over by the more spirited keyboard player only in the course of the second movement.34 (9.3 discusses further movements from the four violin-and-keyboard trios of 1763.)

Ensemble Sonatinas The period in which Bach produced his four last keyboard-and-violin trios also saw the composition of twelve ensemble sonatinas. These singular compositions must have been a response to the end of the war and the renewal of Berlin’s concert life. Yet where and by whom they were performed, what gave Bach the idea for them, and even why he called them sonatinas are all unanswered questions. The sonatinas nevertheless were his chief focus as a composer for a brief time, comprising the greatest portion of his new music during 1762–64. Although he thereafter wrote no more and spoke disparagingly of them to the poet Claudius, he continued performing them at Hamburg, and revised versions survive that he almost certainly prepared there.35 Their musical significance seems slim compared to the labor that must have been involved in preparing the performing parts and assembling the musicians needed to play these sometimes opulently scored works. At the very least, however, they provided Bach with experience in combining solo keyboard with the colorful ensembles of mixed winds and strings whose use would become routine in his vocal as well as instrumental works at Hamburg. As relatively simple and unabashedly popular compositions for instrumental ensemble, the sonatinas had a precedent of sorts in the little pieces for two instruments and keyboard that Bach had published in 1758 (W. 81). A second series (W. 82) came out in 1769, and many movements in the ensemble sonatinas are not very remote in conception from these harmless little dances and

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Example 9.3. Sonata in B Minor for keyboard and violin, W. 76, movement 1, mm. 1–12

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other pieces. But whereas NV counts W. 81 and 82 among the trios, it places the ensemble sonatinas in a category of their own. Although their scoring for solo keyboard and ensemble resembles that of a concerto, it was misleading for Helm to list the sonatinas among the concertos, for they are entirely distinct. Bach’s concertos are grand, formal pieces for sophisticated players and listeners. The sonatinas presuppose fairly accomplished soloists, but they are less demanding musically and technically than his concertos, more relaxed in tone and invoking no high expressive aspirations or requiring concentrated attention: instead of following a complicated argument between tutti and soloist, the listener is entertained by elegant melodic embellishment and variegated instrumental sonorities. Nearly every one of Bach’s concertos comprises three through-composed movements in some variety of ritornello form, with complex, irregular phrasing. The sonatinas reveal no such uniformity, consisting of varying numbers of movements, most of them simple binary forms constructed out of a few regular periods, each section typically repeated (sometimes multiple times) with varied reprises. A general resemblance of the sonatinas to certain types of Viennese instrumental music of the period has been noted.36 Bach’s later trios for keyboard and winds (W. 92) and quartets for keyboard, flute, and viola (W. 93–95) have something in common with them as well. But if any earlier music provided specific suggestions to Bach, it might have been works like Rameau’s Pièces de clavecin en concerts, which are character pieces for keyboard joined by subsidiary parts for flute and gamba—although Bach probably would never have admitted to being influenced by Rameau. Another inducement for these works might have been Bach’s acquisition around this time of a new instrument, recognizable by the extended upward compass to f‴ that occurs in his keyboard music from 1762 onward.37 If, as seems likely, this instrument was a piano, the sonatinas might have been designed deliberately to explore the use of its sonorities in combination with other instruments. The same keyboard instrument was likely used in the trios with violin, in view of their passages that include closely spaced dynamic markings, or which require sustained playing in the upper register (especially in slow movements). Neither type of passage is idiomatic to the harpsichord, with its inflexible dynamics and evanescent tone.38 The combination of solo piano with obbligato flute in some of the sonatinas would have been a particularly charming novelty; the still relatively quiet sound of the mid-eighteenth-century piano would have been one reason for the frequent pizzicato and muted playing by the strings. Many movements in the sonatinas are arrangements of previously composed pieces, most for solo keyboard but several from the little trio movements of 1758 (W. 81). At least some of the sonatinas survive in multiple versions that usually differ in the amount of decoration in the keyboard part, which Bach characteristically ornamented by adding embellishments and varied reprises. But whereas the many sonatas and concertos that underwent similar revision

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leaving the court 191 were already significant compositions in their original forms, the whole substance of most of the sinfonias is essentially that of a few petites pièces, expanded by written-out melodic ornament and lush instrumentation. For instance, the autograph full score of the sixth work (W. 110), which includes two solo keyboard parts, is that of a massive composition occupying twelve densely written leaves. Yet it survives in a simpler form that occupies just six not very full pages, with a single keyboard part.39 This reveals the work to comprise essentially just two short binary-form movements framing a simple rondo. Therein lies a clue to Bach’s use of the term sonatina, which he also applied to six early solo keyboard sonatas (W. 64) and also, probably, to the supplementary Probestücke composed near the end of his life. All are relatively short, but what probably suggested using the diminutive form of the word sonata was their lack of seriousness, their construction out of simple periodic phrases, and their limited expressive palate. These were apparently elements of what Bach called the “comic” style, discussed below. Simplicity in structure if not in the melodic surface is the watchword here, and this meant avoiding not only remote modulations and chromatic progressions but also the sequential solo passagework that was expected in the quick movements of a concerto. In the sonatinas, most of the figuration rather comprises variations of the dance-like periodic themes of these pieces. Discounting alternate versions, we have an even dozen of these pieces, including two with two solo parts (see 9.4 for a list of the sonatinas). Bach published three of these works, albeit in simple forms that were later expanded by the addition of further melodic embellishment and by two horns, joining the original flutes and strings. The fact that Bach could publish three such works within as many years suggests that they generated considerable public interest.40 Although shorter than a typical concerto, each comprised a greater number of individual parts and could not have been cheap to produce or to buy. Clearly, however, they were novelties that proved attractive to the types of audiences that were attending concerts in postwar Berlin (and perhaps in Hamburg as well). The use of two soloists would have been an additional novelty, but after trying it out in one of the earliest of these pieces, Bach wrote no more of this type after no. 6, his first effort of 1763. Friedrich Wilhelm Rust was in Berlin and Potsdam from July of that year until the following April; could he have been Bach’s partner in the piece’s premiere? The ensemble sonatinas have been described as falling into two groups of six works: in one group, each sonatina comprises two movements, in the other three.41 Some of the individual movements, however, incorporate two or even three self-contained pieces that alternate according to some scheme. Moreover, the twelve works can also be divided based on the degree to which they comprise original as opposed to reworked material. Bach seems, on the whole, to have taken the three-movement works more seriously. Whereas the two-movement ones consist largely of arrangements from previously existing keyboard

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pieces, the three-movement ones were mainly new. Both types corresponded to fashionable varieties of multimovement composition. The three-movement ones follow the sequence slow–fast–dance, used at Berlin for chamber sonatas since the 1730s. Those in two movements recall the sonatas and concertos without slow movements that J. C. Bach and others of his generation began publishing during the same decade. Bach published only three-movement sonatinas, all consisting entirely of new material. The first of Bach’s sonatinas, although in two movements, was nevertheless entirely original. Perhaps his first thoughts for the series did not include adaptations of little keyboard pieces. As in a concerto, however, the music could have been sketched or drafted on just one or two staves, like a keyboard solo, and the first sonatina is one of four (nos. 1, 3, 5, 10) that include self-contained subsections—in effect, movements within movements—for the soloist alone. Bach probably knew that some of Handel’s organ concertos contained movements in binary form that are essentially independent keyboard solos, with minimal orchestral accompaniment. Bach would have appreciated the usefulness of incorporating such solos into his sonatinas, which became, in effect, little self-contained concert programs comprising light solo as well as ensemble music. To be sure, Emanuel was disdainful of Handel’s failure to employ organ pedals,42 and he would have disparaged as “comic” the two-movement forms in the first three of his brother Christian’s opus 1 concertos, published in 1763. Not only do these lack slow movements, but each closes with a light minuet, leaving but a single movement of any substance. Yet a similar design was evidently acceptable in Emanuel’s sonatinas, given their limited pretensions. Limited expressive aspirations are evident as well, especially in the rarity of the minor mode, which occurs only in a few inner sections and the opening movement of no. 11, listed as being in D minor but otherwise in F major. With the second sonatina, although still following an expanded two-movement design, Bach established the alternative model of dividing the work between newly composed material and matter arranged from existing keyboard music. Yet in none of the ensuing works did he follow a regular routine. The second sonatina was one of the two that involves a second solo keyboard instrument, but as in Emanuel’s early double concerto (W. 46 of 1740) the presence of two soloists had no substantial ramifications for form or style. The uniquely heavy scoring with trumpets, drums, and oboes reflects the symphonic manner of the opening Presto—one of the two newly composed segments of the work.43 Yet subsequent sections derived from existing compositions were, as in most of the sonatinas, adaptations of simple keyboard pieces. One arranged movement in a later sonatina, however, was a substantial sonata movement, and at least three others are character pieces named for members of Bach’s circle—who might have been present at the first performances, if they had not

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leaving the court 193 commissioned them.44 Three of the last five sonatinas were entirely new compositions—these are the ones that Bach published—but the other two were the only ones made up entirely of arrangements. Bach’s adaptations ranged from straightforward orchestration to substantial rewriting of the original keyboard pieces, including the insertion of new matter. Probably the least interesting of the works are those that merely add orchestral color and varied reprises, as in Sonatina 9 and the first movement of no. 10—both of which will seem unduly extended to any listener who is not ravished by the elegant sonority and embellishment. Yet it is Sonatina 10 that closes with a revised version of a meaty sonata movement, expanded to include expressive keyboard solos in both halves. It has been proposed that the published versions of Sonatinas 8, 11, and 12 were intended for amateurs, whereas their more highly embellished versions, probably created at Hamburg, were for Bach’s own use in public concerts.45 It is difficult, however, to maintain any such distinction through all twelve sonatinas. A note on the autograph title page for Sonatina 2 indicates that “only Mme. Zernitz and Herr Levi in Berlin have this sonatina”—suggesting that two accomplished (and well-heeled) musical amateurs gave private performances of this lavishly scored work, as Sara Levy would presumably do for the similarly opulent double concertos of both Friedemann and Emanuel.46 Some of Bach’s changes in the later version of Sonatina 11, presumably for Hamburg, suggest that he could not count on capable flute players there; several solos originally for the first flute are reassigned to the keyboard, and an octave doubling of the violin that took the flute up to f‴ was removed. Bach himself would probably never have performed the solo parts of these works in the simple forms found in the earliest surviving versions. Rather, he would have “varied” these, and part of the attraction of attending his performances of these works would have been the opportunity of hearing his improvised embellishments. Amateur string and wind players might have performed alongside him, accompanying him just as amateur violinists and cellists would accompany the keyboard player in his later keyboard trios. What appear to have been Bach’s own marked performance parts confirm that these works remained in his concert repertory after his move to Hamburg. In principle, creating the sonatinas out of existing keyboard pieces involved nothing that Bach had not already done. A number of earlier trios and possibly even the E-Minor Sinfonia had incorporated movements first composed as “little pieces” for solo keyboard. Bach had been adding varied reprises to his keyboard music for far longer. Still, to make character pieces and variations the basis of works for a large ensemble, as they were in at least five of the sonatinas, was something new. The choral arrangements that he would make at Hamburg out of his songs would extend to vocal music the principle of creating expanded “public” versions of short chamber compositions.

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With their schematic construction and somewhat neutral, decorative manner, the ensemble sonatinas are the clearest expression in Bach’s output of what has been termed “Berlin classicism.”47 The products of this school or style are not particularly close to the Viennese Classical style, which was really a preRomantic style. They are better understood as representing an older, Arcadian sort of classicism, with their emphasis on symmetrical designs and elegant rather than passionate expression. Graun’s Tod Jesu exemplifies the style in its restrained, orderly expression of what might have been intense passions, now sublimated within the geometric forms of opera seria. Today Christian Bach is the best-known exemplar of this style, which is also heard in a type of simple, melodic slow movement, ungraced by the formerly fashionable galant ornamental figures. Such movements occur in Berlin sonatas and concertos from after 1750, including certain late works of Friedemann Bach.48 The slow movement of Quantz’s fragmentary last flute concerto, completed by the king himself, provides a particularly poignant example. Although Emanuel is unlikely to have known it—Quantz died after Bach had left Berlin—the opening of its slow movement is not very different from that of the Largo mesto in Bach’s first oboe concerto ($ex. 9.8).49 For Bach, adopting such a style was a retreat from his adventurous work of the 1740s, even if he enlivens it in his sonatinas with touches of humor—for which, however, he found it necessary to apologize as concessions to a “comic” style. That Bach had second thoughts about the sonatinas, at least after moving to Hamburg, emerges from his conversation there with Claudius, in which he criticized “the new comic music” for “filling the ear but leaving the heart empty.”50 During the same period Bach named Galuppi as “one of the greatest living masters in the comic style.”51 He repeated as much to Lessing, who claimed that according to Bach the adagio was completely banned in this style.52 Exactly what works Bach had heard by Galuppi is unclear; he is not known to have owned any.53 Bach, however, had met the Venetian composer when he visited Berlin in 1764 or 1765, and although he seems to have had a favorable view of the man personally, he cannot have been terribly impressed by his music. It would not have helped that Galuppi’s compositions seem to have served, more than Emanuel’s own, as the principal model for the operas and instrumental music of Christian Bach. The few sinfonias and overtures by Galuppi available in modern editions, although short, do not consistently omit or even abbreviate the slow movement. Perhaps when Galuppi told Bach about the fashion for twomovement symphonies, he was referring to church sinfonias—a sort of prelude and fugue for orchestra—or to works by other composers, or to performances that omitted an existing slow movement. Slow movements were, however, one of Bach’s specialities; Fasch reportedly considered his performances of the adagio to have been rivaled only by those of Benda and King Frederick.54 The absence of an expressive slow movement would

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leaving the court 195 have struck Bach as a mark of an inferior composition, or at least one that was not to be taken seriously. Bach told Claudius that the king of Prussia “hates this music” but finds it everywhere, and Emanuel admitted that he had “allowed himself a little of this style”—but “only” a little—in his sonatinas. That Bach, even after leaving Berlin, found it worth mentioning what the king thought of these things may well reflect the fascination and esteem in which many northern Europeans held Frederick. But it also demonstrated royal assent for his own views, even if Bach in effect admitted that he was giving in to popular demand by composing music with “comic” elements. It is unlikely that the “comic,” for Bach, included the more sophisticated type of witty music that Haydn would soon be publishing at Vienna. Vienna would not have loomed nearly as large for Bach as it does for us; Venice, Paris, and London were all closer culturally to Berlin and Hamburg. The “comic” aspect of Bach’s sonatinas probably lay in their simple forms, untroubled harmony, and avoidance of slow or minor-mode movements, all features of the Arcadian classicism of Christian Bach’s generation. (9.6 considers several of the individual sonatinas in greater detail.) It was probably good for Bach’s reputation that only three of the later and more sophisticated sonatinas were widely disseminated, in printed form (nos. 8, 11, and 12). Most of the others survive in only a few manuscript copies. Lacking much musical substance, these reflect the somewhat empty formality and elegance of “Berlin classicism.” They nevertheless served Bach as experiments in new ways of ordering movements and combining instrumental sonorities, and a few (notably Sonatinas 3 and 5) link passages in inventive ways that anticipate Bach’s “new” modulation of the 1770s (see $ex. 9.10c). Although Bach wrote no more ensemble sonatinas after 1764, their echoes can be heard in his Hamburg instrumental works, many of which continued to borrow from what he called the “comic” style.

Later Concertos Although his production of new concertos was reduced, Bach continued to revise existing works during the 1750s and 1760s. Even during the 1740s, he had never completed more than a handful of such works during any one year.55 Each new concerto of Bach’s was therefore something of a special event, but after 1750 the task of writing such a composition does not seem to have inspired the outpouring of musical ideas that had led to works such as the E-minor and D-minor concertos of 1745 and 1748 (W. 15 and W. 23). All the more remarkable, then, is the fact that, three years after leaving Berlin, Bach issued a set of six concertos which, although ostensibly intended for amateurs, represented a significant rethinking of the genre.

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Concertos at Berlin Even if Bach’s concertos of the fifties and sixties are less intrinsically interesting than earlier (or later) ones, they did introduce some new wrinkles, especially with regard to instrumentation. Most obvious was his writing solo parts for instruments other than the keyboard, which had begun by 1744 but grew more important with the three cello concertos (W. 170–72) of 1750–53. All three exist in alternate versions for flute and for keyboard, which Bach possibly intended to create from the start, although the existing alternative settings may date from at least a decade later.56 Why or for whom Bach wrote the original versions is unknown, although one naturally suspects that they received concert performances from his colleague Ignaz Mara.57 Berlin saw an influx of cellists and cello music with the arrival of Graziani and Duport in the 1770s, but of Bach’s generation even Graun, himself a cellist, left only a single sonata and no known concertos. The future King Friedrich Wilhelm II, who played the instrument, was born in 1744, too early to have instigated these works. The keyboard versions of all three works (W. 26, 28, and 29) sound trite by comparison with the cello and flute versions. Bach of course adapted the solo parts, chiefly by adding a new layer of embellishment and reassigning the bass line to the soloist’s left hand. But traces of the original instrumentation remain in the distinctive scoring of some passages; for instance, viola rather than violin provides obbligato accompaniments in some of the cello solos, as in the first solo passage in W. 26. But the underlying assumptions about form and generic expectations are the same as in Bach’s keyboard concertos of the period— which is one reason Bach could arrange these by rewriting essentially just the solo part. The keyboard part of W. 29, incidentally, retains the cello’s closely spaced p and f markings in the slow movement, showing that, by the time of the arrangement, Bach assumed the use of a dynamically flexible instrument. Yet, as in the sonatinas, which likely date from the same time, much of the melodic variation is routine. In W. 28 what was originally exceptional—climactic figuration for unaccompanied cello—becomes ordinary when divided between two hands on the keyboard ($ex. 9.11).58 However colorless the keyboard adaptations of the solo part, the ritornellos in all three works—which are largely unchanged in all versions—reveal the same genuinely orchestral writing found in the D-major keyboard concerto W. 27, also of 1750, as well as common approaches to certain formal problems. Thus in the last movement of both W. 27 and W. 29, the soloist begins the final section or recapitulation after a tutti retransition that ends in a grand pause on the dominant.59 On the other hand, the first movement of W. 29 may be unique among Emanuel’s concertos in lacking a return; the main theme is not restated in the tonic until the closing ritornello, a design more typical of Friedemann Bach.60 All four works point toward Bach’s later orchestral compositions in the harmonic conception of the material, which consists largely

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leaving the court 197 of broken chords; the last movement of W. 28 has almost no melody at all, its most prominent motive being a simple repeated note ($ex. 9.12). Repeated sixteenths, whether in pairs, as in the opening theme of W. 26, or over a whole measure, as in W. 28, are among the simple but electrifying orchestral gestures invented by mid-eighteenth-century composers. Bach takes them up enthusiastically in these concertos and never abandons them. Equally striking is the diversity of texture, which can expand within just a few measures from two voices to the conventional three-part writing traditional in Italianate sinfonias and concertos. The opening ritornello of W. 29, after broadening to four real voices (m. 8), then contracts to what is essentially a single line (m. 11; see ex. 9.13). Notable too is the writing in just two parts that Bach uses throughout the ritornello of the slow movement in W. 29, without a continuo realization (ex. 9.14). He would return to this austere texture in the slow movements of many later concertos and sinfonias, tempering it, as here, with precisely indicated dynamics. These imply constantly varied “light and shade,” a feature presumably of the composer’s solo clavichord playing that he now extended to an entire string ensemble. Such dynamics, left unnotated in earlier ensemble music, required leadership by the soloist or principal violinist, foreshadowing the type of playing now associated with nineteenth-century orchestral music directed by an interpretive conductor. (For details on several of Bach’s later Berlin concertos that are worth examining, see 9.7.) If none of the dozen or so concertos that followed at Berlin generate the same visceral excitement as Bach’s best efforts of the 1740s, it could be because during the following decades the composer had no interest in repeating what he had achieved in earlier works. Yet during 1753–54 Bach again composed three successive keyboard concertos in minor keys; the second of these, in C minor (W. 31), rivals W. 23 for fire and expression while incorporating significant new ideas. The chief innovation here is in the second movement, which is cast as an instrumental equivalent of an operatic scena: in place of conventional solo episodes are instrumental recitatives for keyboard accompanied by strings. Bach had used a similar design ten years earlier in his First Prussian Sonata, but now he employs it in a longer and more complex movement that imitates accompanied rather than “simple” or secco recitative. Quantz, and perhaps Telemann, had previously incorporated accompanied recitative in a concerto, but this movement involves a greater number of contrasting sections and tonalities.61 It must have made a stunning effect in Bach’s performances, which were doubtless embellished with improvised variations similar to those which he eventually wrote out (ex. 9.21).62 The movement—in the key of A-flat so strangely favored by Bach—has a striking tonal design, incorporating remote modulations to D-flat minor and F-flat major.63 There is also a “subdominant recapitulation” (beginning in measure 58), in which the soloist abandons recitative style to restate much of the ritornello alone. When the strings reenter (m. 73), it is to begin a modulating

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Example 9.13. Concerto in A, W. 29, movement 1, mm. 1–12

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leaving the court 199 Example 9.14. Concerto in A, W. 29, movement 3, mm. 1–8

bridge to the final movement that alternates between presto tutti and adagio solo passages, recalling the Program Trio that Bach had published just two years previously. The first movement, although more conventional in form, is not only more impassioned than anything Bach had composed since W. 23; it is also motivically one of his most disciplined compositions. Much of it is developed out of the two motives stated in the opening measures by the violins, in alternation with viola and bass. The motivic discipline extends to the new theme introduced in the soloist’s first entrance, which is actually a decelerated version of the ritornello theme—reversing the dialogue in the first movement of the Program Trio, where “Sanguineus” repeats the initial trill motive of “Melancholicus” at double the opening tempo ($ex. 9.22). The final Allegretto opens as one of those elegiac types that, as in some sonatas of the 1740s, rounds out the work in a graceful, resigned way. The restrained affect is emphasized by the direction to the strings to leave on the mutes that they have been using through most of the second movement. Yet the solo passagework, initially in triplets (m. 49), later accelerates to sixteenths (m. 95). The mutes come off for a final exchange between soloist and tutti (m. 218), and the work ends not with the ritornello but with new music played fortissimo that draws on a dotted motive heard only briefly up to this point—a vivid departure from the usual anticlimactic restatement of the opening music. There are, in addition, some innovative details of scoring, such as octaves for the violins (later for violins and viola) on a chromatic line within the ritornello ($ex. 9.23). This is, then a concerto conceived from opening to close as an unconventional confrontation between soloist and ripieno. Although inspired by opera, it is a uniquely instrumental sort of drama whose design anticipates the integrated forms of Bach’s Hamburg concertos. Almost twenty years would pass, however, before Bach wrote anything as original in a concerto. The remaining Berlin examples are relatively conventional, only one of them—W. 37 of 1762, again in C minor—even aspiring to something like the expressive effect achieved in W. 31. The key seems to have interested Bach at this time; he renovated the early C-Minor Concerto W. 5 in the same year, and the C-Minor Trio W. 78 followed in 1763. Yet none of Bach’s Berlin concertos after W. 31 makes any significant formal innovations.64

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Example 9.21. Concerto in C Minor, W. 31, movement 2, (a) early version, mm. 17–22; (b) corresponding passage in late version, mm. 17–23

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leaving the court 201

Concertos at Hamburg During 1767, his last full year at Berlin, Bach composed a concerto “for keyboard alone,” as his autograph title indicates.65 Although he reworked it three years later as a conventional concerto for keyboard and strings (W. 42), he might have envisioned it originally for publication as a solo piece, like the Concerto in C that opened the Keyboard Pieces of Various Types, issued in 1765.66 Like the latter (W. 112/1), it is, apart from its solo scoring, an almost ostentatiously normal concerto. Each movement is in ritornello form, and the outer movements are replete with the arpeggiated motivic material and drum basses that were now standard in Bach’s orchestral writing. By 1770, when Bach created the ensemble version, he had already composed the more innovative Concerto in E-flat, W. 41, and the six works of the following year revealed a radical rethinking of the genre. Bach’s first Hamburg concerto, W. 41 was a rather special work probably designed for performance together with his Israelites oratorio of the same year (1769). It would have made a perfect instrumental prelude for the oratorio, which opens with a lamenting chorus in the relative minor (C minor).67 The scoring of W. 41 with flutes and horns is identical to that of the sonatinas; indeed, it is Bach’s only solo concerto to follow the latter in assigning essential melodic material to the woodwinds.68 Even the horns can be omitted from W. 41 only at the expense of some sustained notes marked piano and pianissimo, as well as other small contributions to the harmony that go beyond the traditional fanfare motives and rhythmic filler.69 Bach still omits the horns in the slow movement, but whereas he once trusted only the first violin to play an occasional duet with the soloist, now flutes, divided violas, and even horns also play brief obbligatos during solo episodes. In tutti passages, moreover, the two viola parts are treated as full members of the ensemble, often doubling or alternating with the flutes to present essential matter—as throughout the second movement, where the violins are limited to brief interjections of a secondary idea.70 These innovations extended the experiments with sonority that Bach had carried out in the ensemble sonatinas to a more serious work that was probably performed before a larger audience. Also new here is the presence not only of a slow introduction but the integration of the latter into the fabric of the first movement, where it is restated in the dominant after the first solo episode.71 Another innovation is the remote key of the second movement, in the mediant (C), although Bach had explored similar tonal designs in the sonatinas; he would juxtapose the same two keys, E-flat and C, in one of his last works, the Double Concerto of 1788. Here the bright sound of C major relative to the preceding E-flat sounds even more distinctive due to the scoring with two violas doubled an octave higher by flutes.( See 9.8 for further analysis of both W. 41 and 42.)

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It is curious that even W. 41 lacks oboes, which had been a regular part of the orchestra elsewhere in Europe since the early eighteenth century. Their absence not only from Bach’s concertos but also from most of his sinfonias could reflect either a dearth of good players or a local prejudice against the instrument, which at Berlin might have been associated more with military bands than with cultivated chamber music. Oboes were, however, a normal part of the orchestra at the Berlin opera, and Bach uses them in his Hamburg vocal works, although rarely outside of fully scored choral movements; the players apparently doubled on flutes. Clearly, however, the flute was the composer’s preferred woodwind instrument, followed by the bassoon; in the 1769 Passion and the Israelites oratorio, a pair of flutes is usually complemented by bassoons rather than oboes. When Emanuel does write independent oboe parts, as in the W. 183 sinfonias, he does so conservatively, rarely giving them an obbligato role; this contrasts with the rich writing for the instrument not only in Sebastian’s music but in Friedemann’s church works. Considering its length, ample scoring, and substantial quantity of new ideas, the concerto in E-flat W. 41 was probably Bach’s most ambitious effort in an instrumental composition. Although not the first of his concertos to be heard at Hamburg—he evidently played other works in his concerts of 1768—it showed more than anything written previously what he could do within the realm of instrumental music. If it was indeed heard on the same program as the Israelites oratorio, the effect would have been impressive. Bach’s last sustained effort within the genre was even more impressive, however. None of the six concertos that comprise W. 43 is individually as long as W. 41, nor are they as sumptuously scored. They were, moreover, meant for amateurs, and the keyboard parts were designed to be easy, incorporating written-out cadenzas for the benefit of inexpert players. All this was explained in a notice announcing their publication in fall 1772, a little more than a month after Bach had played the concertos for Burney on his Silbermann clavichord.72 The keyboard part includes a reduction of the tutti passages, as was common in manuscript copies going back to the beginnings of the solo keyboard concerto. Although such reductions in earlier sources are often of uncertain origin, here Bach assuredly approved them. They nevertheless fail to constitute a completely satisfactory solo keyboard version of the fully scored work, lacking idiomatic adaptations of tremolo figures, for example.73 This was Bach’s most ambitious musical publication to date—the Israelites would not appear in print until 1775—and he evidently intended the works’ diversity of form and expressive character to compensate for the apparent simplicity of the solo part. Of course the concertos are not really easy to play, although planning to make them so might have led an imaginative composer to rethink certain aspects of the genre in which he was working. Whether or not this aspect of the work stimulated Bach’s imagination, the six concertos of W. 43 maintained his trend of integrating the three-movement work into

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leaving the court 203 a continuous whole. Besides the famous experiment of no. 4, in which slow movement and minuet are both inserts within a single Allegro movement, the set stipulates continuous (attacca) performance of all three movements in each of the five remaining works. As in Bach’s sinfonias, modulating bridges join each movement to the next, sometimes negotiating surprising series of tonalities. The slow introduction of no. 5, moreover, returns as the middle movement, trumping W. 41, in which the opening Largo was restated within the first movement.74 In no. 2, moreover, the soloist twice interrupts the first movement by entering with contrasting slow material—an extreme application of the “two themes” approach. The actual slow movement of no. 2 comprises alternating orchestral and solo sections, the latter with varied reprises, like several movements in the ensemble sonatinas. The finale of the same concerto is a sonata form with repeats, common enough in sinfonias and sonatas but not previously used by Bach in a work for soloist and orchestra except, again, in the sonatinas. In short, not one of the six works follows conventional concerto form—and this is to consider only their basic, overall designs. In most of the quick movements it is nevertheless possible to discover the outlines of Bach’s usual ritornello form, or rather the concerto version of sonata-allegro form. Finding the latter is not straightforward, however. For example, in no. 5, it is the soloist that begins the quick part of the first movement, after the slow introduction. Brief statements of the main theme by the tutti in G (m. 15) and D (m. 45) correspond to the first and second ritornellos of a normal concerto movement; a third such passage that starts in E minor but modulates back to G serves as a tutti retransition (mm. 99–106). The meter, however, is 86, which, together with its Presto tempo and flippant character, makes this look more like a rondo finale than a first movement. Due in part to the brevity of the theme, the proportions of the sections are all wrong by the standards of Bach’s earlier concertos. The ritornellos are much too short (if the brief tutti passages can even be designated as such), and the central modulating portion of the movement, corresponding to the development in a Classical sonata form, is much longer than usual with Bach. For a composer to have been able to invent such a movement, after having written more than a hundred others of traditional design, required an unusual freedom of imagination, a willingness to inject untrammeled fantasy into a received form. This might have been encouraged by Bach’s move from Berlin into a new environment that was less crowded with experts critically scrutinizing one another’s work—or perhaps also by his accepting elements of the “comic” style and integrating them into his own, which he now did with far more imagination than in the ensemble sonatinas. Whatever Bach’s misgivings about the “comic” style, in W. 43 he demonstrated that a popular type of writing could be as serious in its own way as the more high-minded types of music he had written in the past. Of course one should not perform these concertos, any more than others, like a trained bird.

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But it was not so necessary for listeners to be moved by them as to understand in what their humor lies, and to be entertained by it. Although perhaps too sophisticated to be genuinely popular in the way that J. C. Bach’s music was, these pieces co-opted popular or “comic” style for the composer’s own purposes, much as Haydn would do during the next few decades.75 The results are very different from, say, Haydn’s “London” symphonies, but the two composers were in much the same situation: a musician who had spent most of his career working within a narrow court culture now applied his ingenuity in works for a broader, less aristocratic audience. In W. 43 Bach’s compositional craft is as strong as ever, yet, like the sonatinas, the individual concertos are relatively short, averaging around fifteen as opposed to twenty or twenty-five minutes in length. Many movements follow simple binary forms or open with disarmingly simple themes (as in the Presto of no. 5), eschewing the high expressive aspirations and technical difficulties of Bach’s earlier concertos. As Rosen showed, new types of orchestration were an essential part of the popular style in Haydn’s late works. In W. 43, Bach continued, as in the sonatinas, to invent novel sonorities, and the fluid textures introduced in his orchestral works of the 1750s were now routine. Thus, within the opening ritornello of no. 3 he invents a quiet passage in which the second violin, not the first, has the leading line, doubled in thirds by the viola. This, or a little chromatic fugato a few measures later, would not have been possible within the conventions of scoring followed in Bach’s earlier works ($ex. 9.34). Another of those conventions was that each movement begins forte; a piano passage, although not necessarily an echo of a preceding loud one, was usually a digression, a parenthetical statement of some sort. Bach had been opening solo keyboard pieces quietly for some time; the B-minor Probestück (W. 63/4, movement 1) was typical, however, in comprising numerous brief gestures, often less than a measure long, whose varying dynamics are as much a part of the fragmented phraseology, resembling that of recitative, as are the frequent rests and contrasts in register or in the prevailing note value or pacing ($ex. 9.35a). The C-Minor Concerto from W. 43, on the other hand, was unusual not only for its “one-movement” design but its piano opening, which now constitutes a complete four-measure phrase, subsequently alternating regularly with contrasting forte passages ($ex. 9.35b). The piano dynamic of the opening, together with its quiet scoring (without bass) and pedal point in the viola, signals unusual things to come later in the piece. Piano does not replace forte as the “normal” dynamic level in this concerto, but the persistent interruption within the opening ritornello of soft passages by loud ones—a reversal of the usual order—is not unrelated to the later interruption of the entire Allegro movement by two others. This Allegro is nevertheless old-fashioned in its frequent reliance on repeated notes in the lowest part to maintain a steady motor rhythm. Elsewhere the drum bass, although persisting through long stretches of both tutti and

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leaving the court 205 solo passages, is relieved more often than in earlier works. The motoric drive furnished by those repeated notes is no longer necessary throughout a movement, nor is its withdrawal just a momentary dramatic effect, as in an earlier concerto such as W. 30 (see $ex. 9.20). In the first movement of W. 43/3, the regular motion in small note values is first interrupted by the chromatic fugato in the ritornello, then by a fantasia-like incursion within the second solo episode (mm. 93–95). The latter points forward, in turn, to the written-out cadenza, to which it is is related motivically ($ex. 9.36). The cadenza is, therefore, no longer an improvisatory ornament—even if that is how Bach and his audience continued to view it—but an integral part of the design of the movement as a whole. Despite the sophisticated compositional thinking that went into these six concertos, Bach can probably be taken at his word in claiming that their intention was to provide amateurs with simple examples of a favorite genre. His first thought might have been to produce something that would appeal to the same public that was purchasing his brother Christian’s concertos, in which slow movements are either minimal or absent. The first work in W. 43 is relatively conventional, although even this departs from the norm as the tutti rather than the soloist begins a series of short alternating entries in the first episode, just after the opening ritornello. The slow movement, moreover, abandons conventional ritornello form, instead opening with a long period for the soloist, which is then repeated almost in full by the tutti. Despite suggestions of ritornello form here and in other slow movements of the set, the tutti passages tend, as in the sonatinas, to be shorter than in the slow movements of Bach’s other concertos. This was, perhaps, an honorable compromise between writing a serious concerto and a “comic” one with no slow movement at all. (For more on the individual concertos of W. 43, see 9.9.) The set closes with a work in C major that seems at first disappointingly conventional. Apart from the unusual key of its slow movement (ii)—which is “explained” by the usual bridge passage at the end of the opening Allegro— the work seems a throwback to conventional concerto style. Bach even fails to provide a written-out cadenza for the first movement. This concerto can be understood as Bach’s answer to the “comic” style, and more specifically as a parody of the concertos of J. C. Bach. Having taught his young half-brother, to the point where Christian could produce a very good imitation of Berlin style, Emanuel might have had mixed feelings if he followed the latter’s subsequent development through his publications, including the opus 7 concertos that came out a year before W. 43. Although lacking a viola part, Christian’s publication in other respects looks like a model for Emanuel’s, as in the provision of both continuo figures and reductions of the ripieno parts for the soloist during the ritornellos. The first movement of W. 43/6, however, is an outright takeoff on Christian’s style. Its ritornello opens with a simple triadic opening gesture, later prolonging

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a single static harmony through an empty descending scale in thirds (mm. 9–10). The soloist enters with a barely varied restatement of the same insipid theme (ex. 9.39).76 The parody continues through most of the first movement, apart from some modulating passagework in the central solo episode. There Emanuel’s harmonic sense gets the better of him, and the passage ends with a solo figuration in his own style ($ex. 9.40). Apart from a recapitulation of this passage (mm. 171ff.), the rest of the first movement remains in the style of J. C. Bach until the final ritornello. This is interrupted by a passage over the B–A–C–H bass that begins a modulating transition to the following Larghetto, the set’s one slow movement in traditional ritornello form. Yet the Larghetto recalls the ensemble sonatinas in its regular periodic phrasing, and the main theme of the concluding Allegro is likewise of a simple, popular type that Emanuel used in the final movements of other Hamburg works as well.77 Some, such as the keyboard trios of W. 89, would again come close to the style of his famous younger brother. Bach wrote no more concertos until 1778. His two solo concertos of that year, W. 44 and 45, were his last. Although more conventional than those of W. 43—neither has a slow introduction, and only the last two movements in W. 44 are connected—they remain distinct from his earlier works in their concision and their limited demands on the soloist. Passagework for the latter contains nothing more difficult or complex than the type of modulating arpeggiation that Bach included in the keyboard rondos that he was composing at the same time.78 This points to the use of fortepiano, the medium of the rondos, in the concertos as well, while underscoring the athematic, purely harmonic element in these passages. Indeed, Michel’s copy of the keyboard part for W. 45 places continuo figures over the bass in one of these passages, possibly because the player was to add chords in the left hand, perhaps merely as an artifact of Bach’s composing score, or to help the player find the notes of the right hand ($ex. 9.41).79 The slow movement of W. 44 is, somewhat surprisingly, a genuine ritornello form, albeit highly compressed and comprising periodic, song-like phrases that again recall the ensemble sonatinas. In W. 45, however, the Andantino is a genuine rondo—a simple one, however, not the modulating type published in the sets for Kenner und Liebhaber. Although in D minor, the opening of the movement suggests the rather trivial pieces that Bach had orchestrated in the ensemble sonatinas. As in the rondos for Kenner und Liebhaber, however, the simple periodic alternation of theme and couplets lasts only for the first few sections. The third couplet, opening in a bright D major, builds to a surprisingly vehement conclusion in A minor, with the strings entering in unison to interrupt the soloist (m. 54). In another context, this last passage might not seem very remarkable. But the brief incursion of strong feeling means much within the narrow confines of this concerto. Although not exactly small, Bach’s last solo concertos share

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leaving the court 207 Example 9.39. (a) Concerto in C, W. 43/6, movement 1, mm. 1–12, 28–31; (b) J. C. Bach, Concerto in C, op. 7, no. 1, mm. 1–6, 54–59 (both: keyboard only, including reduction of tutti passages)

some of the reticence, the refusal to say more than is necessary, that marks the shorter pieces for Kenner und Liebhaber. Several pieces in those sets are also remarkable for their epigrammatic endings. The most extreme instance occurs in the rondo in C minor (W. 59/4), composed in 1784, but all three rondos of 1778 already have quiet, understated endings ($ex. 9.42). The same is true of the G-Major Concerto W. 44, which differs in closing with a complete phrase from the ritornello—albeit a phrase of just two measures, which happen to constitute a full cadence. Bach would repeat the idea six years later with a somewhat more bittersweet effect, in the little rondo that ends the sonata W. 59/1 ($ex. 9.43). Bach may well have intended W. 44 and 45 to be his last concertos. Acknowledgments of his age and mortality find their way into Bach’s letters from this period, and more important projects such as the revision and

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publication of his Resurrection Cantata (first composed in 1774) remained unfinished. Yet there survive significant revisions of even the last two concertos, postdating Bach’s fair-copy autographs. The most important of these has failed to be recognized as such, thanks to its transmission as a written-out cadenza for the first movement of W. 45. Yet this cadenza, unlike the many others preserved alongside it, is an extended fantasia on ideas from the main body of the movement, becoming an integral part of the composition when played in context. Inserting this cadenza into the work may not alter it fundamentally, but it changes the proportions and tone of the first movement, making it a little more substantial and serious than it appears otherwise.80 Bach did, in the end, write one more concerto. The Double Concerto for piano and harpsichord, W. 47, from Bach’s last year (1788) has been one of his most famous works since its publication in 1958.81 The novel scoring is certainly an attraction, but the concerto, composed a decade after Bach’s previous effort in the genre, also departs significantly from anything he had written previously. Scored with flutes and horns, like the ensemble sonatinas and the E-flat-Major Concerto W. 41, it treats the winds with greater independence than in any of Bach’s other concertos. On the other hand, the differentiation of the two solo instruments is by no means as purposeful as has been suggested. The only clear distinctions in the material played by the two soloists occur, first, within the initial solo episode of the opening movement, where the piano states a few measures of a legato idea that are answered by livelier figuration in the harpsichord (mm. 51–58); and in the third movement, where the piano begins the first solo episode with a cantabile “second” theme (m. 37), which is answered by the harpsichord using the more percussive ritornello theme.82 Otherwise they share material equally, so that the duality of the work lies chiefly in the contrasting sonorities, not the association of each instrument with particular types of material or texture. That Bach, age seventy-four, should have written what is still an extraordinary work, in a genre he thought he had abandoned, has been convincingly explained as the result of a commision from Sara Levy, who owned the autograph not only of this concerto but of at least two of the three obbligato-keyboard quartets that Bach composed in the same year.83 Born Sara Itzig and a member of one of Berlin’s privileged Jewish banking families, she was only six years old when Bach left Berlin and therefore is unlikely to have had any meaningful direct contact with him. She reputedly studied with Friedemann, however, presumably from his arrival in 1774 until his death ten years later. Well into the nineteenth century she was known for her performances of music by J. S. Bach, doubtless influencing her grandnephew Felix Mendelssohn through them. Her acquisition of music by Emanuel is documented not only by the presence of his music in her large collection but also by the appearance of her name on his subscriber lists (beginning in 1779) and by her correspondence with his widow.

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leaving the court 209 The four late compositions that Levy presumably commissioned from Emanuel reflect interests evident elsewhere in her collection, which includes works involving two keyboard instruments as well as combinations of keyboard with flute and viola. These could have been performed in private concerts, Sara being joined perhaps by her husband or her older sister Zippora Wulff in the two-keyboard compositions. If they gave any performances of the Double Concerto, theirs might have been the first, for manuscript parts prepared by Michel for Westphal may have been made only after Bach’s death. The composer might never have gotten around to organizing a performance and hearing the concerto. (For more on Sara Levy and the Double Concerto W. 47, see 9.10.)

Sinfonias The sinfonia or symphony was not, for Bach, the important genre that it became for members of following generations. Bach wrote sinfonias only occasionally, and the pieces themselves are smaller in both duration and musical substance than most of the symphonies of Haydn and later composers. Although Bach’s eighteen sinfonias span his entire career at Berlin and Hamburg, most were composed during two brief periods, the mid-1750s at Berlin and the mid-1770s at Hamburg. The ten written at Hamburg are the most important, closely related to and in some ways even more consistently creative than his late concertos; for this reason their consideration has been postponed until now.84 The sinfonia as Bach understood it was more tightly defined by local conventions than his sonatas and concertos, and all eighteen works follow the traditional formal plan. Apart from the unremarkable first sinfonia of 1741, Bach’s initial efforts in the genre date from a period when he was retreating from the more challenging aspects of his earlier music. Representing a type of music that had originated as a grand but superficial type of opera overture, the handful of sinfonias that he wrote during the mid-1750s pale by comparison to those of the next two decades. Yet none less than Hasse declared Bach’s E-Minor Sinfonia of 1756 (W. 177) the best he had ever heard; not merely its minor tonality but its expressive intensity is unusual for a sinfonia of its time. This work, like all Bach’s sinfonias, was probably written for concert performances; all four sinfonias of the mid-1750s may have been performed in concerts sponsored by the queen and queen mother.85 That Bach nevertheless wrote relatively few sinfonias probably reflected limited demand for pieces of this type from someone best known for his keyboard music. Perhaps, too, Bach was cautious about writing within a genre that the Graun brothers, particularly Gottlieb, had made their own at Berlin. It is unlikely that he had any qualms about writing orchestral music as such, especially after composing what look like prepartory exercises in the two trio-sinfonias of 1754; the ritornellos in his

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Magnificat and in his concertos from around 1750 are already in the appropriate style and scoring. After he composed his eighth and last Berlin sinfonia in 1762, however, eleven years passed before Bach wrote another. Then, applying himself to the sinfonia as he had just done to the concerto with his 1771 set, he quickly produced six sinfonias for strings and continuo. These were followed three years later (in 1776) by the four Orchestral Sinfonias, so called from the title in Bach’s edition of 1780, which noted the inclusion of obbligato woodwind parts. The soloistic writing for flutes, oboes, and bassoon in these last four sinfonias perhaps reflected the current vogue for the Parisian symphonie concertante, to which Christian Bach had been contributing for at least a decade. Emanuel also would have known the older tradition of the so-called group concerto, which, in examples by composers such as Pisendel and Quantz, had produced works that were called both concertos and sinfonias. Despite their occasional solo passages for the winds, however, Bach’s Orchestral Sinfonias, like the six previous ones for strings alone (all with continuo), followed formal conventions that had remained unchanged since his first such work of 1741. Unlike most Classical symphonies, including all but the earliest ones of Haydn, Bach’s sinfonias are three-movement compositions, identical generically to the overtures in most of Hasse’s and Graun’s operas. These typically comprise a long allegro followed by a shorter slow movement and an even slighter concluding dance, often a minuet. Sinfonias used as opera overtures generally included two horns, as well as oboes doubling the violins; the latter might be replaced by flutes in the slow movement, but frequently all the wind parts were optional, and at Berlin all but the flutes were usually silent in the slow movement. The first two movements, unlike those in a Classical symphony, were usually through-composed, organized around the restatements of the opening theme in various keys. The latter thus constituted ritornellos alternating with contrasting material, which might include brief solo passages for the woodwinds, as in Bach’s Orchestral Sinfonias. Often the first two movements, if not all three, were connected by brief modulating bridges, and although the final movement was usually in binary form, it frequently ended with an extra little coda. Hence the entire work, although brief by the standards of even early Classical symphonies, was conceived more as a unity than were other multimovement pieces such as sonatas and concertos. Bach never departed from this basic design, nor did he abandon, any more than in his concertos and other ensemble works, the traditional string-based texture, writing generally in just three or even two real parts, as in the ritornellos of his concertos and arias. Winds, if present, remain essentially optional except in the four Orchestral Sinfonias. Even there, the woodwinds frequently just double the strings, and brass and timpani (where present in other works) rarely go beyond traditional signal motives.86 Yet the six string sinfonias of 1773 (W. 182) reveal Bach’s continual rethinking of the basic four-part texture, something only glimpsed in the ritornellos of his concertos (see ex. 9.13).

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leaving the court 211 The four final Orchestral Sinfonias, although adding pairs of flutes, oboes, and horns, as well as a lone bassoon, actually tend to revert to the older three-part texture, often using unison violins, with the winds doubling or reinforcing the strings except in solo passages. For this reason, Bach’s sinfonias can be said to employ truly orchestral writing only to a limited degree, in the sense of using sonorities or textures uniquely inspired by or suited to large mixed instrumental ensembles. Bach rarely even hints at the types of orchestral effects that Rameau and Gluck had long been using in their operas and ballets to represent things such as storms and earthquakes.87 But their approach to musical depiction, with tremolos and virtuoso writing for massed string and wind sections, is fundamentally different from the essentially symbolic type of musical representation found in, for example, Telemann’s Donnerode, where a timpani roll (or vocal trills and tremoli) was sufficient to signify thunder. Despite his criticism of Telemann’s “painting,” Bach follows Telemann in this respect, although his own musical depiction of thunder might combine the drum roll with obbligato writing for the strings, involving real, if simple, counterpoint, not merely instrumental color ($ex. 9.49).88 Emanuel’s later sinfonias do employ the same common types of idiomatic orchestral string writing that he used in his concertos after 1750—unison (or octave) writing for the strings (as in $ex. 9.49), quick repeated notes of various types (as in ex. 9.50). Yet the idiom of these works rarely strays far from that of the concertos, ensemble sonatinas, and trios, which were most frequently performed by ensembles of one player to a part. Only in the Hamburg string sinfonias did Bach adopt an idiom somewhat distinct from that of his other ensemble works, and even then it is largely just a matter of degree, as the music changes even more frequently than usual between, say a four-part contrapuntal texture and an unisono passage in octaves. It is nevertheless fairly clear that Bach’s sinfonias do presuppose orchestral performance with multiple players on each string part, perhaps including even that of the violone. Indeed, provision of a distinct part for the latter in the Orchestral Sinfonias (or, to put it another way, the occasional separation of the cellos from the bass line) is one sign of this. On the other hand, performance by string quartet, with or without continuo, is usually not impossible either.89 But in these works one does not find the type of solo passage for a single string part and continuo that occurs in the opening phrase of a trio sonata or in the episodes of a concerto. Passagework for the violins does include the same types of figuration employed in trios and the solo episodes of a concerto, but this is true of eighteenth-century music for string ensembles generally, including overtures and sinfonias by Pisendel and both Grauns. More telling are passages in the Hamburg string sinfonias where a plain two-part texture would sound empty without multiple players on each part (cf. ex. 9.14), or where the second violin alone must be heard against octaves in the viola and bass as well as quick repeated notes in the first violin (mm. 34–37 in ex. 9.50).

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Example 9.50. Sinfonia in B-flat, W. 182/2, movement 3, mm. 25–38

Such things imply a string orchestra of perhaps a dozen players or more (including double bass). Notable within example 9.50 are the simple underlying harmony, which largely alternates between tonic and dominant, and the straightforward repetition of several two-measure units (mm. 25–26, 34–35). This is the type of simple, bold writing that characterized sinfonia style generally, adopted by Bach already in his concerto ritornellos of around 1750. Notable too are the triadic character of the melodic material and the sudden breaking off of the frenetic motion in sixteenths for three measures of hemiolic staccato quarters (mm. 30–32). The latter is the type of quizzical interruption for which Bach’s keyboard music is famous; to throw that sort of disturbance into the mechanism of an orchestral allegro was antithetical to

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leaving the court 213 the conventional sinfonia of the period. This example is rather tame; already Bach’s later Berlin sinfonias contain more startling instances of phrases broken off or undergoing sudden changes in their rhythmic texture. Still, the heavy reliance on broken-chord figures reflects the central role of the keyboard in Bach’s musical imagination. Reichardt was probably right to imply that no competent string player would have written such music—but that was part of Bach’s point. Bach’s players at Berlin, many of them his colleagues from court ensembles, must have been individually as accomplished as anyone in the famous orchestras of Dresden, Paris, or Mannheim. Even at Hamburg he must have had sufficiently good players to manage the far from trivial difficulties of the instrumental parts in his Israelites oratorio and other vocal works. That Bach was perfectly aware of the difficulties that his writing could give string players is clear from his avoidance of it in the earlier Berlin sinfonias, including the one in E minor that he published, as well as in the Orchestral Sinfonias, which unlike the six works for strings were likely composed with publication in mind. Although Hasse called the E-Minor Sinfonia “the finest he had hever heard,” it is unclear what other sinfonias of Bach he might have known, and the remark might have implied disapproval of Bach’s subsequent examples.90 That Hasse also said the same thing to King Frederick, as reported by Zelter, is unlikely91—had he done so, it would have made quite an impression, not least on the Grauns—but Bach was surely pleased to see the advertisement for his work in Burney’s book. Bach’s first sinfonia of 1741 (W. 173 in G) is close in manner to Hasse’s and Graun’s overtures, as are his three sinfonias of 1755. The latter, however, reflected developments in Bach’s style that had taken place during the intervening years, such as the adoption of rondo form for both the slow and the final movements in the F-Major Sinfonia (W. 175). Only with the E-minor work of 1756 did Bach raise the possibility that a sinfonia might encompass expression or drama equal to that of a concerto or an aria. Nevertheless, only two of his eighteen sinfonias are in the minor, although this was not an unusual proportion for the time.92 The E-Minor Sinfonia seems tame by comparison to the later work in B minor composed at Hamburg (W. 182/5). Yet it was extraordinary for its time, and it was the one that Bach chose to publish in 1759, thereby fulfilling what may have been his goal to issue samples of his work in all the major instrumental genres.93 (9.11 contains further discussion of W. 177 and other Berlin sinfonias.) Bach’s ten Hamburg sinfonias are his best-known ensemble works—deservedly so, as they are among his few orchestral pieces to incorporate the most imaginative elements of his keyboard music. The six string sinfonias of 1773 were the result of a commission from the Dutch diplomat Gottfried van Swieten, who served as imperial ambassador to Berlin from 1770 to 1777; he is now best known as a patron and connoisseur of the music of Haydn, Mozart, and

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Beethoven.94 Although not published during Bach’s lifetime, the works must have been locally famous at Hamburg after being rehearsed at the home of Bach’s friend Büsch. The performance was led by Reichardt, who later praised the music even while noting its difficulty. Claudius wrote to Gerstenberg that the “chamber symphonies were considered one of his best works.”95 Nothing is known about the nature of Swieten’s commission, but it must have been made clear to Bach that these sinfonias were to be an orchestral equivalent of those few compositions that he had composed “for himself,” as he put it.96 Reichardt found these string sinfonias to be the “high, bold, humorous compositions of a genial spirit,” humorous probably meaning expressive rather than amusing, genial surely referring not just to Bach’s genius but to his good nature—which Reichardt, characteristically for his generation, assumes is expressed in this music.97 Both these and the Orchestral Sinfonias are, like the W. 43 concertos, sufficiently homogeneous in style that each set must have been the product of a brief period of concentrated work. Unlike the concertos, however, the ten late sinfonias remain close to the traditional three-movement design, even if they, too, adopt elements of what Bach called the “comic” style. The Orchestral Sinfonias, in particular, are “comic” in Bach’s special sense of lacking full-fledged or self-contained slow movements. But they are as serious as the works for strings alone in compositional intent, incorporating novel variations on the basic idea of the three-movement sinfonia. Still, the two sets differ not only in the inclusion of winds in the Orchestral Sinfonias but in the latter’s more popular style, even though these too were apparently written on commission. The string sinfonias reveal a larger element of fantasy style, incorporating unconventional choices of key and form for the second movement and exercising greater freedom of harmony and rhythm not only within movements but during the transitions between them. Although no one could rightly call the music inexpressive, both sets, like the W. 43 concertos, aim less at pathos than at virtuosity, the composer’s as well as the ensemble’s. In the string sinfonias, not only are all four parts challenging for the musicians individually, but the frequent entrances on weak beats and the exchanges of quick motives between parts would have required a type of rehearsal rare in eighteenth-century orchestral playing. Although Swieten was in Berlin until 1777, he may not have heard the pieces played there; the Berlin writer Nicolai, who admired Bach’s music, praised the relatively conventional Orchestral Sinfonias in 1781 as particularly difficult and individualistic works, which he is unlikely to have done had he known the string sinfonias.98 According to NV, Bach composed the individual works of both sets in the order in which they appear in their first editions. If so, his first thought in the works for strings may have been to write something that is reminiscent of several extraordinary sinfonias for strings that Friedemann Bach seems to have

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leaving the court 215 composed at Dresden as much as forty years earlier. These survive only fragmentarily, but they appear to have been in an uncompromisingly polyphonic style in four real parts, and the close imitations that occur early in Emanuel’s first Hamburg sinfonia are surprisingly similar to those in his brother’s earlier works ($ex. 9.58). Emanuel, however, does not maintain this texture for long; a single measure of double notes, in just two real parts (m. 6), leads to a sequence constructed from broken chords for the violins (mm. 7ff.). Although the first few measures recur essentially unchanged in the three subsequent ritornellos, transposed to D and C in the middle sections, the ensuing sequence changes its direction each time it occurs. Bach follows a similar strategy in almost every subsequent quick movement of both sets. All ten Hamburg sinfonias are also quite consistent in length, ranging from about nine to twelve minutes in duration, reflecting their common three-movement plan. Yet within that basic design, variety of texture and modulating design must have been fundamental to Bach’s conception of both sets. For example, the opening texture of the first three string sinfonias ranges from four real parts (no. 1) to two (no. 2), to just one (no. 3, whose ten opening measures are entirely in octaves). The slow movements of the string sinfonias are all in third-related or otherwise unconventional keys, and four of the six final movements begin out of the tonic, in a way that not only connects with the end of the previous movement but also, at the return, with the preceding retransition phrase. The Orchestral Sinfonias are less radical in this respect, although the return in the last movement of no. 2 is particularly clever, constituting an extension of the voice leading of the brief two-measure retransition: from b♭″ the main line descends through an octave, the return (m. 55) being marked by a change in instrumentation and dynamic but otherwise continuing the progression (see the analysis on the upper staves of ex. 9.59). (Analysis of the sinfonias for strings, W. 182, continues in 9.12.) Although the four Orchestral Sinfonias are broadly similar to the six string works in plan and duration, their proportions are different. First movements are generally longer, that of no. 1 being the longest single movement in both sets, whereas in nos. 1–3 the slow movement is significantly shorter. No slow movement follows a quasi-ritornello form; rather Bach draws closer to the “comic” style, leaving the slow movements of nos. 1–2 mere bridges or transitions. Those of nos. 3–4 are compact binary forms, although that of no. 3 varies the instrumentation on the repeats, as in movements from the ensemble sonatinas. Two of the final movements are full sonata forms (those of nos. 2 and 4), but the two others are rounded binaries lacking either a return or a complete recapitulation; in no. 1, the first half of the finale is actually longer than the second, although a concluding coda eliminates any possible sense of an imbalance.

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Example 9.59. Orchestral Sinfonia in E-flat, W. 183/2, movement 3, mm. 55–60 (winds omitted)

Bach’s adoption of a more popular style in the Orchestral Sinfonias must reflect his plan to publish them and the expectation that they would be performed in public concerts—possibly the court concerts given at Berlin by the queen, for these were apparently composed on commission for Crown Prince Friedrich Wilhelm, to whom the edition of 1780 was dedicated.99 They were published by Schwickert of Leipzig, who that year also reissued the Versuch. Besides the presence of obbligato flutes and oboes, the scoring of these works is notable for the occasionally independent lines given both bassoon and cello, leaving only keyboard and violone on the figured continuo part.100 Similar instrumentation in Bach’s Hamburg vocal works allows the cello occasionally to form a duo with the viola, as in the slow movement of no. 1, where these are doubled by flutes and supported only by the violone ($ex. 9.64). To be sure, bassoon and cello elsewhere usually play the bass line, the bassoon often being grouped with the oboes, the cello with the flutes. The diminished role of the continuo is evident in its confinement to tutti passages, with the keyboard instrument completely silent in two of the four slow movements. Athough the woodwinds often provide harmonic filler, as was standard by this date in Viennese orchestral writing, they more often double the strings (sometimes in simplified versions of passagework) or play brief solos. The horns, on the other hand, hardly ever sustain harmonic tones, as in Austrian orchestral music, nor does Bach observe the distinction made at Dresden and Vienna between

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leaving the court 217 first and second horn parts.101 The horns nevertheless make a powerful contribution to the first movement of no. 1 by reinforcing the “step” tones of the large sequence that constitutes most of the ritornello, particularly in measures 86–89 (on Bach’s “step sequences,” see 8.4; cf. $ex. 8.23). It is clear from that opening movement that the Orchestral Sinfonias were meant to convey greater grandeur and spaciousness than the ones for strings; the opening ritornello of no. 1 contains no fewer than thirty-four measures, repeated verbatim at the return (m. 136). The rest of the opening section (mm. 35–71) is then recapitulated a fifth lower, producing what is for Bach an enormous block of seventy-one essentially unvaried measures. This is only the largest such instance in the Orchestral Sinfonias, where the frequent use of literal or transposed repetition suggests that Bach deliberately avoided the incessant variation and recomposing of recurring material that took place in the string sinfonias; the simpler approach would have been easier on listeners as well as himself. The grand step sequence that opens no. 1, with its repeated, syncopated pedal tones, is a particularly easy motive to recognize, recurring throughout the movement, even accompanying a passage that functions somewhat like a Classical “second theme.” The latter, with its chamber-music scoring, conveys an affect entirely distinct from the ritornello. Like passages in Bach’s organ sonatas—another probable Hohenzollern commission—it recalls antique style as the syncopations of the pedal tone become a chain of suspensions ($ex. 9.65). Hence, despite their popular style, these sinfonias, like the Sturm Songs, also invoke certain easily recognized types of learned writing as well. Although their harmony and modulation are not as incessantly counterintuitive as in the string sinfonias, they have their dramatic moments in this regard, notably at two fermatas in no. 4; these echo the aria “Ihr Tore Gottes” composed during the previous year in the Resurrection Cantata ($ex. 9.66). As in Bach’s previous two sets (W. 43 and 182), the concluding work is relatively conventional. Except at the two fermatas, the first movement of no. 4 makes no untoward modulations, and the final movement is a galloping gigue with a remarkably schematic design: all three sections are almost exactly parallel to one another and equal in length. This movement, perhaps the least challenging in the entire set, nevertheless received special praise from one reviewer, who also mentioned as a positive point the linking of most of the movements in the series.102 In fact, all three movements in each sinfonia are joined, although in nos. 1–3 the bridge at the end of the first movement is a thematically extraneous modulating passage in long notes. In the last four string sinfonias, Bach had preferred to have the final ritornello of the first movement run into the next with no transition at all, or with a measure of rest interposed, as in no. 6. The less organic type of connecting passage used in the Orchestral Sinfonias was easier to write, and to listen to, and the choices of tonality for the slow movements also are relatively conventional. Only the

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Neapolitan (E-flat major) in the Largo of no. 1 is unexpected, and it is actually a prolonged harmonic dislocation or parenthesis; after eight measures, the movement has modulated to the submediant (B-flat), never returning to its opening key.103 Nor do any of the final movements begin out of key (as do four in W. 182). In short, Bach knew what would please listeners and reviewers, not only in Hamburg but across Germany. This stood him in good stead with his contemporaries, yet his willingness to please must be one reason so much of this music was forgotten within a few decades of his death. Only some of his keyboard music from the same period would have a lasting presence.

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Chapter Ten

The Later Keyboard Music Bach’s official duties at Hamburg involved solely vocal music, and during his years there his public probably knew him better for his vocal compositions— songs and oratorios as well as liturgical music—than his instrumental works. Yet although most of his output passed into oblivion within a few decades of his death, the famous publications of solo keyboard music issued at Hamburg kept his name alive to small numbers of adherents. During the twentieth century, it was above all the six collections of pieces “for Kenner und Liebhaber”— connoisseurs and music lovers—that maintained his reputation as a quirky but inventive composer of keyboard music. Two reliable editions of these pieces published around 1900 assured at least occasional performances and led inquisitive musicians and scholars to look further.1 Although these works constituted only a small fraction of Bach’s Hamburg output, they remain central to his image among musicians and serious listeners, and they were arguably the single most important part of his legacy.

Keyboard Trios and Quartets Bach issued a major publication for almost every year that he was in Hamburg (see the list in 10.1). Although the Kenner und Liebhaber collections for solo keyboard are now the best known of these, they were preceded by three sets of keyboard trios issued during 1776–78. Smaller than the concertos and vocal works that came before them, these nevertheless constituted a significant project, particularly as they represented an entirely new genre within Bach’s output. Although NV groups them together with the earlier trio sonatas, they belonged to the new genre today known as the piano trio. Here the term keyboard trio will be used, as harpsichord and even clavichord remained viable choices for the keyboard instrument. Bach reportedly played these pieces at home on clavichord, accompanied by muted violin and a cello “played with discretion.”2 The string parts in these pieces are subsidiary, indeed optional, and until Beethoven’s time such works were regarded as a species of keyboard sonata.

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Today the only examples that are at all well known are a few of Haydn’s, which date mostly from the next two decades. Although published examples went back to the 1740s, the specific combination of leading keyboard with secondary violin and cello became common only around 1760, when Abel published six such sonatas as his opus 2. J. C. Bach’s opera 2 and 15, for the same ensemble, followed in 1764 and 1778.3 Published in England, these are mostly in what Emanuel called the “comic” style, without slow movements. That he was prepared by 1775 to compose and publish such pieces himself is not entirely unsurprising in view of his recent activities in the realms of concerto and ensemble sonatina. Still, except in the trio-sinfonia W. 74 and the very minor little pieces of W. 81 and 82, his previous music for keyboard and other instruments had always given the latter genuine obbligato parts. Writing to Forkel in 1775, however, Bach admits that he has “finally had to do what was fashionable,” that is, compose easy keyboard sonatas with optional accompaniment. His apology, characteristically, was prelude to a request that Forkel serve as his agent for gathering subscriptions to his forthcoming publications. That the pieces were already being composed, and that Bach had been planning to publish them for some time, is evident from his having broached the subject of their being printing two months earlier, in a letter to Breitkopf.4 Thus, while still correcting proofs for his previous publishing project, the Israelites oratorio, Bach had moved on. Like the ensemble sonatina, the accompanied keyboard trio would occupy him for only a few years. None followed after 1777, although he would write two later examples of what may be termed keyboard duos, in which the keyboard is joined by a single violin (W. 79–80), as well as three keyboard quartets with flute and viola (W. 93–95).5

Keyboard Trios Bach published seven relatively ambitious keyboard trios in two sets, W. 90 and 91, which were printed at Leipzig in 1776 and 1777. Six somewhat smaller works, constituting W. 89, were first published by Robert Bremner of London, also in 1776. This was the sole instance of an authorized British first edition of Bach’s music, chosen doubtless because of the interest already shown in England for the easy keyboard trios of Abel and J. C. Bach. Bremner’s edition was an engraved print, like the first edition of the Ladies’ Sonatas (W. 54) of 1769 or 1770, which had first come out in Amsterdam; each was soon followed by a German typeset edition.6 The details of publication for these and other works would be inconsequential if Bach had not published many of them himself. Commercial decisions about how to print and sell each collection were therefore as much a part of his work as composing the actual music. Unfortunately, nothing is known about Bach’s arrangements for the publication of the six slight works of W. 89, and it is unclear when he composed them. In NV the six trios published by Bremner

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the later keyboard music 221 are listed as works of 1778, but that was the year of their German reprint. Bach apparently disavowed Bremner’s edition due to its inaccuracy and high price,7 but this leaves it unclear whether Bach composed the smaller sonatas of W. 89 before or after the other two sets. For the latter, Bach oversaw their production and corresponded with subscribers and sales agents in various cities himself. That he composed them first is suggested not only by the order in which NV lists the pieces, but by the fact that W. 90 and 91 are described on their title pages as “first” and “second” sets, respectively. Both were printed by Breitkopf but “published by the author” (im Verlage des Autors), a phrase that Bach used on most of his self-published editions beginning with the W. 43 concertos of 1772.8 It seems, therefore, that after composing seven relatively ambitious keyboard trios primarily for his German compatriots, Bach wrote a half-dozen somewhat lighter and simpler examples for the English market. The three works of the “first collection,” W. 90, are probably the most imaginative, while coming as close to the Classical style as anything Bach wrote. Each is conceived differently, their first movements constituting, respectively, a sonata-allegro in moto perpetuo, a through-composed quasi-ritornello form in symphonic style, and a large rounded binary form.9 The seriousness of this set is signified immediately by the use of the minor mode in the first work, whose opening movement ranks as relatively complex, within the standards of the genre. This is due not only to the intricate keyboard figuration (for which Bach helpfully provided fingering in the third measure) but to the simple yet motivically distinctive obbligato in the violin; the cello, however, merely doubles the bass (ex. 10.1a). Although the work concludes with a rondo, the latter is not the simple type that prevails in the little pieces of the 1750s and in the ensemble sonatinas. Rather it resembles the large, modulating type that Bach cultivated increasingly at Hamburg, with the main theme appearing in various keys. Particularly notable, if tame by contrast with what Bach would write in the rondos for Kenner und Liebhaber just a few years later, is the dramatic sequence over a chromatic bass that opens the second couplet or contrasting section, part of a modulation that leads eventually to a restatement of the theme in the dominant ($ex. 10.1b).10 The second work, W. 90/2 in G, also ends with a rondo, closer to some in the Kenner und Liebhaber series in its gentle (grazioso) theme. Like the Kenner und Liebhaber rondos, it incorporates soloistic keyboard figuration while modulating more widely than the rondo in W. 90/1; the theme enters not only in the tonic, dominant, and subdominant, but in the third-related keys B-flat and E-flat. These first two works were perhaps “comic” in Bach’s view: the middle movements are short and joined to the following movement, the Larghetto of W. 90/2 being a mere eight-measure bridge. The third work, however, includes a full-length slow movement, albeit one that begins in A major, then changes mode and ends in C, the key of the outer movements. The change of mode anticipates the “Neujahrslied” in the first Sturm set of 1780 (W. 197/19); more

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Example 10.1. Keyboard Trio in A Minor, W. 90/1, (a) movement 1, mm. 1–4; (b) movement 3, mm. 49–54

significant, however, is the contrast between the C major of the first movement and the A major with which the Larghetto opens, without transition. The same modulation by minor third, which had fascinated Bach since the time of the ensemble sonatinas (see $ex. 9.10b), recurs in the last movement, where the end of the first section in G major is followed by E major immediately after the double bar. By contrast, all six sonatas of W. 89 have essentially the same three-movement form and dimensions. It is somewhat surprising that only two of the slow movements are shortened or transitional (in nos. 2 and 3), but none is very long, and that of the last work (no. 6) is a simple rondo. Only one movement in this set, the finale of no. 3, is a modulating rondo, and it is relatively concise and straightforward—at least up to the third couplet, which brings in the theme in a key as remote as A-flat, that is, VII, or rather III of ♭vi (the relative major of the submediant). The passage in which this occurs marks the intrusion of Bach’s own style into a movement, even an entire volume, that sounds like someone else’s. The theme of this rondo could almost be by Mozart ($ex. 10.2), and it is hard today not to think of Haydn in other passages ($ex. 10.3);

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the later keyboard music 223 Bach would have had composers like Galuppi and Abel in mind. This is not to say that W. 89 is trivial or devoid of imagination, and the opening of the last movement of no. 1 in the relative minor, after a slow movement that ends on a half cadence, is entirely characteristic of Bach. Still, when the finale of the next sonata begins with the same device, one does get the impression that one is hearing a sort of variation on a template. W. 91 lies between the two other sets in size and style. Its four sonatas are somewhat closer in dimensions to those of W. 89, the keyboard part of W. 91 taking up only twenty-six pages in Breitkopf’s print, as opposed to thirty for the three sonatas of W. 90. Yet although it lacks a single full-length slow movement, W. 91 is as original and as carefully thought out as W. 90. The finale of no. 2 is another large modulating rondo, this time with varied reprises; the set ends with a one-movement sonata in the form of a theme and nine variations. If Bach still thought of such a sonata as “comic,” its comedy masks serious compositional intent. The last movement of the first sonata has the rare time signature 41, which seems a joke, recalling odd time signatures in works by Telemann.11 The pizzicato accompaniment for some passages seems to confirm the movement’s less than serious character. Yet the slow movement of this sonata is an exercise in enharmonic modulation over the B–A–C–H bass line (transposed), which is even stated in canon between the cello and the lower keyboard part ($ex. 10.4). That appears to be a unique case of the cello receiving an obbligato line in these works. Elsewhere, in all three sets, the cello, where not silent, doubles the bass line, either literally or with small variations. The violin too is strictly secondary to the keyboard, although it occasionally fills rests in the latter part with little motives of its own. More often, however, where the violin has melodic writing it merely doubles the treble of the keyboard, yielding the same two-part texture for the whole that occurs so often in Bach’s works for larger ensembles. Otherwise the violin may double the upper part of the keyboard a third or a sixth below; in a few passages it doubles the left hand when the latter passes above a range convenient for the cello (as at the beginning of W. 91/4). The strings certainly add color to these works, and they render more emphatic the contrasts between forte and piano passages, the latter often lacking accompaniment. Yet it is doubtful whether the form or style of these pieces differs in any essential way from that of unaccompanied keyboard sonatas, apart from the unusual textures of a few slow movements. In writing this type of composition, Bach accepted the norms of a genre that had been established to some degree by his half brother Christian’s keyboard trios of 1764. Yet Emanuel’s writing for the ensemble also reflects the experience of his own ensemble sonatinas. This is clear in the opening movement of W. 89, which alternates between phrases in sonata style and others recalling Bach’s concertos, that is, with keyboard arpeggiation accompanied by piano strings. Indeed, the participation of the accompanying strings, although not absolutely

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essential, is crucial to the shape of this movement, in which they enter only with the first forte and later alternate with the keyboard in the closing phrase of each section ($ex. 10.5; cf. $ex. 10.3). (10.2 discusses further issues in the keyboard trios.) Had Bach continued to pursue the accompanied-keyboard sonata, his writing for the strings might have grown more inventive. By 1778, however, he had concluded his work on keyboard trios as suddenly as he had taken it up. For his remaining ten years, his focus within the realm of keyboard music would return to solo pieces, especially those of the six published sets for Kenner und Liebhaber.

Keyboard Quartets At the very end of his life, Bach nevertheless turned to what looks superficially like another type of keyboard trio, writing three pieces for obbligato keyboard with flute and viola. Together with his second double concerto, composed in the same year and likely also for Sara Levy, these reveal a late resurgence of creative energy.12 These, however, are quartets, in which the “accompanying” instruments are essential to the composition. There is another probable reason as well for the listing of these three pieces in their own section of NV: as Quantz had explained, the quartet was a distinct, more prestigious but more contrapuntal and rarer type of chamber music than the trio.13 The meanings of the terms had changed, yet Bach evidently held to the underlying concepts to the end of his life. Bach’s trios, in principle, comprise three equal parts; the quartets involve four, that is, two melody instruments (flute and viola) together with the treble and bass lines of the keyboard. Even in the quartets, passages in four real parts are fairly rare; hence the music leaves room for misunderstanding. Already in 1791, Bach’s daughter had to explain to the collector J. J. H. Westphal that the quartets have “no other bass than that of the keyboard part.”14 This has not prevented modern commentators from postulating the need for a cello or supposing that certain markings in Bach’s autograph scores are the composer’s shorthand for a separate bass part.15 Yet the lightly drawn slurs or brackets beneath certain tutti passages could have been added at any time. They hardly provide a basis for the arbitrary modifications of the bass line that editors have found necessary in order to create an idiomatic cello part. There is nothing for cello in the surviving manuscript part-sets, including those for all three quartets that Westphal acquired from Bach’s widow.16 The quartets are thought to have originated, like the Double Concerto W. 47, in response to a commission from Sara Levy, who owned the two autograph scores now in Berlin. The unusual scoring of Bach’s quartets must have been specified in the commission, presumably reflecting the special musical interests of the Wulff and Levy families. Those interests had probably led previously to commissions from Friedemann Bach for three viola duets and perhaps several

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the later keyboard music 225 of his flute duets as well. More significant than the choice of flute and viola as the “accompanying” instruments, however, is the fact that both are indispensable, playing sometimes as soloists, sometimes as a duo that alternates with the keyboard. Nevertheless, as in Bach’s keyboard trios, the keyboard takes the leading role, playing concerto-like solos in at least one movement of each quartet. In the first two quartets, moreover, the texture still alternates between tutti passages for accompanied keyboard and more thinly scored solo episodes. But the absence of a separate bass instrument presupposes a stronger keyboard instrument than in Bach’s trios, and it is harder here to imagine use of anything other than a piano. The special character of the quartets lies not in any “breakthrough [Durchbruch] to the Viennese Classical style,”17 but rather in Bach’s expanded instrumental palette and the works’ imaginative use of forms and movement types that he had also been exploring in other late works. By this date Bach might well have heard examples of music by Haydn and Mozart, but what sound to modern ears like echoes of their music are more likely borrowings from a more generic Classical style. The use of a rondo movement to open the initial A-Minor Quartet might be an example of this, although Bach had previously done so in the last of the Ladies’ Sonatas (W. 54/6) and more recently in the sonata W. 65/49 of 1786. The second quartet, in D, begins with a throughcomposed sonata or ritornello form, hardly a Viennese Classical type although similar to the movement in sinfonia style that opened the keyboard trio W. 90/2. There are again solos for the keyboard, but also brief duos for flute and viola, as in the opening movement of the A-Minor Quartet. Only W. 95 in G begins with a regular sonata-allegro movement, but it is remarkable for its intensive development of a little trill motive and for its contrapuntal texture, which is at least occasionally in four real parts (as is the last movement as well). (For additional matter on the quartets, see 10.3.)

For Connoisseurs and Music Lovers The quartets followed the well-known sonatas, rondos, and fantasias for solo keyboard that Bach had published in six collections beginning in 1779 and continuing, mostly in odd-numbered years, through 1787. These constituted Bach’s last sustained effort in the realm of keyboard music, and it is natural to see them as a sort of final testament. Yet Bach withheld several equally important late compositions from publication, and although he probably did expect this series to be his last for solo keyboard, the contents of the volumes varied and cannot have been planned in full from the start. Commercial as well as musical considerations affected their design, and, as with other late publications, Bach probably hoped they would shape his posthumous reputation while providing income for his wife and daughter.

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Their precise titles vary, but all six volumes comprise pieces expressly “for Kenner und Liebhaber,” that is, both experts and amateurs, or connoisseurs and music lovers. Volume 1 was Bach’s most significant publication since the keyboard trios of 1776, but the largest publications of his remaining years, probably in Bach’s eyes more important, were all sacred vocal works, including the double-chorus Heilig in 1779 and the Resurrection Cantata in 1787. The sonatas in the first three volumes were mostly earlier works, for after composing a single keyboard sonata in 1775 Bach wrote no more until 1780; all six sonatas in the first volume for Kenner und Liebhaber had been composed by 1774, before Bach turned to the keyboard trio. When he resumed writing solo keyboard music in 1778, he composed not sonatas but an extended version of the type of modulating rondo that he had essayed in five of the keyboard trios. The distinction apparently drawn in Bach’s title between learned experts and amateur dilettantes was hardly “new to the arts.”18 Before Bach’s series had run its course, Rellstab began issuing a Clavier-Magazin für Kenner und Liebhaber at Berlin, and similar publications followed. But Bach’s title does not necessarily draw a distinction; it could, as Hogwood puts it, be understood as “inclusive.” The music, however, suggests otherwise, for each volume—even the first, comprising exclusively sonatas—tends to alternate between shorter, simpler pieces, apparently more suited to the amateur music lover, and longer, more complex ones that seem destined for the connoisseur or expert. Even the shorter pieces, however, are not really easy to play or immediately accessible. The rondos, although representing a popular genre and designed for a distinct instrument (the piano), are usually longer, and some contain modulations and changes of rhythmic texture that would have baffled dilletantes unaccustomed to Bach’s style. Even if Bach did conceive the series as incorporating distinct pieces for two types of potential purchasers, it is impossible to assign each composition unequivocally to one or the other sort of player.19 The contents vary from volume to volume, reflecting Bach’s changing ideas of what would sell best. (10.4 contains a detailed list of the pieces for Kenner und Liebhaber and related works.) Only volumes 2 and 3 contain the same types of pieces in the same numbers and order. Volume 1 comprises six sonatas, alternating between shorter and longer examples. That distinction is maintained in subsequent volumes, all three sonatas of volume 2 being relatively short, those of the next volume substantially larger. The sonatas in volumes 2 and 3 are interspersed with rondos; the last three volumes contain fantasias as well. The rondos are extended examples of the modulating type, products of the obsession with remote modulation and chromatic harmony documented in some of the sketches of the Miscellanea musica, which probably originated during these years. (See 10.4 on the relationship between Bach’s Miscellanea musica [W. 121] and the pieces for Kenner und Liebhaber.) Most of the rondos include episodes that incorporate arpeggiated passagework, as well as varied reprises of the rondo theme, which appears in a variety of keys, sometimes

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the later keyboard music 227 remote from the tonic. Their length, and that of the fantasias—which they resemble in certain respects—exceeds that of the smaller sonatas, which prevail in the later volumes; already in volume 4, the number of sonatas is reduced to two, and only one sonata in the last three volumes is as large as those in volumes 1 and 3. All three types of pieces, however, reveal significant variety of form and style; some of these distinctions are obvious in any perusal of the volumes, but they come into clearer focus when the pieces are examined in their likely compositional order. This reveals, for example, that the larger and ostensibly more serious sonatas are, by and large, earlier works dating from before Bach’s move to Hamburg. Despite some disagreement among scholars and players, it is hard to refute the clear indication in Bach’s titles for the last five sets that the rondos were designed specifically for the piano. It is true, as an early reviewer suggested, that the smaller E-major rondo (W. 58/3) is actually most suitable for the clavichord.20 Every other rondo in the series, however, contains at least short stretches of quick figuration in broken chords and other passagework that Bach apparently considered more suited to the piano than the clavichord. More pertinent is to ask whether Clavier in the title means that the sonatas and fantasias are specifically for the clavichord. Only one of these, the Sonata in F, W. 55/2, includes notation specifying use of Bebung (vibrato), which can be realized only on the latter instrument. Doubtless Bach could execute all the pieces admirably on his own Silbermann clavichord—until he sold it in 1781. But only on the piano is it possible to project really strong dynamic nuances or to realize the special sonority of undamped strings that can transform the sometimes lengthy sequences of passagework in the rondos from mere notes to sheens of color. The fantasias too can benefit from performance on piano; Bach had mentioned its use in such pieces, without dampers, in the last chapter of the Versuch, and his improvisations on that instrument were remembered in a posthumous review.21 Unlike the keyboard trios, which were all newly composed, Bach may originally have conceived the Kenner und Liebhaber series as a repository for older sonatas that he had not previously been able to publish. The first volume comprised only sonatas, none more recent than two works composed five years previously. Two of the larger sonatas of this set (nos. 4 and 6) were from a group composed in the mid-1760s at Potsdam; the third (no. 2) went back even earlier. Why Bach was evidently spending substantial amounts of time in Potsdam during these years is unknown; he probably would not have done so unless it was required by his court duties, but as in 1747, when he worked there on his trios, he evidently put the time to good use, producing an exceptional series of compositions. All three of the sonatas in question draw on the fantasy style that would prevail in the smaller sonatas composed at Hamburg. Bach had previously published seven sonatas from the Potsdam group, among them the six Ladies’ Sonatas (W. 54), but until now Bach held off issuing the more

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extreme or difficult ones, such as W. 55/6, which closes the first of the Kenner und Liebhaber volumes. One sonata composed at Hamburg, W. 65/47 of 1775, evidently proved too radical for Bach ever to risk having it printed. In general, however, Bach wrote little new music at Hamburg that was not destined either for immediate performance or eventual publication. In the second collection for Kenner und Liebhaber, issued in 1780, he drew only on recently composed pieces, including three rondos written in 1778. His correspondence makes it clear that at least one of the sonatas, W. 56/6 in A, was an afterthought, added only after Bach learned from Breitkopf that the set was coming out too short.22 All three sonatas are nevertheless of the smaller type, and volume 2 remained the second shortest in the series. Perhaps to compensate, in volume 3 Bach included only longer, older sonatas alongside three rondos. At least one of these sonatas may already have been famous; this was the work in F minor (W. 57/6) that Forkel praised in a well-known review, describing it as the musical equivalent of an ode. Reichardt called it Bach’s “greatest sonata.”23 It was later reported that some of the older sonatas eventually published for Kenner und Liebhaber had already become “rather well known” and for this reason were not included in the first volumes published.24 Lacking earlier sources, we cannot know at what point the pieces published only in the late 1770s and 1780s achieved their printed form. But the sonatas known to have been composed before the move from Berlin are distinct in style from the later ones—not only larger, but closer to either traditional symphonic or “Sturm und Drang” types. This suggests that any revisions undertaken for publication were relatively superficial. The last of these older sonatas to be printed was the E-minor work (W. 58/4) that Bach finally published as the larger of just two sonatas included in volume 4. The chief innovation of this volume was the inclusion of two fantasias, whose addition Bach justified to Breitkopf as satisfying a request from unnamed friends, “so that after my death one will be able to understand what a Fantast I was.”25 Bach’s publication of fantasias alongside both volumes of the Versuch, as well as in the Musikalisches Vielerley of 1770, shows that the idea of issuing such pieces was not new to him. As in the Probestücke, the genre of the fantasia is represented only at the end of volumes 4 and 5, but now Bach deliberately avoided publishing any “dark” fantasias in minor keys. The two fantasias of volume 6, moreover, are quite different from the free fantasias that precede them in the Kenner und Liebhaber series. In 1782, a year before publishing volume 4, Bach composed three fantasias, all presumably intended for inclusion in the series, and all examples of the “free” type, that is, generally free of barlines as well as any strict formal design. But the first of these, in F, was not published until 1785, when it joined the newly composed C-Major Fantasia (W. 59/6) at the end of volume 5. The latter was a distinct type of work, incorporating greater quantities of measured (barred) music and borrowing to some degree from the idiom of the rondos. In this it points forward to the two fantasias in the final volume, which were

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the later keyboard music 229 composed only in 1786 and moved further in the same direction. The trend represented something of a retreat from the original ideal of the free fantasia, and indeed the final volume, all of whose contents were recent compositions, suggests somewhat reduced aspirations by comparison to the previous one, which represents the pinnacle of the series (if one volume must be chosen). An event that might have had some bearing on Bach’s decisions about the contents of the last three or four volumes was the sale in 1781 of his famous Silbermann clavichord. Surprisingly few details are known about this instrument, even though Burney and others commented on Bach’s performances with it. It is not entirely certain that it was unfretted, although one would imagine this to have been necessary for it to have been as effective as it evidently was for the performance of Bach’s later keyboard works. Even its maker cannot be positively identified as the famous Gottfried Silbermann, as opposed to another member of the family. The first of the two F-major sonatas in volume 2—W. 55/2, the earliest of the works published in the series—had been composed on this very instrument (see chap. 7). The work avoids the high f‴ that Bach used in later keyboard music, and indeed the upper note of the Silbermann instrument was “only” e‴, according to Claudius, who seems to have been disappointed in it, described it as “small,” with a “bright, ringing, sweet tone” but no particular strength in the bass or a “soft, coaxing” treble.26 That Bach was willing to part with it, however reluctantly, suggests that it no longer served his needs as well as the two five-octave clavichords that he owned at his death, alongside a harpsichord and a piano.27 The prominence of rondos in the publications for Kenner und Liebhaber—and of fantasias that increasingly share their features—suggests that by the end of his life the piano had replaced the clavichord as the medium on which Bach expected his works to be most often performed.

Sonatas The concept of the sonata as a continuous cycle, like the sinfonia, prevails in Bach’s late examples. More than half of the eighteen sonatas in the Kenner und Liebhaber series contain at least one pair of movements that are joined by a modulating transition or in which the first ends on a half cadence. Nontraditional choices of key are practically the rule for slow movements, although none is quite so radical as the Neapolitan opening of the middle movement in the D-Major Sinfonia (W. 183/1). Nor do any of the sonatas go so far as the Fantasia in E-flat (W. 58/6) in setting the middle section a tritone away from the tonic (in A minor). Except for two famous examples in the first volume, neither does any sonata, or even an inner movement, begin outside the tonic, although Bach continued to use this device in the sinfonias that he was composing and publishing during the same period. Swift modulations between remote keys nevertheless remain an obsession, especially in the smaller and

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later sonatas. Only a few sonatas actually omit the slow movement (or reduce it to a brief transition). As in the keyboard trios, however, truncated slow movements are common, as are final movements in something other than sonataallegro or rounded binary form. Among these are two or three modulating rondos, as in W. 55/3 and 59/1, although none is as long or passes through as many keys as the large stand-alone rondos. These trends make the sonatas, especially the smaller, more recent ones, integrated cycles, resembling a multisectional fantasia almost as much as they do a traditional sonata. For instance, in the smaller of the two F-major sonatas in volume 1 (W. 55/5), the Adagio and the final Allegretto both begin on dominant harmonies that connect to the preceding movement. This is the sonata best known for its out-of-tonic opening, which begins with a sequence of two fragmentary phrases in C minor, then D minor. This opening has no exact echo later in the piece, except when it is repeated a fifth higher after the double bar. But both subsequent movements begin with phrases built from the sequential repetition of an appoggiatura, as is the opening phrase of the sonata, where the dotted figure is a written-out compound appoggiatura (ex. 10.14).28 All three movements establish their tonics only gradually, and the final movement even begins, like the first, out of key and piano; only the ensuing phrase tonicizing F major is forte. Neither quick movement is a full sonataallegro form, rather a rounded binary; this helps keep the dimensions of the whole relatively compact and prevents the individual movements from achieving the monumentality that they would have in a conventional sonata. Similar considerations hold for the B-Minor Sonata in the same volume (W. 55/3), although it was composed two years later (in 1774). As in the Sonata in F, the tonally ambivalent opening gesture (which suggests D major) has ramifications for the sonata as a whole. Within the first movement the tonality continuously shifts in both “flat” and “sharp” directions, passing from G major to F-sharp minor in the space of just four measures (mm. 7–11). This very changeability may prepare the listener for the surprising key of the Andante—G minor—which shares its initial melodic gesture with the opening Allegretto: both start with an upward leap followed by a descent through a third (ex. 10.15). The descending third, although never repeated verbatim within the transitional Andante, is further elaborated in the second phrase of the latter, which is an embellished step sequence: b♭′–a♭′–g′ (mm. 9–10) becomes c″– b♭′–a′ (mm. 13–14). The Andante returns to B minor as e″ descends through another third to c♯″, echoing a passage in the first movement (ex. 10.16). The latter passage also includes the extraordinary interval of a diminished octave (E♯/e♮″, m. 24), the product of a cross-relation that is actually quite common in empfindsamer music such as this. The B-Minor Sonata is one of several in the Kenner und Liebhaber collections to end with a small modulating rondo. This one, composed before the larger self-contained rondos, reflects the French origin of the form in its periodic

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Example 10.14. Sonata in F, W. 55/5, (a) movement 1, mm. 1–3; (b) movement 2, mm. 1–4; (c) movement 3, mm. 1–4

Example 10.15. Sonata in B Minor, W. 55/3, (a) movement 1, mm. 1–4; (b) movement 2, mm. 1–4

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Example 10.16. Sonata in B Minor, W. 55/3, (a) movement 2, mm. 9–16 and 20–25 (asterisks mark recurring voice leading); (b) movement 1, mm. 32–36

phrasing and sophisticated meter, opening on an upbeat. It will be misunderstood, and far less expressive, if the initial half measure sounds instead like a downbeat, for the drooping downward leaps in the theme, as well as the dissonant appoggiaturas in the couplets, usually fall on the actual downbeats, standing over the sharpened notes in the ostinato-like bass ($ex. 10.17). The two largest works in volume 1 were among the Potsdam sonatas of 1765. The A-Major Sonata (W. 55/4) is in the grand manner of Bach’s sinfonias, and its first two movements are connected as in the not-so-easy Sonata in F from the “Easy” Sonatas of 1762 (W. 53/6). The G-major work (W. 55/6), although roughly equal in dimensions, is quite different, all three movements being pervaded by the flickering changes of pace and rhythmic fragmentation typical of Bach’s later sonatas. This style, which Bach seems to have cultivated especially in the Potsdam works, must reflect things that would have been heard in Bach’s improvisations—perhaps in private concerts for particularly

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the later keyboard music 233 sophisticated Kenner und Liebhaber such as Krause and his guests. Hints of the style also appear in the Ladies’ Sonatas (especially W. 54/2), as well as in some of the little pieces with varied reprises (W. 113–14). The G-Major Sonata, with its heavy dose of fantasy style—explicit in the unbarred opening of the Andante—is the culminating work of the first set. Although its movements are not literally connected, the cadenza-like passages in the second movement echo the “rubato” ones in the retransition of the first movement and are in turn echoed at the retransition of the third ($ex. 10.18).29 This is not a delicate work; the opening theme, set over a favorite Berlin bass line, is as symphonic in its full harmony as that of the A-major sonata, and the bursts of rapid figuration in all three movements represent sudden incursions of concerto style. All three movements are full sonata forms, although this is hard to see in the through-composed Andante, where all the formal articulations are elided (even the exact moment at which the movement properly begins is blurred, as the opening cadenza never leads to a regular theme).30 The elusiveness of this movement prefigures the shorter, transitional slow movements of the later sonatas; equally suggestive of the direction Bach’s later music would take is the refusal of the final Allegro to maintain any style of surface rhythm for very long. The figuration in this movement seems calculated to prevent the player from maintaining a single speed throughout. Some figures, such as the scale in thirty-seconds within the opening theme, probably need to be given a little extra time if the movement as a whole is to be a true Allegro di molto as indicated. By contrast, the three sonatas of the second volume are all small, the last two essentially dispensing with the slow movement. Yet the A-major work (W. 56/6) is a particularly imaginative example of a “comic” sonata. Although apparently a last-minute addition to the set, it must have been planned to form a pair with the preceding Rondo in A Minor (W. 56/5)—one of only two instances of such a grouping within the series (the other involves two or three pieces in volume 4). The first movement of the sonata has the dimensions of a perfectly symmetrical petite pièce in binary form (16 + 16 measures).31 Yet the diversity of its figuration contradicts its formal simplicity, and a little modulating coda at the end concludes with a half cadence that seems to prepare for a second movement in C major. In fact the next, final movement begins in A minor, its first half cadencing, after a bewildering series of quick modulations, in the unlikely key of B minor.32 Its unconventional tonal design includes a subsequent passage through C major (mm. 29–30), echoing the little transition at the end of the first movement. The tonic A major is confirmed only at the very end, after a recapitulation of the modulating passagework. The latter, divided between the hands, is of the type that Rameau described as batteries; Bach also uses it in all three rondos of the volume ($ex. 10.19).33 That Bach viewed this brilliant little sonata as a unity is implicit in his insistence that Breitkopf not print a separate tempo mark for the final movement.34

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With volume 3 Bach returned to full-length sonatas. Only in this set do sonatas take up more space than rondos, occupying twenty-one of the thirty-eight pages of music in the original edition. The sonatas, moreover, are all in minor keys, their seriousness underlined by their heavily scored opening themes (all involve octaves of some kind). The first sonata, however, is somewhat lighter and shorter than the two others, reflecting its later date (W. 57/2 in A minor was composed in 1774, the others a decade earlier). The famous concluding sonata in F minor was the second in that key that Bach used to end a volume, having previously done so in the Probestücke. It confirms his interest in extreme flat keys, reaching F-flat in movement 1 (m. 55) and E-flat minor in movement 3 (m. 41). The high praise given the F-Minor Sonata by reviewers, from Reichardt onward, reflects its relatively conventional and accessible style; it is the second earliest piece in the Kenner und Liebhaber series, composed in 1763. Listeners have also responded to the unusual key scheme of the first movement, which, as a consequence, includes a retransition of rare dramatic intensity for Bach. Forkel’s account of the entire sonata as a coherent cycle, equivalent to a poetic ode, was probably encouraged by subtle relationships between the movements. A dotted figure in the bass of the Andante is a softened version, in the major mode, of the principal dotted motive of movement 1. Parallel thirds in the main theme of the second movement recur in the minor mode during a transitional coda, and they return as slurred sighs in the theme of the last movement. The latter thus sounds like a sad, resigned version of the Andante; the wistful affect is confirmed by the tempo marking Andantino grazioso, unusual for a final movement (ex. 10.20). The theme of the concluding movement, morever, echoes an unusual passage in the Andante: the return in the latter is prepared by the dominant minor, and a little Anschlag or compound appoggiatura in that passage is heard again in the coda (m. 42) and at the beginning of the last movement (ex. 10.21; cf. ex. 10.20c). Hence, besides an unusual degree of integration between the three movements, the sonata has a distinctive emotional trajectory. It nevertheless suffers from a weakness in its most famous passage, the retransition of the first movement, which has also created difficulties for editors. Here and in a sonata from the following volume (W. 58/2), Bach may have miscalculated the remote modulations that give both works much of their special character. (For more on these issues, see 10.6.) Volume 4 of the series returns to the pattern of alternating short and long sonatas—although there is now only one of each. The smaller and more recent of the two sonatas (W. 58/2), composed in 1781, is remarkable for opening in G and ending in E. This sort of tonal juxtaposition seems to have obsessed Bach during his late period. In W. 58/2 it may have led to a miscalculation, but the two remaining volumes in the Kenner und Liebhaber series both include remarkable late sonatas in E minor, and both make deep forays into “flat” keys,

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the later keyboard music 235 Example 10.20. Sonata in F minor, W. 57/6, (a) movement 2, mm. 1–2; (b) movement 3, mm. 1–2; (c) movement 3, mm. 1–2

Example 10.21. Sonata in F minor, W. 57/6, movement 2, (a) mm. 26–28, (b) mm. 40–44

including G minor. The first of these works, W. 59/1 of 1784, closes with a little modulating rondo in E major; as Bach, unlike his younger contemporaries, rarely changes mode between the first and last movements of a sonata, this work might be considered another instance of one that begins and ends in different keys. Unlike W. 58/2, however, W. 59/1 is one of Bach’s most successful late sonatas, its outer movements joined by a fantasy-like bridge that includes a truncated Adagio in C. The rondo is remarkable for its ending, in which the first two measures of the theme are repeated pianissimo; it therefore opens with its close (see $ex. 9.43b). This, together with its avoidance of the

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dominant—the inner sections modulate instead to A and even D—gives it an elegiac quality, despite a few brief flashes of brilliant passagework. Bach may have recognized that he had created something special in this sonata, for he placed it first in volume 5, the only sonata to stand in that position since the introduction of rondos in volume 2. Its companion sonata in the same volume, W. 59/3 in B-flat, was, uniquely, a “large” sonata that Bach had composed recently, in 1784 just before the E-minor one. It is, however, in symphonic style—Bach’s last and most subtle sonata of that type. The final volume again contains only two sonatas (W. 61/2 and 61/4), but both are small and comparatively straightforward. Composed consecutively in 1785, they raise the question of why Bach should have written these at all while leaving unpublished several other works that seem deserving of inclusion in the series. The varied reprises of the sonatas W. 65/44 and 65/46, both composed in 1766, probably made them too long to publish in the Kenner und Liebhaber series,35 which includes varied reprises only in two shorter sonatas, W. 56/4 (movement 1) and W. 61/5 (movement 3). It is less easy to understand why Bach published the lengthy E-Minor Sonata W. 58/4 of 1765 while leaving out a work in B-flat (W. 65/45) from the following year that is at least as impressive. Perhaps the decision to include the large rondo in B-flat (W. 58/5), languishing since 1779, ruled out a “large” sonata in the same key. Yet Bach may have tried to find a way to include the latter, for around this time he composed an alternate last movement for it, an Allegretto close in style to the more fantastic and epigrammatic sonatas in the Kenner und Liebhaber series. Yet this too might have seemed redundant, in view of a parallel between the new movement and a passage in the Sonata W. 58/2 ($ex. 10.24).36 Of greater interest musically is the C-Major Sonata W. 65/47. It has long been recognized as perhaps the most radical of all Bach’s keyboard sonatas in its constant changes of figuration and the interruptions of its underlying voice leading. Berg called it one of the composer’s most “capricious” works,37 which does not quite do justice to the purposefulness with which Bach displaces tones, especially in the bass, from their expected rhythmic and registral positions ($ex. 10.25). Composed in 1775, it would be Bach’s last solo keyboard sonata until 1780. In form and general character it resembles its two immediate predecessors, W. 56/2 and 55/3 of 1774; like them, it is a “comic” sonata with a short slow movement that leads directly into the finale, and the slow movement opens in the Neapolitan (as in the D-Major Sinfonia of 1776). The theme of the Adagio echoes an idea in the first movement, where it is heard in A-flat, anticipating the even “flatter” tonality of the second movement ($ex. 10.26).38 It is difficult to understand why W. 65/47, a significant work, was not published in the Kenner und Liebhaber series. Perhaps Bach found that its length, which is somewhat greater than that of other short or “comic” sonatas of the period, made it hard to fit into the scheme of the volumes as they eventually appeared. Considerations of key might also have been involved, for

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the later keyboard music 237 volume 1 opened with an easier, smaller, and simpler work in C composed two years previously, and volume 2 began with a rondo in the same tonality, which Bach might have been reluctant to repeat. (On several other late keyboard sonatas not published in the collections for Kenner und Liebhaber, see 10.7.)

Rondos The thirteen modulating rondos of the Kenner und Liebhaber collections are not rondos in the usual sense, for the main theme does not alternate with conventional secondary themes or couplets. In place of the latter are modulating phrases and restatments of the main theme in foreign keys, as well as extended episodes that may resemble either the solo passagework of a concerto or the free, improvisatory writing of a cadenza. Hence these pieces have some of the style of a fantasia, and, as the recurrences of the theme are often embellished, they also recall the varied reprises of Bach’s sonatas and other works of the 1760s and later. This form, unique to Bach, emerged from shorter, simpler realizations of the idea in the ensemble sonatinas and keyboard trios of the mid-1760s and mid-1770s. Bach might also have been improvising a type of modulating fantasia with a recurring theme long before he wrote any such things down. The large modulating rondos nevertheless differ from Bach’s free fantasias in the regular, periodic phrasing of their themes and, usually, of the first few episodes or contrasting passages. To that limited degree they resemble the old French Baroque rondeau, whose traces are more readily detectable in Bach’s little keyboard pieces and the small rondo movements in some of the sonatas and other multimovement works. Only the faintest echo of French Baroque harpsichord style remains in any of the late modulating rondos, whose themes are rather Classical in a general way. For instance, that of the D-Major Rondo (W. 56/3) is reminiscent of Haydn in its reliance on a perky repeated-note motive ($ex. 10.28); most, however, have somewhat gentler themes. The famous “Farewell” Rondo (W. 66) is not the only sad one, but of the rondos for Kenner und Liebhaber only the one in A minor (W. 56/5) is entirely serious in tone, the two others in minor keys being decidedly lighter if not “comic.” One of the more impressive aspects of these rondos is the way they gradually leave behind the simple style of their themes. The process usually begins in the first episode, which, although adhering to the periodic phrasing of the theme, functions like the modulating passage that typically follows the initial statement of the theme in a sonata movement. Subsequent episodes modulate more remotely and may be disrupted by the same types of pauses and sudden changes of pacing that occur in Bach’s sonatas and fantasias. In most of the rondos, one or more of these later episodes is an extended passage filled with arpeggiated figuration or batteries. The theme itself, in addition to undergoing variation in Bach’s usual manner, may also be expanded by the

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insertion of parenthetical phrases, as in the lengthy modulating progression that interrupts one of the restatments of the theme in the A-Minor Rondo (see $ex. 10.13). At the end, however, most of the rondos return to their original style, and several conclude by simply restating all or part of the main theme in its original form.39 These rondos are remote from those of Haydn and Mozart. Although they incorporate elements of sonata style, they are less fully integrated than a typical Viennese Classical sonata-rondo. Modulating plans are more irregular, if not arbitrary, and, as in Bach’s sinfonias and ensemble sonatinas, modulating bridges may be tacked on inorganically to the ends of thematic passages. The figuration of the episodes is rarely very difficult, allowing amateurs to imagine that they demonstrate some technical accomplishment by playing them. Even more than in Bach’s concertos—where the solo passagework is not always much harder—to make these passages actually impressive requires performing them with the freedom that befits their essentially improvisatory nature. According to NV, the first three rondos, in volume 2, were composed successively in 1778, in the order in which they were published two years later. The music seems to bear this out, for the second and third rondos, in D major and A minor, already suggest sophistication beyond the first, in C. Their themes are each constructed from a single motive that can be readily developed by sequence or inversion, rather than merely varied as in the initial C-Major Rondo. That Bach’s understanding of what he had created was evolving rapidly is suggested by his remark to Breitkopf in March 1781 that the rondos of the next volume would be “quite distinct” from the first three.40 Yet the difference is not obvious, and it is possible that, after writing this, Bach changed his plans with respect to which rondos he would publish next. It is true that the rondos of volume 3 are, on the whole, somewhat shorter and simpler than those of volume 2—at least after the first in each volume, which is significantly longer than the others.41 But it is possible that Bach, at the time of the letter, expected volume 3 to include not only the large rondo in E (W. 57/1) but the equally ambitious rondos in G and B-flat (W. 59/2 and 58/5). Bach had composed these consecutively in 1779, after writing the F-major rondo (W. 57/5) as well; not only are these rondos in E, G, and B-flat particularly lengthy, but they develop motives from their themes with special intensity. They also incorporate their passagework episodes into a sonata-like formal design, with substantial amounts of recapitulation in the later sections of each piece. Nevertheless, by the time Bach sent Breitkopf his manuscript for volume 3—almost a month after promising on April 3 that he would send it “in a few days”42—he had decided to send the slighter rondos in G and F (W. 57/3 and 57/5), saving the larger and more impressive ones for subsequent volumes. The most popular of the rondos today are probably those that come closest to the Classical style. These include the one in C minor (W. 59/4), which is unique for its relatively conventional rondo form, at least up to the third

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the later keyboard music 239 restatement of the theme (m. 77). Not only does the first secondary section (mm. 19–26) present an actual contrasting theme, but so do the next two episodes (at mm. 36 and 64). Most of the restatements of the main theme are varied, and some of the variations might elicit momentary surprise. But only during the third episode does the regular phrasing begin to be disrupted by fermatas and unusual modulations. The one passagework episode is relatively short (mm. 87–95), and as it comes near the end of the piece it serves as a sort of climax, although the strongest passage occurs with the incursion of additional passagework into the final statement of the theme (from m. 98). The quizzical ending—the first six notes of the theme, followed by silence (see $ex. 9.42)—is an amusing novelty, but the work as a whole hardly represents a serious departure from ordinary eighteenth-century musical discourse. As entertaining as the piece is, neither this nor the broadly similar Rondo in D Minor (W. 61/4), the last in the series, quite dispels the suspicion that Bach’s imagination was wearing thin in his later pieces for Kenner und Liebhaber. Within volume 5, the companion to the C-Minor Rondo was the larger rondo in G (W. 59/2), which had been composed five years earlier, in 1779. It is a much more substantial composition, if less immediately accessible. Its allusive harmony achieves something like the expressive mystery of the great fantasias, as in a passage that twice sways uncertainly between B minor and C; at one point the two keys are suggested simultaneously by a French sixth chord, very rare even in Bach’s music (m. 72; see $ex. 10.29). The entire passage is later recapitulated a minor third lower (at m. 123), although the tonic is not reestablished until the final section, which celebrates the fact in a passage that 6 resembles a cadenza, marking the arrival on a I4 chord (m. 176). This is not the only such ending in the rondos. A longer and more traditional cadenza concludes the brilliant rondo in B-flat (W. 58/5), composed just after the one in G but not published until two years later; the Fantasia in C, W. 59/6, ends with a comparable passage (see ex. 10.33). Around the time that Bach was finalizing the contents of volume 3, he was also selling his Silbermann clavichord and composing the famous rondo that went with it to Jelgava (German Mitau) in what is now Latvia. The new owner was Dietrich Ewald von Grotthuß, a member of the German-speaking elite of the region. An admirer of Bach, Grotthuß was in Hamburg during summer 1781; that August, Bach wrote his “Farewell to My Silbermann Clavichord” (Abschied von meinem Silbermannischen Claviere).43 The piece provided “proof that one can also write lamenting rondos; it can be played well on no other keyboard than yours.”44 By then Bach had already composed at least one other serious rondo, the one in A minor. The “Farewell” Rondo (W. 66), however, is for the clavichord, as shown by numerous indications for Bebung (mostly on suspensions within the main theme). Naturally, it avoids the lively figuration included in most of Bach’s recent pieces of this type—although not the relatively short E-major rondo (W. 58/3) that immediately followed it. The

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“Farewell” Rondo also largely avoids variation technique, although several statements of the theme are expanded by chromatic interpolations somewhat like those in the A-Minor Rondo. These, characteristically, veer off in the extreme “flat” direction. The work closes, remarkably, with such a phrase, touching as late as five measures from the end on B-flat minor before sinking back to E minor in utter gloom ($ex. 10.30).

Fantasias In the Versuch Bach had written that keyboard players were expected to be capable of “making fantasias of all sorts,” presumably meaning improvisations. The “unmeasured free fantasia” was especially “suited for the expression of affects,” especially when form and rhythm were unfettered by conventions or bar lines.45 Bach illustrated this sort of playing in the last of the Probestücke, the “Hamlet” fantasia, whose outer sections are notated without bar lines. Bach subsequently published two smaller free fantasias as well as a few shorter, fully measured pieces also designated fantasias; several other examples of both types survive in manuscript. The seven late fantasias—six of them published in the last three volumes of the Kenner und Liebhaber series—differ substantially from these earlier ones, and they reveal significant distinctions between one another as well. Although the final chapter of the Versuch provided a framework for understanding the free fantasia, the idea that such a piece is an elaborated realization of a figured bass explains only its immediate harmony or voice leading; it does not account for large-scale form and tonal design, motivic and thematic content, and other essential elements of the music. Form and motivic coherence are not serious concerns in small pieces like the little D-Major Fantasia that accompanied volume 2 of the Versuch (W. 117/14). But already in the somewhat larger G-Minor Fantasia (W. 117/13) published in the Musikalisches Vielerley, or in the earlier unpublished Fantasia in E-flat (H. 348), the work is given shape by toccata- or cadenza-like opening and closing passages, which function like a ritornello in an aria or a concerto movement. In between come passages of various types, some based on broken chords, others resembling instrumental recitative or the truncated slow movements of certain sonatas. Slower passages often involve a switch to measured notation, and in the late fantasias anything may be recapitulated in a later section, articulating a design that, as in the late rondos, resembles that of a movement in a concerto or sonata. Hence a “free” fantasia—for Bach, one lacking regular meter and modulating more widely than others, written or improvised (Versuch, ii.41.1)—is not as arbitrary or improvisatory as the expression implies. Even the meter of the unbarred sections usually is, as Bach explained, essentially quadruple: one can interpret long stretches of these pieces in common time, inserting virtual bar lines at regular intervals, as one early copyist actually did for part

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the later keyboard music 241 of a manuscript of the first fantasia in the Kenner und Liebhaber series.46 Doing so is essential for analyzing these pieces, and although one would not want to see actual bar lines added in a modern edition, reference is made below to the equivalent number of measures of 44 within the unbarred portions of these works. Thus in the Fantasia in E-flat (W. 58/6), the initial unbarred section can be divided into exactly forty-four measures of common time, in keeping with the meter symbol “C” at the beginning of the piece.47 The fantasias in E-flat and A that Bach included in volume 4 were actually preceded by the Fantasia in F (W. 59/5). All three were composed in 1782, but the F-major work came out only in volume 5, alongside a newly composed fantasia in C. The sequence of composition is significant, for the F-major work is closer to Bach’s earlier fantasias than the two that immediately followed it. All are in three sections, like the “Hamlet” Fantasia of three decades earlier: a slow inner section in measured time is framed by quicker unbarred outer sections. But as in the “Hamlet” Fantasia, the F-major work recapitulates none of the actual music of the opening section; rather it comprises three distinct movements. The next fantasia, in A (W. 58/7), integrates the design by bringing back material from the first section in the third, albeit out of sequence. The Fantasia in E-flat (W. 58/6) deepens the assimilation to sonata form by recapitulating, in order, more than half of the opening section, much of it transposed downward by a fifth, just as in the final section of a sonata-allegro.48 Its inner section, moreover, is a self-contained binary form—not a truncated one as in the previous two fantasias—broken off only by the elision of the final cadence into the following allegro. This gives the entire work a highly symmetrical architecture; even the maintenance of common time in the unbarred sections is more regular than in the other fantasias.49 The highly cogent design of the E-flat-major fantasia is not necessarily a sign of progress or of a more effective composition. But it does suggest that, while writing these three fantasias, Bach’s view of the genre evolved toward a more formal, less improvisatory concept. When he returned to the fantasia two years later, in the C-major work of 1784, he found a sophisticated medium between relatively free and relatively structured types of design. The new work maintains the fundamental idea of framing a lyrical central section between improvisatory outer ones. But the form is complicated by the presence of two contrasting inner, measured sections; it is the second of these, marked Allegretto, that constitutes the chief central portion of the fantasia. This Allegretto is a truncated rondo rather than a binary form, and the transition back to the opening music involves an alternation between fragments of the latter and of the opening Andantino, blurring the boundary between middle section and frame. The evolution of style within these four fantasias suggests that, although Bach must have been improvising fantasias for decades, he did not begin assimilating them to sonata form, incorporating substantial amounts of recapitulated or transposed material, until he set such music down on paper. Writing the

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music down also would have made Bach conscious of certain recurring motives or formulas, which might be useful in actual improvisation but became a sign of a weak imagination in a series of written compositions. Bach does repeat a few ideas, such as the broken chords graced with appoggiaturas that occur not only in the “Hamlet” Fantasia but in the two fantasias published in volume 5 of the Kenner und Liebhaber series ($ex. 10.31). On the whole, however, his published fantasias show as much variety as any other category of his music. Conceptualizing a fantasia as a sort of elaborate figured bass realization could provide only a basic model for understanding the musical surface. The discussion in the Versuch suggests that Bach at the time had devoted little conscious thought to the expressive possibilities of form in these pieces—whether, for instance, to incorporate a dramatic return to previously heard material, as in a sonata, or, rather, to restate matter only imprecisely or fleetingly. The latter less obvious approach produced the dreamlike transitions of the great C-major fantasia, which achieves deep pathos in its final moments through a tiny echo of the central Allegretto (ex. 10.32a). The chief motive of the latter returns, in the form of a few two-note slurs that now point, disorientingly, toward a cadence in D minor (ex. 10.32b). An ending in the proper C major is reached only by a difficult route through the parallel minor; the passage again evokes the slurred theme before a cadenza-like passage on a 46 chord concludes the piece triumphantly (ex. 10.33). Not all fantasias were “free”; whatever this term meant precisely, it can hardly be applied to the last two fantasias of the Kenner und Liebhaber series. These intermingle in volume 6 with the rondos and sonatas, rather than falling together at the end of the set. Whether or not this signified a demotion of the fantasias from their role as the culmination of the volume, it does symbolize their stylistic assimilation to the other pieces. The work in B-flat (W. 61/3) was the last of the Kenner und Liebhaber fantasias to be composed, in 1786, but like its companion in C, written just before it, it is measured throughout, although the meter changes. Both pieces combine elements of sonata and rondo with fantasia, but the work in B-flat is essentially a large, if unusually free, sonata form in 43 time, with flourishes serving as ritornellos or frames before the first two main sections and at the end. The C-Major Fantasia (W. 61/6) is essentially a modulating rondo, but with distinct tempo and meter for its two episodes and without the modulating passagework found in most of the actual rondos in the Kenner und Liebhaber series. Although in the same key as the fantasia that concluded the previous volume, it is utterly different, closer to the two rondos of volume 6 in its focus on developing motivic ideas from its opening theme.50 Lighter and less challenging than W. 59/6, it is far more often played. If the two fantasias of 1786 do not achieve the richness or subtlety of the previous four, it was by design; their distinct forms and notation imply that Bach had no intention of repeating what he had already accomplished in earlier pieces. Yet he was not finished with the fantasia, and in his last such work

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the later keyboard music 243 Example 10.32. Fantasia in C, W. 59/6, (a) mm. 31–38; (b) mm. 130–35 (CPEBCW 1/4.2)

Example 10.33. Fantasia in C, W. 59/6, mm. 136–43 (CPEBCW 1/4.2)

he returned to the “dark” type that he avoided publishing in the sets for Kenner und Liebhaber. The Fantasia in F-sharp Minor (W. 67), composed in 1787, was ostensibly Bach’s last keyboard work. Even if its listing as such in NV was symbolic—it may have been followed by W. 65/19 (see 10.7)—it is certainly his last major composition for his favorite instrument. He subsequently added an accompaniment for violin and attached a sonata movement in A major, titling the new work “C. P. E. Bach’s Sentiments” (Empfindungen).

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The original fantasia returns to the free type, and it is “dark” not only in key but in manner. Its outer sections, uniquely, are marked Adagio, relieved by brief allegretto passages only after long stretches of slow, serious music. The middle section, which returns twice, is a Largo. Whether Bach expected the pulse of the Largo to be slower than that of the adagio sections is unclear, but on the whole it moves in larger note values. Bach probably understood largo in its literal sense of “broad,” whereas adagio for him may have retained its old connotation of rhythmic freedom, especially within the written-out melodic embellishment that is more frequent in these sections of the piece. Bach’s arrangement of the fantasia as an accompanied-keyboard work with violin (W. 80) is almost entirely measured, but this is clearly a concession to the need to coordinate the two players. Only a few passages show substantive differences between the original and the keyboard part of the arrangement. Although the bar lines do not always correspond to the actual meter—downbeats in the opening passage are shifted to the middle of the measure in some of its restatements—they provide a suggestion of how Bach understood the rhythm of passages that were originally unbarred. Measure numbers in the arrangement also provide a useful basis for analysis, showing, for example, that a “subdominant recapitulation” begins where we would expect it, almost exactly two-thirds of the way through (m. 65). The middle section, consisting primarily of the Largo, occupies the central third of the piece (measures 31–61, continuing through measure 64 if one includes passagework that serves as a retransition). Bach did not rebar the entire piece in common time. In the allegretto passages, where the keyboard has batteries as in the episodes of a modulating rondo or concerto, Bach created measures of 42, not 44. Even within other passages that are largely in 44, he drew a few bar lines to create isolated measures of 42, without altering the time signature.51 In one of the allegretto passages—designated an Allegro in the arrangement (mm. 76ff.)—he gave the meter as 43, showing that he was less dogmatic in real life, or at least in later life, than suggested by the rules in the Versuch.52 As in other fantasias, a number of recurring passages, including the opening Adagio, were probably variations of formulas that Bach employed frequently in improvisatory playing.53 Even the Largo, which uses the more lyrical or cantabile style that Bach tended to place in the middle sections of his longer fantasias, has been traced to an earlier work, the song “Andenken an den Tod” (W. 198/12) from the second Sturm set.54 The similarity, however, ends after the first measure, which is fairly formulaic, and it may be no more significant than other thematic parallels that inevitably arise in the work of a composer who wrote over a thousand pieces. Although the overall design resembles sonata form, there is relatively little recapitulation, as in the earlier fantasias in C and B-flat (W. 59/6 and 61/3).55 The piece concludes not by returning to the opening, that is, the ruminative Adagio, but to the Largo, whose little

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the later keyboard music 245 two-measure echo at the close is a quiet, immensely sad version of the thematic fragment at the end of the Rondo in C Minor ($ex. 10.34). Bach’s addition of a violin part came six years after his composition of an Arioso with variations in A major (W. 79), also for keyboard with violin. These are Bach’s only works for that combination of instruments, and their keys are complementary. The two are listed consecutively in NV as the last two “trios,” inviting potential buyers to purchase and perform them together, although they are not found together in any contemporary copies.56 With its famous title—C. P. E. Bachs Empfindungen—the arrangement of the fantasia seems to demand that it be taken very seriously. Yet the addition of a trifling second movement suggests that, however much he was feeling his age, Bach retained his sense of humor; the fantasia is not necessarily a meditation on death,57 and the title has at least a glimmer of irony about it. The precise meaning of the title depends on whether the word Empfindungen had become by 1787 a commonplace expression, with no precise signification, or was still a term of art, as perhaps it had been when Bach’s friend Bode used it almost two decades earlier to translate the title of Sterne’s Sentimental Journey. Whether or not the word in Bach’s title referred specifically to Sterne’s novel, as has been suggested,58 Bach, like Sterne, subverted its original quite serious meaning by linking the arrangement of his “dark” fantasia with that of a light, much earlier sonata movement. Bach’s “sentiments” are not all gloomy, expressed in a dream-like free fantasia; they also include delight in urbane wit, articulated within a rational sonata form. The concluding Allegro was the original final movement of the Sonata W. 65/45, composed in 1766. Although marked only “Allegro,” it is an example of the scherzando gigue or siciliano that was fashionable at that time in Berlin, usually serving as a final movement, as in the B-minor duo sonata W. 76. Perhaps it was only in 1787, when Bach arranged this movement for W. 80, that he also wrote a substitute finale in his mature style for W. 65/46 (which therefore is another composition with a claim to being his last keyboard work; see 10.7). The addition of varied reprises in the version with violin gave Bach the opportunity to provide the latter instrument with a few almost-essential bits of music, filling in rests in the keyboard part—as it does also in the coda of the companion variations (W. 79). Bach added a two-measure coda to bring his Empfindungen to a brilliant conclusion, quite leaving behind the dour fantasia. C. P. E. Bachs Empfindungen was only the most important of many ensemble arrangements that Bach carried out at Hamburg. His years there also saw a few variation sets in addition to the Arioso. A number of these works are considered in 10.8.

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Chapter Eleven

Church Piece and Oratorio at Hamburg Bach’s transformation into a composer primarily of sacred vocal music seems at first glance to have taken place quite suddenly. Hardly any works are datable to 1768, the year of Bach’s move to Hamburg. But NV places several major vocal works in 1769, including his first Hamburg passion and an oratorio, alongside a number of instrumental works.1 Although the move must have taken some toll on Bach’s productivity, he seems to have found life at Hamburg comfortable and congenial. He must have quickly established good working relationships with his musicians and several reliable copyists, ensuring the steady output of music not only for church and concert hall but for publication and sale. As a result, during his twenty years at Hamburg he produced vocal as well as instrumental works at a pace unprecedented for him, while successfully negotiating a hectic schedule of church and concert performances. Viewed broadly, Bach’s sacred vocal music resembles that of his father. The most important works are what we call cantatas and oratorios, most of them comprising recitatives, arias, and choral movements accompanied by instrumental ensemble; the texts mingle newly composed “madrigalesque” poetry with bible verses and chorale stanzas. Emanuel’s generation was one of the last to write such works on a regular basis for church use. Immediately after his death, the Hamburg authorities instituted fundamental changes in the local church music, and similar reforms took place during the same period across Lutheran Germany. When Bach arrived at Hamburg, however, the tradition in which he had grown up seemed strong, and he would have assumed that the music he was to perform there could resemble what he had known in church services at Leipzig and Berlin. Although Bach’s dismissal from the Berlin court took place before the end of 1767, his move to Hamburg was delayed by a few months, and he was not officially installed in his new position until April 19, 1768. He appears to have commenced his duties at Hamburg with the performance of an Easter piece

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on April 2, and by April 28 he had also directed his first public concert (see chap. 9). That summer he led one or more performances of a church piece for the feast of the Visitation (July 2), and on August 25 he provided music for the installation of Albert Georg Brandes as deacon, the first of many such festive inaugurations in which he would participate. Not until the following year is there firm evidence for further new musical works, but during 1769 he apparently completed, in addition to the works previously mentioned, music for two further inaugurations of pastors as well as at least two more church pieces for major dates in the liturgical year (Pentecost and Michaelmas).2 He also completed the Passion Cantata—in modern terms an oratorio—during the same period. (The expression church piece will be used here in place of cantata; for a note on terminology, see 11.1.) The Passion Cantata was in fact a concert version of the 1769 Saint Matthew Passion, and the piece performed for Brandes’s installation was largely a 1739 work by Telemann.3 The Visitation piece was partly by one Hoffmann, and substantial portions of the music for Easter and Pentecost were by Homilius.4 Thus, from the very beginning of his Hamburg period, Bach followed what would be his regular pattern there of performing both church and concert music that was at least partly composed by others. The passion music performed during Lent 1769 incorporated recitatives, duets and choruses, and chorale settings by J. S. Bach, Homilius, and possibly others, although the Passion Cantata derived from it was entirely Emanuel’s. The first few months in a position might have required any music director to make do with performances of older works as he learned the details of his new job, acquainted himself with the various performance venues and the capabilities of the musicians under his direction, and established his working routines. But Emanuel probably came to Hamburg already expecting to rely on previously composed music for the fulfillment of his official responsbilities. He certainly intended to engage in public concerts and other unofficial activities that would take up a considerable portion of his time and energy. Before leaving Berlin, he would have had a clear understanding not only of what would be formally expected of him at Hamburg but also of the opportunities there for extracurricular composition and performance. He had visited in 1751, and he corresponded with both Telemann, his godfather and predecessor, and Telemann’s grandson Georg Michael, who served as interim music director at Hamburg after his grandfather’s death on June 25, 1767. Bach’s questions for the younger Telemann—the latter’s replies do not survive—show him preparing conscientiously for his new position, inquiring about things such as the types of texts and music used in church services and the availability of copyists.5 The delay that kept Bach in the Prussian capital during winter 1768 presumably gave him an opportunity to consolidate his thoughts about his new position and to prepare his first musical offerings at Hamburg. It was customary

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in the latter city for passion music to be performed at the various churches throughout Lent; in the five principal churches, this music was a traditional liturgical passion based on one of the four gospels, which changed from year to year according to a regular rotation. The gospel assigned for 1768 was that of Saint Luke, but Bach had yet to arrive in Hamburg when passion performances were scheduled to begin on February 21. G. M. Telemann therefore led reperformances of his grandfather’s 1736 Saint Luke Passion (TWV 5:21).6 Bach’s first Hamburg passion, the Saint Matthew Passion H. 782, was not heard until the following year, “resetting” the four-year cycle of gospel texts for the passion (John’s would normally have been that year’s gospel). Bach’s work was based on a libretto by the Berlin poet Anna Luisa Karsch, three of whose songs he had set in the 1764 Gellert Appendix.7 It has therefore been assumed that Bach at least “started to assemble” the text for his first Hamburg passion while still in Berlin.8 Yet the work performed in 1769 included an aria on a text by Eschenburg that Telemann had used in his 1764 Saint Luke Passion (TWV 5: 49).9 When Bach subsequently converted his 1769 Saint Matthew Passion into the Passion Cantata, he incorporated this aria as well as settings of new verses by his friend Ebeling; the latter replaced the gospel narrative and chorales. The significance of this complicated textual history is that it throws into doubt any conclusions that might be drawn about when Bach actually began composing music for the Hamburg churches. At Hamburg it would become Bach’s practice to prepare each season’s Lenten passion during the previous fall; this allowed time for the numerous performing parts to be copied out before performances began. But even if Bach had intended to do the same in preparation for the Lenten season of 1768, NV lists his first Saint Matthew Passion as a Hamburg composition of “1768 and 1769.” A similar formula is included in the entry for each of the subsequent passions that Bach produced for the next twenty years. The original performing parts for the 1769 Saint Matthew Passion, mostly in the hand of one of Bach’s regular Hamburg copyists, show no sign that “Wende dich,” the aria on Eschenburg’s text, was a later insertion. These parts must have been prepared only after Bach’s arrival, long after they could have been used for performances in 1768. It is therefore uncertain whether Bach composed anything for the Hamburg churches prior to his arrival. His delay is usually attributed to harsh winter weather, but is it possible that he intentionally postponed his move in part to avoid rushing into the particularly demanding Lenten musical season? The details of his new position would have become entirely clear to him only after his arrival, and prudence would have counseled not investing substantial effort in preparing compositions for musicians, venues, and listeners he did not know. He might have intentionally held back from presenting entirely new music at Hamburg prior to the first performance of his Saint Matthew Passion on February 5, 1769. This was, like all his subsequent works of this kind, pieced together out of music from various sources, but it was exceptional in both its

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length and the proportion of original music that it contained; Bach must have intended it to make a deep impression, even if he also planned from the start to rework it as an oratorio for concert use.

Bach as Church Musician At Hamburg, Bach was officially engaged as cantor and director of music in the city’s five principal churches. His position therefore was roughly equivalent to his father’s at Leipzig, and like Sebastian’s it brought him into direct contact with the city’s intellectual and social elite. Unlike Leipzig, Hamburg was neither a publishing center nor a university city, but as a major port it enjoyed good communication with markets across northern Europe, including England. Larger and wealthier than Leipzig, Hamburg was also politically independent, and its status as a free imperial city—in theory subject only to the emperor, in practice an autonomous republic—was confirmed by the Gottorp Agreement, promulgated in the year of Bach’s arrival. This was an auspicious moment in Hamburg history, and Bach’s installation as an important municipal employee—a prominent, internationally known figure replacing another (Telemann)—was a not insignificant addition to the luster of the city. Bach’s position as cantor was an educational one, but the institution with which it was associated, the Johanneum (which still exists), was a sort of high school, not a traditional choir school like Leipzig’s Saint Thomas School. Therefore, Emanuel was less directly involved with the training of young musicians than his father had been. On the other hand, there were five, not two, main city churches, as well as a number of smaller ones, and Emanuel was responsible for the music during no fewer than 130 or so services each year. These included vespers as well as the principal Sunday and holiday services, and they were distributed among the various churches according to a complicated rotational schedule.10 Although the performing ensemble remained small by modern standards, the length and relatively heavy instrumentation of many numbers, by comparison with norms of the previous generation, meant that well over a dozen performing parts had to be copied for most occasions, including transposed copies of the organ part to accommodate the three different pitches of the instruments in the various churches. The complete stack of parts required for a passion or other major work was a hefty pile of well over 100 sheets (close to 300 pages in some cases). Bach rarely wrote out more than a small fraction of these himself, but he had at least to check them over, often adding verbal rubrics or small revisions and corrections to the music, as can be seen in many surviving examples. The most important services were those at Christmas, Easter, Pentecost, and Michaelmas. Those holidays divided the liturgical year into four seasons or quarters, and the large works performed on those occasions were known as

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Quartalsstücke or Quartalsmusiken; here they will be termed “seasonal pieces.” In addition to providing music for those occasions, as well as for ordinary Sundays and holidays, Bach was responsible for passion music during Lent. There were, in addition, various special services requiring music, above all the festive inaugurations or installations of pastors and other church officials, for which lengthy compositions known as Einführungsmusiken or “inaugural pieces” were required. Bach produced as many as five of these in a given year, and there were also other expectations, such as the provision of music for annual gatherings of the officers of the city militia, known as the Bürgerkapitänsmusiken, here “militia music.” With this last category we leave strictly liturgical music for performances of a more civic or secular nature, but the lines were blurred. The militia music included oratorios as well as serenatas, and the texts and music of both types were hardly distinguishable in form, style, and sometimes even content from those heard during church services. The same passion music performed in church during Lent might also be included in concerts, whose repertory included other sacred music as well. Telemann had managed to carry out essentially the same official responsibilities as Bach, while directing numerous concerts and composing vast quantities of instrumental and vocal music— operas and oratorios as well as liturgical music. Bach, who worked more slowly and cautiously, must have known that he would never produce music at the rate of Telemann. To follow his predecessor in producing concerts and publications as well as church works would require him to perform music by others. He must have planned from the start that he would fulfill his formal responsibilities with reperformances and arrangements of existing works; new compositions would be reserved chiefly for concerts and publications, as well as to fulfill the occasional commission. His father may have furnished a model for this; by 1734, when Emanuel left Leipzig, Sebastian was rarely composing new church pieces, and his liturgical repertory during the 1730s and 1740s may have included a greater number of pastiches and other borrowed music than was previously thought.11 By that point in his career, however, Sebastian possessed a repertory of at least 200 of his own church pieces, for virtually every possible occasion; Emanuel had composed not even a handful.12 The fundamental questions, then, concerning Bach’s work as a composer of sacred music are to what extent the music provided for all these occasions comprised his own new compositions and how significant these are within Bach’s total output, and for music history generally. Since his own time, it has been known that much of the sacred music that Bach performed at Hamburg consisted of parodies, pastiches, and outright reperformances of music by other composers. But precisely how much new music he wrote, and exactly what was involved in creating a parody or a pastiche out of existing music, were unclear throughout the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, as virtually the whole of Bach’s repertory for the Hamburg churches was lost or inaccessible.

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The situation changed dramatically with the recovery of many of Bach’s original materials for his Hamburg church music in the archive of the SingAkademie zu Berlin. The accessibility of this collection since 2000 has made it possible to reconstruct Bach’s Hamburg activities far more completely and accurately than before, although scholars are still sifting through the voluminous material. At this writing, the majority of his Hamburg vocal works have yet to appear in critical editions, but enough is available to permit a fair evaluation of Bach’s musical activities during his last twenty years.13 From this it is clear that the old view of Bach’s later vocal works as largely derivative and musically insignificant was misleading. Yet Bach himself appears to have regarded his strictly liturgical music as secondary to his other work, instrumental as well as vocal. Although his church music is hardly devoid of significant original content, the extraliturgical vocal compositions that he published or presented in public concerts seem, on the whole, to be more original and distinctive. It was one of these works that Bach described as his “swan song,” but these compositions, discussed in chapter 12, cannot be fully understood outside the context of his music for the Hamburg churches. Bach’s official responsibilities at Hamburg must have taken more of his time and energy than the apparently light duties of his court position at Berlin. At Hamburg he nevertheless brought out ambitious publications almost every year, and he continued to sell manuscript copies of his music, often in newly revised forms. His letters, which are preserved in large numbers only from these years, document his collaborations with Breitkopf and other publishers as well as his dealings with individual subscribers and sales agents for works that he published himself. We also possess—chiefly in the Sing-Akademie archive— manuscript scores and parts for dozens of large-scale vocal works. Like other eighteenth-century church-music directors, Bach frequently recorded the years in which each liturgical work was performed on its title page—useful to him for knowing when he could safely repeat a particular composition, for us in reconstructing its performance history. In many cases Bach also entered the names of singers responsible for performing individual parts. Among these were the tenor Johann Heinrich Michel, who became Bach’s chief Hamburg copyist by the 1780s,14 and one Herr Wrede, whose extraordinary vocal abilities made it possible for him to be assigned tenor as well as bass arias of considerable virtuosity.15 The mere clerical labor involved in preparing and proofreading scores and parts for performances and publications, as well as writing letters and maintaining records relating to publications—not to mention directing performances—makes it a wonder that Bach did any new composing at Hamburg at all. That he probably composed more there than ever was due in part to his efficient way of producing music for church services. Bach appears to have established early in his Hamburg period a repertory of works that could rotate, over a period of several years, with a few others designated for the

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same occasion. For many of the seasonal pieces, however, and for all the passions, the repertory was less one of works, in the usual sense, than of several basic templates, each comprising a core set of movements around which Bach might insert or substitute new arias and choruses each year, replacing existing ones. Thus there were, in principle, four passions, one for each of the gospels; these began with the Saint Matthew Passion in 1769, followed by a Saint Mark Passion in 1770, then passions according to Luke and John (for a list of Bach’s passions, see 11.2). When it came time to repeat the Saint Matthew Passion, in 1773, Bach reused most of the setting of the gospel itself, that is, narration and dialogue set chiefly as recitative together with occasional duets and turba choruses. He also repeated most of the chorale settings that he had used in 1769. Much of that music was from Sebastian’s Saint Matthew Passion (BWV 244), but whereas this had been supplemented in 1769 by many of Emanuel’s own arias and other additions, in 1773 he substituted six arias and two accompanied recitatives from a passion by Homilius. For us, it is these madrigalesque movements that make up the most interesting part of a musical passion. But the liturgical purpose of the latter was the presentation of the gospel text, for which the music remained constant— generally speaking—in Bach’s presentations of each of the four gospels.16 Every year he arranged or composed new arias, choruses, and chorale settings, inserting them at appropriate points within the basic framework and removing older ones. Instead of preparing a complete score, each year he wrote out only the new movements. At the same time he drew up a set of “assemblage instructions,”17 listing the movements of the complete work in order, with brief incipits or occasionally longer bits of music identifying items that were to be inserted within the existing framework. The basic procedure was similar to that which Bach used for revising his instrumental music, but now it involved more complex works with a greater number of individual parts and movements. Carrying this out efficiently required meticulous organization and the ability to communicate his intentions clearly to his copyists, but the surviving documents show that Bach was up to the task. Music for other occasions was handled in like fashion. For regular Sunday services, music could be taken entirely from existing church pieces, including selections from annual cycles of such works by Telemann, Georg Benda, and other composers.18 Individual arias and choruses in these works might, however, be replaced by others, and an entire new work could be created by combining selections from different existing compositions. The creation of such a pastiche (pasticcio) was a common eighteenth-century practice, best known today from its use in the secular realm, where entire operas might be pieced together from numbers by various composers. Bach employed this procedure especially in his passions, although not every passion was a genuine pastiche; the Saint Mark Passion that Bach performed in 1770 was essentially a work by Homilius, to which Bach added only two chorales. On the other

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hand, when Bach next performed a Saint Mark Passion, in 1774, he created a “true pasticcio,” substituting arias, two choruses, and accompanied recitatives from three other works of Homilius.19 The following year, although the Saint Luke Passion that Bach performed was again by Homilius, Bach eliminated most of its first fourteen numbers and moved some of the chorales to new locations within the work. In several of the chorales, moreover, Bach substituted different texts; indeed, the 1775 Saint Luke Passion opens with Gellert’s poem “Herr, stärke mich,” which Bach had set as no. 23 of the Gellert Songs. Here it was sung to the chorale melody that Gellert had originally recommended for it, in Homilius’s setting.20 The replacement of an existing text by a new one constituted parody technique. Usually this also involved more or less extensive adjustments to the music of the vocal parts, as necessitated by the meter or syllabification of the altered words. Sebastian is famous for his use of this technique, and Emanuel likewise employed it routinely, presumably collaborating with local poets to produce the new texts, although in many cases those responsible for both original and parody librettos remain unidentified. Bach seems to have been upbraided on one or two occasions for his use of music by other composers in church services,21 yet no one appears to have taken seriously amiss what was, in any case, a common practice through most of the eighteenth century. The closing chorus in his second (1783) serenade for the militia was a parody of the corresponding movement in the first one, performed three years earlier;22 it is unlikely that Bach would have done this if he expected objections to be raised to his reuse of older music in a commissioned work. The compositions for the militia do, however, raise the question of how seriously anyone still took the classicizing allegories that constituted their quasi-dramatic texts. An aria for “Neid” (Envy) employs concrete word-painting of the sort that Bach had once criticized in Telemann’s music;23 even if Bach’s parody technique was potentially objectionable, it might have been considered tolerable if, in this case, the aria was to be understood as ironic or even satirical. But although the Hamburg militia had long ceased to serve a real military function, its officers apparently continued to take themselves, and their music, very seriously. The aria must have been heard with straight faces, its use of parody technique, if recognized, understood as a perfectly acceptable traditional practice.24 As with Sebastian, the use of parody did not necessarily mean that the composer had any less work to do. It did save him the trouble of having to invent completely new music, and often the instrumental parts could remain largely the same. But the new text still had to be fitted to appropriate music, and sometimes Emanuel substantially reworked the original composition. (For details of Bach’s parody technique, see 11.3.) Bach’s reliance on pastiche and parody at Hamburg meant that, for many works, no complete score ever existed. His contribution in each case ranged from little more than the marking of parts to a genuinely creative arrangement

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or adaptation that involved substantial amounts of new composition. Even the mere fitting of new or borrowed arias into an existing framework was no trivial task, and any consideration of Bach’s work as a composer must examine his production of arrangements and pastiches. Not all of these are equally impressive, but they include many ingenious solutions to various types of problems, and Bach’s choices of which music to incorporate into these works tell us much about choices made in his original compositions as well. Presumably Bach started by identifying a source work or works whose arias or choruses were attractive for one reason or another. Forming these into a coherent arrangement or pastiche might have required alterations of various sorts to individual numbers, and in some cases a B section might be omitted or a lengthy A section shortened. In the passions, the moments at which the gospel recitation is interrupted for reflective arias, choruses, or chorales could vary from one year to the next. In those cases, the portion of the gospel recitative immediately preceding or following the inserted number would have to be rewritten, sometimes with an altered modulating scheme. For a veteran composer such as Bach, this may not have seemed very different from writing new music, and during the 1780s he relied less on music by others. Yet he persisted in using pastiches and parodies for all twenty-one of his Hamburg passions and for many of the seasonal and inaugural pieces as well. This work represented a continuation of the arrangements and “renovations” that Bach had been carrying out since the 1740s, now extended from instrumental to vocal music. As in his instrumental works, we know more about Bach’s revisions and reworkings of his vocal music than about his initial compositional drafts, of which little survives. It is possible that the major original works of these years, including the oratorios, originated in the same types of “continuity sketches” whose existence has been postulated for other works. Long practice and experience would have made it possible for Bach to write those quickly, subsequently transferring their substance to full scores with little or no substantive revision. The chief exceptions would have been the rare fugues and other unusually elaborate numbers included in a few of the extraliturgical works, which would have required more extensive or numerous drafts. Of greater significance than the drafting of individual vocal movements is the issue of how they are organized into a successful large work. This required a coherent sequence of tonalities and a convincing dramatic or emotional arc over a span of movements. This issue arises with particular urgency in the passions, into which Bach inserted arias at different points from one year to the next. The keys of the insertions could change, too, both types of change forcing Bach to make adjustments in the surrounding recitatives. That Bach chose to carry out these changes regularly, even when repeating the same basic work, is probably better ascribed to a desire for novelty than to any thought of improving on a previous version, that is, making it more dramatic or more effective in conveying its theological or moral lessons. Bach’s alterations must

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also have reflected the need to accommodate the available singers, as well as changing views of the type of expression appropriate in church music—the latter being reflected in the incorporation of shorter arias and choral adaptations of Bach’s own lieder in the later passions. How integrated or coherent is a work produced through pastiche or parody? If Sebastian’s passions produce an intense experience for the attentive listener, we are likely to attribute this today to some deeply coherent plan that integrates the size, scoring, pacing, and expressive types of individual movements with their respective tonalities and other formal considerations. Such a plan presumably contributes to making not only these large works but Sebastian’s weekly church pieces spiritual dramas analogous to the stage dramas of opera; so, at least, has been argued.25 We may therefore find it hard to believe that a pastiche, no matter how thoughtfully designed, could be equally well integrated or could produce a comparable experience for the listener. This view, however, remains to be tested by multiple performances and hearings of Bach’s pastiche passions and other works. These works are not obviously ineffective, and in Bach’s own time even listeners well-versed in such music evidently failed to perceive the pastiche character of many of his productions.26 Absent a present-day performing tradition and a complete edition, it would be unfair to leap to any judgment of Bach’s pastiches and parody works. His concert works certainly reveal evidence of careful planning, including some attention to long-range tonal relationships. The Israelites oratorio centers around C minor and its relative major E-flat. G minor and related keys serve as foci at the beginning and end of the 1769 Saint Matthew Passion, although not in its concert version, the Passion Cantata. The latter substitutes a different opening movement in E-flat and ends in F, after transposing to that key the last music common to the two versions (the grandly scored accompanied recitative “Die Allmacht fei’rt den Tod”). These changes eliminated the possibility of any overall tonal unity in the Passion Cantata, but organization around a single key is hardly essential for the coherence of a large quasi-dramatic work. Bach’s late “swan song,” the Resurrection Cantata, contains a suggestion of such unity in the three statements of its “Triumph!” chorus, each in E-flat, and its long final chorus in the same key. Yet it opens in D minor, and the second half begins in E minor. It is therefore hard to see any coherent tonal design in the work as a whole, especially as the long accompanied recitatives modulate chromatically with almost Wagnerian freedom. In principle a pastiche was not necessarily any less creative or any less effective in presenting a religious lesson or text than a composition newly written for the occasion. Bach’s pastiches mingle chorales and recitatives by his father and Telemann with arias and choruses by members of the next generation. But one never notices a stylistic gap corresponding to the generational one, for the madrigalesque movements are always recent compositions, and the workaday bits of recitative that Emanuel occasionally had to compose to fill gaps

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are perfectly capable imitations of his models. Yet although Bach’s Hamburg pastiches contain some remarkable music, whether they add up to anything as original and significant as his other compositions of the same period is far from clear. His own contributions to these works sometimes shine against second-rate music by other composers. In the inaugural piece for Pastor Schuchmacher (H. 821c), Bach’s aria “Religion, du Glück der Welt” rises to real conviction, despite its insipid text, as when the B section modulates expressively from B-flat minor and D-flat major to G minor, via a German sixth chord on the significant words Himmlisch Licht (heavenly light). No similar invention or skill can be detected in the other music that survives for this piece, by the Hamburg lawyer Jacob Schuback, evidently an accomplished but not very original amateur composer. This is not the only case in which Bach incorporated fairly mediocre music into these works. The inaugural music for Pastor Friderici, assembled in 1775, begins with a chorus by Benda in the same compact prelude-and-fugue form used frequently by Friedemann Bach to open his Halle church pieces.27 Although the “prelude” section has a certain stirring grandeur appropriate to the occasion, the fugue is mechanical, moving in four-square blocks of simple permutational counterpoint; the upper line several times unimaginatively repeats the leap up to the tonic that begins the subject ($ex. 11.3). Several of the arias, by Benda and Homilius, are charming, yet in contrast to examples by Sebastian Bach or Telemann they are difficult to take seriously as sacred music. Rather they suggest that inaugural pieces such as this served as much a social as a religious function, the arias being ersatz operatic entertainments for a city that lacked a resident opera company, the work as a whole glorifying the wealth of the upper classes and the power of the administration in the person of a chief pastor. To be sure, church pieces and serenatas composed by J. S. Bach at Leipzig for city council installations or in honor of the ruling Saxon dynasty served the same purposes—yet rarely were these as bland or unimaginative as the music on which Emanuel sometimes drew. Yet at least in the early years at Hamburg, Bach could respond imaginatively to what probably were not the most inspiring or technically accomplished of poetic texts. The 1772 music for Pastor Hornbostel is one of four such works for which no models by other composers have been identified, and one of the longest.28 It shows not only a coherent tonal plan over its eighteen movements (centering on E-flat) but also the type of cyclic integration that Bach had explored in the W. 43 concertos, published during the same year. (For details, see 11.4.) Not all of Bach’s inaugural pieces reveal equal concern for the design of the whole. Possibly his less than positive feelings about music at Hamburg, which he expressed to Burney during the latter’s visit in 1772, discouraged him from devising equally imaginative or integrated plans for subsequent works of this type. Perhaps, too, having reached maturity at a time when his father

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had grown disillusioned with the musical culture at Leipzig, Emanuel inherited a certain ambivalence toward actual church music—as opposed to sacred music generally—which came to be expressed in the way he fulfilled his official responsibilities. In 1739, Sebastian had complained that his annual passion performances had become “only a burden.”29 That was after Emanuel had gone to Berlin, but he might already have determined, in view of his father’s experience, to distinguish his professional obligations from any personal ambition for creating a corpus of meaningful religious works. If Sebastian indeed performed pastiches and parodies routinely during his later years, Emanuel’s practices at Hamburg may not have been so very different from those at Leipzig three and four decades earlier. Emanuel’s use of apparently mediocre compositions by Benda and especially Homilius, although probably reflecting popular enthusiasm for such music, must have reflected his own genuine approval if not admiration for it. Yet it raises the same questions as does Sebastian’s use of music by Graun, Telemann, and others: was doing so merely a concession to popular taste, even a failure of critical judgment, or are we missing something that Emanuel and even Sebastian heard in this music? An answer must await further publication and more frequent performance of this music. Yet excitement over the availability of previously inaccessible sources and unknown music must be tempered by the nagging suspicion that many of these works do consist of second-rate compositions arranged or assembled in a fairly casual manner. Burney found nothing to admire in the way church music was performed at Hamburg, and Bach’s busy schedule probably meant that most of his liturgical works were never properly rehearsed. If so, this would not have encouraged him to think very critically or creatively about the integrity of his church pieces and passions. Rehearsal was, to be sure, a luxury for eighteenth-century composers. It was an event worth noting when Bach’s string sinfonias received a rehearsal, but Bach evidently took similar care for his major nonliturgical vocal works. Performances of the Passion Cantata in 1774 and 1775 were each preceded by apparently a single rehearsal, and the same was evidently true of the first performance of the Resurrection Cantata, also in 1774.30 Routine church music, however, even for the major quarterly and Lenten services, may have received no such attention; when would there have been time for it, and who would have paid for it?

Bach’s Hamburg Vocal Works Bach’s sacred music at Hamburg can be divided between compositions that Bach apparently regarded as formal works and music assembled for specific occasions.31 This at least is the implication of the way in which the vocal music is listed in NV, with works such as the Magnificat and the Passion Cantata

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preceding the inaugural pieces, passions, and seasonal pieces, with smaller and miscellaneous vocal compositions following. Some in the first group, however, may owe their position more to biographical than musical features. The chorus “Spiega, Ammonia” (W. 216), although an imposing piece of music, probably owed its prominent listing to its having been commissioned by the city of Hamburg to celebrate a visit by the Swedish crown prince in 1770. Bach or his heirs might have placed this or the militia music near the head of the list in the hope that it would attract the interest of a patriotic citizen of Hamburg wishing to own a souvenir of Bach’s music.32 Clearly, however, works such as the Resurrection Cantata outranked those composed in fulfillment of his official duties in Bach’s estimation and that of his heirs. (See 11.5 for an overview of Bach’s Hamburg vocal music.) After the passions, the inaugural pieces form the largest group among the so-called occasional works. Bach’s music is known to have been used for fortythree installations of pastors and rectors—three of these after his death—but NV lists only seventeen distinct works, of which fourteen are fully extant.33 The provision of special music as part of the installation services for Hamburg clergy went back to before Telemann’s time. Bach, who received a payment for each such performance, was careful in his surviving invoices to distinguish between works that he merely directed or arranged and those for which he prepared new music; naturally he charged more for the latter. Yet even works that he “prepared” (anfertigt) anew or for which he received relatively large sums could comprise parodies and pastiches, not wholly original compositions. Among these was one of the few of these works whose manuscript score has long been available in Berlin and has been recorded (at least twice) as Bach’s; in fact it is largely the work of Benda.34 Only a few of these works, such as the one for Hornbostel, appear to have comprised entirely original music, and that may have been a special case. Whether one can agree that they constitute, as a group, “a solid body of original composition”35 will depend on how many further borrowings from other composers can be identified. The seasonal pieces and the militia music similarly contain an uncertain proportion of original to borrowed music, as do a few Latin motets and other miscellaneous compositions that Bach repeated for various occasions. Those recurrences raise a few questions. Bach left two settings of Veni sancte spiritus—a Latin version of the Lutheran chorale “Komm, Heiliger Geist, Herre Gott,” not the medieval sequence. These settings were probably heard regularly during the installations of pastors, after the sermon; the librettos for Bach’s inaugural pieces always give the Latin text at that point, but Bach’s scores never include any music for it. A separately preserved setting for four-part chorus and orchestra, including horns, trumpets, and timpani (W. 220), seems as if it would have been appropriate for such occasions, but there also survives a smaller one for two sopranos, bass voice, and continuo (W. 207). The latter’s key of G would fit better into some works than the D major of the larger work, which is actually

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by Telemann.36 It is probably moot whether these settings of the Veni, like the double-chorus Heilig (W. 217), should be regarded as movements of the works into whose performances they were inserted. The Heilig, one of Bach’s most famous compositions, formed the centerpiece of a number of inaugural and seasonal performances, yet Bach published it on its own in 1779. Like the “Hallelujah” chorus from Handel’s Messiah, which also was repeated as a component of other works, it was clearly a favorite that the composer could count on to generate excitement and enthusiasm during any service or concert. Yet even references to the Heilig within the text of the surrounding work did not necessarily integrate it fully into the latter.37 Any such borrowing raised the possibility of a poor fit, a stylistic disjunction, between the different compositions that were brought together. This was not a serious issue when a stylistic distinction was actually called for, as in the contrast between the gospel recitative and a madrigalesque aria or congregational chorale within a passion. On the other hand, Bach’s listeners, who typically experienced a much narrower range of music than those of today, would have been sensitive to small differences between styles, immediately noticing something that, as King Frederick put it, smelled of the church—even in actual church music. This is one likely reason for Bach’s avoidance of the outmoded music of his father and Telemann except in certain specific instances, notably the gospel recitative of the passions. It also explains why Bach, unlike Frederick, seems not to have associated fugues with church music, preferring to restrict them to concert works such as the Passion Cantata; fugue no longer spoke directly to an individual worshipper, even if it remained a useful reference to church style within a concert setting. Although Telemann had established many basic norms for Hamburg church music through his nearly half century of work there, a more immediately audible influence on Bach’s sacred works was surely exerted by Graun. Long after his death in 1759, his Te Deum and Tod Jesu remained among the works most frequently repeated in northern Europe. There Graun continued to be named through the end of the century as the greatest writer of vocal music; even Beethoven studied his recitatives.38 Bach’s choruses, like Graun’s, include the grand Italianate type for four voices accompanied by heterophonic strings and winds. His arias, although probably owing some “painterly” elements to Telemann, are, like Graun’s, relatively restrained in that respect, focusing rather on abstract expression. Graun’s significance as a model extended to the manner in which his two major sacred works were disseminated. Breitkopf, who published the two Graun works in full score during the Seven Years’ War, eventually printed three of Bach’s largest Hamburg choral works in that format as well: the Israelites, the Resurrection Cantata, and the Heilig. Whereas Breitkopf’s Graun editions were probably subsidized by the Prussian court, however, Bach’s publications required the composer himself to collect subscriptions to underwrite printing and distribution. Bach mentioned

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his friend Klopstock as providing a model in this regard, but he was also following a much older precedent set by Handel, who had issued his oratorio Alexander’s Feast by subscription as early as 1738.39 Handel provided a musical influence as well on some of Emanuel’s Hamburg sacred works, but less obviously than did Graun, Telemann, or Sebastian Bach. Although Sebastian’s imprint remains clear in certain aspects of Emanuel’s compositional craft, even a sophisticated listener rarely senses the presence of J. S. Bach in these works except where they contain actual borrowings. Most of the chorales are in the simple style favored at Hamburg, where the congregation is thought to have sung along.40 Despite having edited his father’s chorale harmonizations and upheld them as a model for the teaching of harmony, Emanuel’s “simple” four-part chorale settings truly are simple, rhythmically as well as harmonically. In other types of movements as well, his church pieces and passions employ less complex textures than his father’s. As one would expect, fugues, indeed any sort of contrapuntal movements, are few and far between. Even rarer are large chorale settings of the type now usually designated fantasias, and when these do occur the texture is homophonic, the instruments usually either doubling the voices (as they do in fugues) or providing a quasi-ostinato accompaniment figure. Occasionally Emanuel’s choruses and chorales incorporate novel textures or instrumentation, as in the presentation of the chorale melody in octaves,41 or in a whole series of variously orchestrated chorale variations in one of the oratorios for the militia.42 Yet even these examples show a more limited sense of instrumental color than earlier works by J. S. Bach or Telemann. Most of the arias in Emanuel’s church works have the same standard accompaniment of strings and continuo used in the early eighteenth-century opera seria arias that provided their ultimate stylistic models. This places the onus for expressive coloration more firmly on the singer than in the diversely scored arias of Sebastian Bach and Telemann; Emanuel’s choruses and accompanied recitatives use equally stereotyped scoring, despite the imaginative harmony of the accompagnati. So much is in keeping with the tradition of Hasse and Graun, whose works are equally focused on the solo voice. In keeping with the same tradition, the great majority of Bach’s arias are in conventional da capo form. These also follow later eighteenth-century trends in their often remarkable length and in their frequent use of a contrasting meter and tempo for the B section, constituting so-called two-tempo arias. Emanuel does, unlike his brother Friedemann and most other contemporaries, occasionally use the through-composed variety of da capo form that was a speciality of their father. This occurs particularly in his published works and in “Donnre nur” from the 1769 Saint Matthew Passion; this aria, which Bach reused in the Passion Cantata, in fact incorporates a double da capo (ABA′B′A″). The combination of this form with a twotempo design appears to be unique in Bach’s output, but several two-tempo arias in the Resurrection Cantata also employ through-composed da capo

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form, as does the aria “Wie schwer ist’s” in the 1771 Inaugural Piece for Pastor Klefeker (H. 821b). It is probably no accident that all these works originated during Bach’s early years at Hamburg; his later arias tend to be more compact. Although the influence of Graun, Telemann, and of course J. S. Bach on Emanuel’s sacred music is hardly unexpected, today it is surprising that the seemingly minor figure of Homilius should loom so large in the Hamburg church works. Yet Gerber, after extolling the virtuosity of Homilius at the organ, describes him unequivocally as “our greatest church composer,”43 and this must reflect a common opinion. Whether Bach began collecting works by Homilius and other contemporaries before his departure from Berlin is unknown; circulating primarily in manuscripts, they were costly to copy or purchase, and he might not have acquired them before he needed them. Even Telemann’s passions would not have been easy to obtain, especially after his grandson left Hamburg to become cantor at Riga, taking most of his grandfather’s works with him. Hence, like other musicians in his situation, Bach relied on a relatively small number of works to fulfill his obligations. The presence among them of several major works by Homilius might have reflected personal as well as professional interest. Bach likely saw a model for his own career in Homilius’s successful transition from instrumentalist to church musician. The two were almost exact contemporaries, and although it is unclear whether Homilius actually studied with Sebastian Bach, he must have gotten to know the latter’s music while studying at the Leipzig University from 1735 to 1741.44 At Berlin during the 1760s, Emanuel could have heard at least two of the passion works by Homilius on which he later drew for his own Lenten performances.45 Homilius’s sacred works reveal an imagination for the polyphonic deployment of instrumental color characteristic of Sebastian’s church music. This joins a melodic style inspired by Hasse, whose operas dominated Dresden from his arrival in 1731 until the war; Homilius served there as organist and later cantor and city music director. Although it is uncertain whether Homilius and Emanuel knew one another personally, their paths might have crossed if Bach visited Leipzig during Homilius’s time there, or when both competed unsuccessfully for the organ position at Zittau; they apparently corresponded with one another.46 Bach’s arias, particularly the large, virtuoso ones of the 1770s, are close to Homilius’s in their great length and unrestrained virtuosity. On the other hand, the four-part motets that Homilius seems to have begun writing relatively late in his career are simpler in texture and melodic style than his church pieces, in this respect somewhat resembling the choruses arranged from lieder that Bach incorporated into his own later church music. That was probably a parallel development, reflecting general stylistic trends of the later eighteenth century. But it could have been directly from Homilius that Bach got the idea of composing certain numbers in his larger sacred works as complexes in which aria-like solo passages alternate with choruses or with passages for

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two or three other solo voices. Bach included sequences of this type by Benda as well as Homilius in his pastiche passions for 1770 and 1771; the Pentecost Music for 1769 (H. 817) opened with a chorus by Homilius in which each half is sung first by two soloists, then by the full ensemble (“Herr, lehr uns tun”; see $ex. 8.10). Such movements are allied to a rondo-like type of choral movement sometimes described as a vaudeville;47 the presence of a choral refrain in some cases also suggests a dim echo of the Classical ideal present in passages from Lullian tragèdie en musique (but French influence is otherwise undetectable in these works). The length of the recitatives, unlike the arias, was dictated by their poets, although Bach surely would have abbreviated them or requested shorter ones had he found their length objectionable. The times favored lengthy dramatic monologues; already in his Easter Music of 1756, Bach had proved himself a master of setting such poetry (see, for instance, $exx. 8.17 and 8.18). He also was entirely at home in the simple recitative that still furnished most of the connecting narrative in the passions and regular church pieces. One idiosyncrasy of Bach’s text settings that did not escape the notice of contemporaries was his free treatment of the madrigalesque poetry, even of bible verses. This could be limited to repeating an interjection or invocation at an unexpected point; in the duet “Also hat Gott die Welt geliebet,” setting John 3:16, the six opening words are repeated at the end, forming a sort of refrain.48 But Bach’s changes could also involve substantive, if small, additions to the text, as when the chorus in the Israelites oratorio adds du bist es (“it’s you”) at the end of the line “Du bist der Ursprung unsrer Noth” (You are the cause of our desperation), or when they later repeat the word nein (“no”) at the end of the same text.49 Such things intensify the rhetoric or the drama, but, like an actor ad libbing additions to a script, they signify a departure from the traditional assumption that the text as given by the poet is paramount. Bach’s recitative reveals the same types of chromatic harmony used by his father and other older German composers. Yet the harmony of his arias and choruses can be as conventional as in the lesser instrumental works that Bach was writing during this same period, such as the smaller keyboard trios of W. 89. This is particularly so in the more routine service music, including some of the inaugural pieces. Only in the sacred works published during Bach’s last decade—the Heilig, the Resurrection Cantata, and the Two Litanies—do Bach’s major vocal works consistently reveal the same bold modulations as his best songs and instrumental compositions, approaching Sebastian’s music in their harmonic if not their contrapuntal ingenuity. At a more fundamental level, moreover, Emanuel’s contributions to the repertory of church music are simply more limited in style and type than his father’s. The great majority of his original sacred compositions appear to have been written for only a few types of occasions, especially the inaugurations of pastors and the presentation of the passion story. The inaugural pieces, like the seasonal pieces and

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those for birthdays and other celebrations, are overwhelmingly jubiliant, the passions primarily penitential in character, and Bach wrote little in between. Hence his sacred output, like his brother Friedemann’s, lacks the expressive breadth and universality of their father’s; neither wrote music for the full variety of a year’s theological themes and texts. Emanuel might have intended to make up for this by setting Cramer’s translation of the Book of Psalms, but Bach’s volume of songs is incomplete, avoiding certain (unspecified) groups of psalms. His major vocal works, including his “swan songs,” are deliberately on grand or, to use the favorite word of the time, sublime subjects. But too strong a focus on the sublime could prevent an artist from developing the capacity to work on less exalted levels, or even to distinguish between great aspirations and less pretentious ones. Unable or unwilling to attain the prolificacy that allowed Telemann to compose enormous numbers of relatively unpretentious works, Emanuel aspired to the same high level of achievement as Sebastian Bach and Handel while composing a much smaller number of putative masterpieces. In this respect as in others, Emanuel’s approach to sacred music has something in common with that of later Classical and Romantic composers, who shied away from composing the enormous quantities of workaday service music that were still typical of Bach’s contemporaries. Although he continued to use what today are viewed as late-Baroque musical forms, especially the da capo aria, his most mature vocal works tend to be relatively short and simple in style. They also employ a distinct expressive language. In his Christmas Music for 1772 (H. 811), the aria “Licht der Welt” still uses numerous melismas to emphasize—but not necessarily to “paint”—the words leite (lead), Weg (way), Geist (spirit), and seelgen (blessed) (ex. 11.4). The last of these, a word not obviously conducive to musical depiction, receives the most frequent and longest melismas, and these do not consistently ascend, as they might have done in a more literally representational setting by an earlier composer. Bach’s setting thus emphasizes the poem’s fundamental theme of blessedness or piety, not the concrete images of “leading” or “traveling” that the words leite and Weg would have inspired an earlier composer to depict musically. Bach’s composition of this particular aria is not, in fact, entirely assured, but it reflects an aesthetic common to other movements known to be his.50 The text of another aria from the same year, “Noch steht sie, zu des Mittlers Ehre,” likewise contains several phrases, including the opening clause, that an earlier composer would have understood as invitations for vivid text painting.51 Bach indeed takes them up as such, but whereas Telemann (or J. S. Bach) likely would have embedded at least some musical symbolism within the opening ritornello, only in the middle of the A section does Emanuel introduce a rare iconic tremolo to accompany the word Stürmen (storms). The word steht (stands) does receive a relatively long, high note when it is first sung, but hardly the type of exaggerated “standing” tone that it might have elicited in an earlier work. That sort of symbolism is reserved for the reprise of lines 1–3, in

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Example 11.4. Aria “Licht der Welt,” no. 5 in Christmas Music for 1772, H. 811, mm. 53–56 and 67–76 (voice only)

the final section of this somewhat unusual aria (ex. 11.5). There the soloist’s fermata is continued by the first violins, which sustain a high note over three measures, recalling the sun standing still in Handel’s Joshua ($ex. 11.6).52 (11.6 provides further analysis of “Noch steht sie.”)

Church Piece and Oratorio Although Bach’s sacred music at Hamburg seems to represent a complete and sudden turn away from his work at Berlin, the Magnificat and the Easter Music composed at Berlin received later performances in Hamburg, both complete and in parodies of individual movements. As older works, however, these provide few clues about Bach’s thoughts regarding sacred vocal music at the time he took up his new position. Bach continued to write lieder throughout the 1760s and 1770s, including a number on sacred texts. But although sacred lieder would eventually furnish material for Bach’s Hamburg church works, when he arrived there he probably did not yet envision incorporating such compositions into his liturgical offerings, which remained at first within the traditional genres of Lutheran sacred music, remote stylistically from his songs. Only a little-known work apparently composed during Bach’s last few years at Berlin may provide a window into what sort of music he expected to compose for services as he prepared to move to Hamburg. This is the Wedding Cantata H. 824a, composed, according to NV, in “1765, 1766, or 1767”; nothing more is known about its origin.53 Although the work is nonliturgical, Bach appears to have used a parody of one movement in his first inaugural piece at Hamburg, for Pastor Palm on July 12, 1769 (H. 821a). The anonymous text is that of a German cantata comprising two aria–recitative–aria sequences. The first and last arias were clearly meant to be set in da capo form, and Bach obliges—but the first is through-composed, and he writes the third aria as if it too were a through-composed da capo form, repeating portions of the opening line “Amen, amen” (music as well as text) in the final section. Thus, as in the Easter Music of a decade earlier, Bach was prepared to manipulate the form of the text for his own rhetorical purposes. The unusual

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Example 11.5. Aria “Noch steht sie, zu des Mittlers Ehre,” no. 12 from Inaugural Piece for Pastor Hornbostel, H. 821e, mm. 72–81

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vocal scoring of the work—all four arias are for soprano, while the recitatives are largely for bass, with brief choral interjections—reflects the quasi-dramatic nature of the libretto (and presumably the commission that led to it). The arias are in the same fluent, unproblematic galant style as Bach’s two oboe concertos of 1765, probably also resembling music that Bach was then hearing in church services at Berlin, including works by Homilius and Benda and perhaps parodies of opera arias by Graun and Hasse. Like many of the arias Bach would write during his first years at Hamburg, those of the Wedding Cantata provide ample opportunities for solo display, including cadenzas at the ends of three of the arias (where they are indicated by fermatas) as well as an unusual written-out cadenza on amen at the beginning of the third aria.54 The written-out cadenza remains at the opening of the version of the aria heard by Pastor Palm (“Sei gesegnet”), now on the word willkommen. Although the final fermata is missing, the music is otherwise hardly changed, but the parody text is now that of a conventional da capo form, repeating the “A” text verbatim in the final section. Bach included another version of this aria in the Resurrection Cantata before replacing it there with “Wie bang” (see chap. 12). This version, “Sei gegrüsset,” is formally identical to “Sei gesegnet,” although its vocal part is varied and the written-out cadenza is absent. After removing it from the Resurrection Cantata, Bach then used “Sei gegrüsset” in the Easter Music for 1784, but one must wonder whether the latter, and not “Amen, Amen” or “Sei gesegnet,” was the original version of the aria, for Bach is unlikely to have fitted Ramler’s text to existing music.55 If so, the Wedding Cantata as it survives might date from later than usually thought, while incorporating earlier material. Whether from Berlin or Hamburg, however, it suggests that as Bach began his work at Hamburg he was as comfortable as his Viennese contemporaries with the use of what today sounds like flagrantly secular music in a sacred setting. Any second thoughts about the use of this style in church would not begin to affect his sacred music for a decade or more, and even then to only a limited degree. If anyone gave much thought to the meaning of an aria of this type, whether in a wedding or during the installation of a preacher, it might have been supposed that the florid soprano part was a legitimate representation of an angelic blessing. Clearly no one took offense, at either Berlin or Hamburg, at the inclusion of such music during church services—nor is that a surprise, when an opera aria originally sung by an imprisoned pagan princess might also serve in church as a lament for the mockery of Jesus.56 Not only Bach’s inaugural pieces but his passions continue to include such arias at least through the mid1770s. His published vocal works are more sober, however, suggesting that— contrary to what we might suppose—he and his audiences expected the music of a lyric oratorio, even one performed in a theater, to be more restrained, perhaps even more serious or religious, in some sense, than music that was performed during an actual service.

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The Israelites Bach’s first major sacred work for Hamburg that was entirely original appears to have been the oratorio The Israelites in the Desert (Die Israeliten in der Wüste). It was first performed on November 1, 1769, and NV lists it as a work of that year, but otherwise essentially nothing is known about its composition: how long Bach worked on it, what sorts of revisions it underwent before its publication in 1775, why he chose this particular subject for his debut as composer of a major nonliturgical vocal work. The publication of the Israelites was Bach’s most ambitious such project to date, not only for the sheer size of the actual printed work but because it was the first of his editions that he brought out by subscription. Bach waited until 1774 to broach the idea of the publication with Breitkopf, who did the actual printing, but it is clear that by then he had resolved to issue the work in this manner; it had been performed to enthusiastic audiences, and Bach had presumably made whatever revisions and adjustments he thought necessary for the printed version. Although the style of the music has little to do with that of Handel, the spirit of the latter hovers over the composition, performance, and publication of the oratorio. Bach’s relationship with Handel is in some ways as fraught as that with his own father. The two never met—and whether Bach’s brother Friedemann met Handel, as claimed, must be considered an open question.57 By the time Emanuel left Berlin, however, it must have been dawning on him that it was Handel, not Graun, Hasse, or Telemann (and certainly not Sebastian Bach), who had been the most widely respected if not the most influential or the most frequently imitated among his older predecessors. Of all these, only Handel and perhaps Hasse enjoyed truly international fame; if this was not fully recognized at Berlin, despite the interest of Kirnberger and Princess Amalia in collecting Handel’s music, it would have been clear at Hamburg.58 That was where Handel had started his career and Mattheson, among others, had kept his memory alive, and it was where Bach met Burney, for whom Handel had been the greatest possible composer. Emanuel henceforth would feel obliged to combat the irritating myopia of not only Burney but many German musicians who saw in Sebastian only a musical technician, inferior to Handel as both composer and performer of genuinely expressive music. Whether or not Emanuel was the actual author of the so-called Comparison of (Sebastian) Bach and Handel, published during his last year, he surely shared the qualified admiration of Handel expressed there. Emanuel, of course, had the advantage of knowing his father’s many unpublished works, of which only the keyboard music circulated at all widely within Germany. Handel’s music, on the other hand, was available across western Europe, including numerous arias from his operas and oratorios. Many of the latter, following eighteenth-century custom, had been published in reduced scores for voice and keyboard (that is, continuo). Publications of complete

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full scores for such works were rare but not unknown; the score of Alexander’s Feast had come out during Handel’s lifetime, with members of the royal family appearing prominently on its list of subscribers. Even Messiah, however, was published in full score only in 1767. Bach mentioned Alexander’s Feast, together with several other works of Handel, in a 1769 letter to Kirnberger, and with Messiah it was performed at Hamburg during the next few years.59 Mattheson had died in 1764, but among the last of his voluminous publications was a translation of Mainwaring’s biography of Handel, self-published (as Bach would have noted) in 1761.60 From this, if not other sources, Bach would have known that Handel, until a few weeks before his death in 1759, had directed annual Lenten concert performances of his oratorios at London. These often included organ concertos; the last of these, the “Hallelujah” concerto, had been composed as recently as 1751 and was published ten years later. Hence there was no huge gap between Handel and Bach chronologically; even stylistically, Handel’s late works are not always very far from the mid-century galant, and Donald Burrows notes the similarity of a phrase in the “Hallelujah” concerto to “the keyboard mannner of C. P. E. Bach.”61 Although the stylistic parallel in that case is somewhat generic, Emanuel must have understood his Israelites as belonging to the same tradition as Handel’s oratorios, whose stories were usually taken from the Hebrew Bible. Telemann, too, had composed such works; his oratorio Das befreite Israel (Israel Delivered) of 1759, although only about half an hour in length, was a sort of sequel to Handel’s Israel in Egypt, treating the passage of the Red Sea; the subject of Bach’s oratorio was the next major event in biblical history. The libretto of the Israelites, by the Hamburg poet Daniel Schiebeler, had been published in the June 1767 issue of Unterhaltungen, the Hamburg literary journal in which thirteen of Bach’s songs would appear during the next three years. Five of these were settings of poems by Schiebeler, who had previously written librettos for Telemann and other German composers.62 Youngren rightly describes the Unterhaltung songs as a “mixed lot”;63 both the texts and Bach’s settings are, like the oratorio, hardly among the most imaginative or challenging of works, looking like things written for a public whose tastes and prefererences were not particularly adventurous. Caution was dictated, however, in writing a lengthy oratorio for public performance in a new locale. The choice of subject and text surely entered into Bach’s calculations, and although Schiebeler is not now considered a significant literary figure, he was respected at the time. Bach’s setting (or at least Schiebeler’s text) was later praised as a “model dramatic oratorio,”64 but it seems to have elicited such praise precisely because it is not dramatic as that term is understood today. The four characters—Moses, Aaron, and two unnamed Israelite Women—hardly engage one another in dialogue, and there is no real action—only laments and prayers, a noncanonic prophecy, and, at the end, extended rejoicing. This is, then, no Moses und Aron à la Schoenberg; no tension between the two brothers is detectable.

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As in all Bach’s large vocal works, the shape of Israelites was determined largely by its text, or rather by conventions that governed the type of music used to set each element of it. Individual numbers are as well crafted as anything Bach had written to date, perhaps the best moments coming (as in the Easter Music) in the accompanied recitatives. There Bach was free to compose in fantasia style, responding to each line of the text as his imagination led him. But the arias, however good their initial ideas, tend to be as overlong as some of the arias by Homilius included in Bach’s church pieces and passions from the same period; Telemann, by contrast, had rarely composed at excessive length. The work’s most significant action, Moses’s striking of the rock and the miraculous appearance of flowing water, takes place without any musical representation at all; the chorus at the end of the first half rather expresses the Israelites’ joyous reaction to the event. The choral number, however, is too short and too simple in style, at least by contrast to the arias, to make the same deep impression as the choruses in works by Handel and Sebastian Bach. A homophonic, syllabic chorus accompanied by an unbroken flowing violin obbligato—actually an embellished doubling in sixeenths of the melody, a version of the heterophony used in the opening chorus of the Magnificat and other Italianate works—can go only so far at expressing wonder at a supernatural event ($ex. 11.8). The simple binary form of the movement (AA′) is exactly the same as that of the opening chorus; no musical ideas are developed and, in this case, there are no compelling harmonies or modulations. The one potentially dramatic sequence occurs earlier in the work, when Moses’s arrival, announced by a grand Symphonie in dotted rhythm (marked ouverturenmäßig), is answered by the angry chorus “Du bist der Ursprung unsrer Not.” But the energy of the latter is then dissipated as Moses upbraids the Israelites in a long but musically routine recitative. One must listen patiently to the extended duet of the two unnamed Israelite Women before being moved by a few seconds of compelling harmony, as Moses and the chorus exchange complaints in an accompanied recitative ($ex. 11.9). What Bach probably saw as the high point of the oratorio is the long aria “Gott, sieh dein Volk,” which represents Moses’s prayer. Moses alternates here with an obbligato bassoon, an instrument that had not yet acquired its reputation as comical and might rather have symbolized Moses’s sobriety. The aria is expressive and formally straightforward, despite its through-composed da capo design; it seems long only because of its Adagio tempo. But this makes the subsequent chorus, wondering at the miracle of the flowing water, anticlimactic. The entire second half of the work, which appropriates the story for Christian use, is essentially an afterthought. Neither a long if expressive accompanied recitative for Moses, who is made to prophesy the coming of Christ, nor a grand concluding chorus, accompanied by pompous dotted rhythms, can alter its static character; this part of the work requires the enthusiasm of a believing audience to seem as compelling as Schiebeler and Bach must have expected it to be.

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The oratorio thus bears out the complaint, made incidentally in a posthumous review of an unrelated work, that Bach “did not understand dramatic action.”65 The reviewer claims to have heard an act from an otherwise undocumented dramatic work (Singspiel) by Bach, allegedly withdrawn by the composer after an unsuccessful reading. Bertil van Boer suggests that the writer might have confused Emanuel with his brother Friedemann, but the critique rings true, whatever the precise type of dramatic work the writer had heard (or heard about).66 Perhaps it was merely a draft for something like “Die Grazien” (the cantata on Gerstenberg’s text), not a complete act from an opera. In any case, it would not be surprising if Bach eliminated all trace of the work, if it was really as unsuccessful as the writer implies that it was. Handel’s oratorios, although sometimes no more truly dramatic than Bach’s, show a surer sense of proportion and timing, as presumably do Graun’s operas, although the latter are hard to judge, given the rarity of actual performances. But at Hamburg it was the vocal music of Bach’s predecessor Telemann that would have echoed most strongly in the memories of his audiences. Emanuel must have hoped to emulate Telemann’s success as a composer, publisher, and music director who not only satisfied the musical taste of the city but shaped it. Presumably, too, Bach wished to establish himself as a distinct musical personality, and in this regard he enjoyed an advantage over Telemann. For he could, like Handel, present himself in concert not only as a composer of serious vocal music but as a virtuoso keyboard soloist. Yet his limited experience as a composer for voices evidently discouraged him from making substantial innovations, at least in his initial public offerings. Not surprisingly, the Israelites, although larger than Telemann’s recent works of the same type, remains close to the latter in certain respects. The arias are longer yet still restrained in manner, at times approaching lieder in their melodic style and avoidance of coloratura. The choruses, like Telemann’s in Das befreite Israel and other late works, are homophonic, but here as in the arias Bach avoids the colorful instrumental effects characteristic of his predecessor. The loss of virtually all Bach’s material for the work leaves us few clues as to how it might have grown or evolved. Apart from shortening the last recitative and adding embellishments for one of the singers—Johanna von Winthem, Klopstock’s second wife—Bach is not known to have revised it either before or after its publication. He wrote the embellishments, for the two arias of the Second Israelite Woman, into Winthem’s copy of the original edition.67 Although modest by the standards of the day, the technical demands made by Bach’s variations exceed anything in the printed score. Presumably the other soloists were professionals who did not require such assistance; in any case, this shows that singers were still expected to vary the reprise, that is, the second A section, in such arias. It might even have been in order to give experienced singers free reign for making their own embellishments that Bach kept the printed parts of this work relatively plain. Numerous manuscript copies

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survive, apparently all deriving from the printed score; the present locations of these copies suggest (as one would expect) that the work did not circulate beyond German-speaking Europe and Scandinavia. In those regions, however, it received a significant number of performances, especially in Berlin, far exceeding the Resurrection Cantata in that respect.68 The latter is the more original work, but the Israelites was clearly more in line with popular taste.

Passions and the Passion Cantata The Passion Cantata, which Bach seems to have completed and performed only after composing the Israelites, was a very different type of work, as signified not only by its more difficult and even more extended arias, but by the inclusion of a large fugal chorus (considered in chap. 12). Exactly when the Passion Cantata received its first public performance is uncertain, but its adaptation from the 1769 Saint Matthew was ready by spring 1772, when it was performed in Berlin;69 Burney heard portions of it as part of the concert given for him by Ebeling during his visit to Hamburg that fall. Although Bach never published it, he did see to its dissemination in manuscript copies, and besides Berlin it was heard in Copenhagen and elsewhere prior to its earliest documented Hamburg performance at the Spinnhaus (Reformatory) Church during Lent 1774.70 Graun’s Tod Jesu was the archetype for such works, which proliferated in Germany after its premiere in 1755 at Berlin, in which Bach had participated. Works by Telemann, Homilius, and others were regularly performed as well, and Bach doubtless wished to be represented. Although not liturgical, these works were often performed in churches, blurring the line between sacred and concert use. Yet the distinction between Bach’s Passion Cantata and the work on which it was based is clear, for only the latter, the 1769 Saint Matthew Passion, includes the gospel text and chorales. This work, like all Bach’s liturgical passions, belongs to the type familiar today from his father’s Saint John and Saint Matthew passions, drawing some of its chorales, as well as passages in the setting of the gospel text, from the latter two works. Ebeling’s substitutions for these sections in the Passion Cantata consist primarily of new recitatives, which Bach set in both simple and accompanied forms. There are also two new sequences of movements incorporating choruses, one at the end and the other at the point in the passion story where the arrested Jesus is mocked and humiliated. Each of these alterations required Bach to substitute new music into the existing framework, much as he would do in his liturgical passions. But the new “prelude-and-fugue” chorus (no. 18) and the so-called vaudeville chorus at the end far exceeded in scope and significance the relatively minor bits of composing that Bach had to do in the pastiche passions, where his own music might be limited to short passages of simple recitative. As significant as the added choruses are musically, of greater import for the emotional arc of the Passion Cantata is the one chorale as such that Bach

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included. Although preceded by one of Ebeling’s new recitative passages, this brief setting (no. 24) effectively initiates the final section of the work, with its new sequence of closing movements. Bach uses only the latter portion of the funeral chorale “Mitten wir im Leben sind,”71 but its strange quasi-modal harmony makes the simple four-part setting an intrusion of archaic style into the modern passion oratorio, casting an aura of mystery around the dismal events that are about to be narrated and reminding the listener of their supernatural character (ex. 11.10). Having grown up in an environment in which modal polyphony was still a living tradition, Bach may not have heard such music in quite the Romantic manner as his younger contemporaries, but the passage nevertheless evokes the same otherworldliness as Beethoven’s late flirtations with modality. The alternations and additions by Ebeling and Bach in principle transformed the original liturgical work from an “oratorio passion” into a “passion oratorio.” That confusing distinction, although rooted in a genuine difference, is avoided here. Both the original church passion and the Passion Cantata derived from it could have been considered simply “oratorios” in Bach’s day, as they can be now. The liturgical passion is primarily a presentation of the gospel narrative, accompanied by poetic and musical commentary; the later work is a lyrical reflection on the events of the passion. The first includes participation (at least symbolically) by both clergy and congregation, in the form of the gospel readings and chorales; the latter is a concert presentation by musicians for a paying audience. This distinction came into focus only gradually, and not every work of the period reflects it as clearly as the two versions of Bach’s 1769 passion.72 Even there, the most memorable numbers—the arias—are common to both versions, and the most significant distinction is an essentially biographical one: Bach’s elimination of music by other composers, including his father’s recitative and chorale settings. Not least of these was the long, solemn chorale fantasia at the end of the liturgical passion, replaced in the Passion Cantata by a grand finale in rondo form.73 Even if Emanuel had carried out preliminary compositional work on the passion before his arrival in Hamburg, it must have become clear to him during his first year there that the music he was writing was far more ambitious than was customary for the city’s Lenten performances. On the other hand, having participated in the Berlin premiere of Graun’s Tod Jesu, and possibly in that of Telemann’s setting of the same text as well, he must have already been contemplating his own contribution to the tradition of which these works were a part. Hence it is likely that the special features of the 1769 Saint Matthew Passion, never repeated in Bach’s subsequent Hamburg church passions, reflected his intention from the beginning to use it outside as well as within the liturgy. Its great length, by comparison with Telemann’s passions, was a product not only of its extended arias but of the inclusion of several elaborate choruses and accompanied recitatives, whose colorful scoring would be unusual for Bach’s

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Example 11.10. End of recitative “Nun sammelt sich” and beginning of chorale “Heiliger Schöpfer Gott,” nos. 23–24 from the Passion Cantata, W. 233

church music but appropriate, indeed almost a requirement, in music for concert use. On the other hand, the extended concluding chorus by J. S. Bach could never have been envisaged for concert performance. Its inclusion in the church passion might have reflected a desire to “stay as close as possible to the tradition his father had established 40 years earlier at Leipzig.”74 Hence the unparalleled length and difficulty of the 1769 passion were not necessarily products of a miscalculation. Bach’s alteration of the first flute part to eliminate a few high notes, which have been cited as an example of his overreaching, may well have reflected the limitations of a local player, but in the context of the work as a whole they are insignificant.75 The high f‴, although present in Bach’s unaccompanied flute sonata (W. 132), had been traditionally avoided in flute music, even Quantz’s, and the need to eliminate it could not have come as a complete surprise. The challenging vocal parts of the arias remained unaltered even after their incorporation into the Passion Cantata. A notice published in 1773 refers to Bach’s passion music of 1769 as having been “repeated many times in private concerts”; this appeared during a campaign to have performances of the Passion Cantata in one of the lesser churches approved, as indeed occurred the following year.76 Two decades later, after Bach’s death, a report signed by Pastors Rambach and Berkhan—both of whom had been inaugurated to Bach’s music—advised eliminating the traditional church passion in favor of the newer type of oratorio. This, however, reflected general aesthetic trends as well as acknowledgment that the church musicians were being overworked, not dissatisfaction with Bach’s music as such.77 Even if some listeners objected to the length of the original 1769 church passion, it might have been as much the difficulty of preparing and rehearsing it, without special compensation, that led Bach in effect to move performances of most of its music to concerts in the guise of the Passion Cantata, while presenting shorter works of more traditional length in church during subsequent Lenten seasons. The earlier conclusion of the gospel narrative in the passion at Hamburg was only one of many local customs that differed from those with which

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Bach had grown up at Leipzig. Telemann’s passions often end almost matter-of-factly, following up the account of Jesus’s death with a simple chorale. Although Telemann’s and even Homilius’s gospel recitative can be almost as expressive as Sebastian’s, the harmony of their recitatives is simpler, the modulating schemes less sophisticated. The recitatives by Telemann that Emanuel incorporated into his 1771 Saint Luke Passion occasionally interpolate measures in triple meter into the prevailing common time; this was a French tradition never used by Sebastian or in Emanuel’s own recitative.78 Telemann’s and Homilius’s turba choruses, setting the words of the disciples, high priests, and other collective figures in the narrative, are often short and frankly unimpressive, rarely rising to the status of miniature motets like some of Sebastian’s. Among other local customs that Emanuel also had to consider was the apparent prejudice against the alto voice at Hamburg, which, whether that of a boy or an adult falsetto, was rarely given solos of any sort.79 Very much in the tradition of Telemann’s passions, moreover, is the unbalanced assignment of arias, the tenor voice receiving the lion’s share in the 1769 passion, although there the tenor arias were divided between two singers. For performances of this work, Bach apparently employed only six male voices, including two boy sopranos. The bass roles were divided between Illert and the versatile Herr Wrede, whose part included some of the tenor solos. This spared Michel, the tenor evangelist, from all but one of the big solo numbers. Thus the virtuoso aria “Verstockte Sünder” could follow another long tenor number after only a brief recitative; it does so as well in the Passion Cantata, but there the sole tenor called for in the score is not also required to sing the demanding gospel narrative. Although Emanuel’s pastiche passions were an innovation at Hamburg, similar works were hardly unknown elsewhere in Germany. Sebastian probably performed several at Leipzig, including one based on music that he attributed, perhaps wrongly, to the older Hamburg composer Reinhard Keiser.80 Emanuel owned a more recent example, a copy of Graun’s Wer ist der, so von Edom kömmt interpolated with movements by Kuhnau, Telemann, and J. S. Bach, among others.81 From these he would have appreciated what was involved in creating such a work. No two of his own pastiches follow the same pattern; each would have required careful study of the core setting of the gospel, which in 1769 was derived from his father’s great Saint Matthew Passion. Unlike most of the other works on which Emanuel drew, the latter probably had not been heard for decades, and his adaptation or rather borrowing from it proceeded less regularly than his later pastiches. Although some of the gospel recitative can be traced directly to his father’s work, most is rewritten if not entirely replaced; the experience would have served Emanuel as an exercise in composing his own recitative in the style of his father. Exactly when Emanuel decided to make his first Hamburg passion a pastiche is unknown. His autograph score survives only in part and contains no

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evidence that any of it was written before his arrival in Hamburg.82 It may be, therefore, that Bach arrived with ideas as yet unformed as to how to meet the obligation of performing passion music. How well he knew any of the forty-six passions that Telemann had written for Hamburg is unclear; apart from his use of the gospel recitative from two of Telemann’s passions, direct borrowings are few. Telemann’s influence on Bach is clear enough elsewhere, yet their passions are quite different in character, especially in the monumental dimensions of Bach’s arias. By early 1770, Bach had evidently determined that his liturgical passions would all be pastiches; the Passion Cantata, however, would be repeated regularly during Lent alongside works such as Telemann’s passion oratorio of 1722, the Seliges Erwägen, and Graun’s Tod Jesu. The circulation of the Passion Cantata during Bach’s lifetime only in manuscript copies suggests that he never expected it to have the broad appeal that made publication of the Israelites a viable commercial venture, considering it too learned or “artful” (künstlich) to risk having it printed.83 The Passion Cantata nevertheless received numerous performances and, if never attaining the status of a classic achieved by Graun’s work, may at least have rivaled it during the 1770s. In the year immediately after Bach’s death, a vocal score with a keyboard reduction of the instrumental parts was printed at Hamburg as a sort of memorial, although it apparently was not based on anything that Bach had prepared for publication. The Passion Cantata contains roughly 60 percent of the music of the liturgical passion. It opens with the first of three ostensive recitatives that are, in essence, sinfonias, the initial vocal entry of the work being preceded by a lengthy instrumental passage. The stark, simple music, at first little more than a unison melody for lower strings, is similar to what Bach would use later to open his Resurrection Cantata and to introduce the Credo of his father’s B-Minor Mass (see ex. 12.41). It must represent the emptiness and despair expressed by the new opening lines, which are sung only after perhaps two minutes of solemn introduction ($ex. 11.11).84 Today such an opening seems natural for a work of this type, yet it had to be invented by someone, and it is not easy to find precedents. A number of Telemann’s oratorios, including Das befreite Israel, use extended instrumental passages to represent scenes or events that are described in the text. Several works that Bach might have known (notably Telemann’s Auferstehung) open with imaginatively atmospheric instrumental movements—but none with so stark and darkly romantic a gesture as here. Bach again uses instrumental music to express the inexpressible when Jesus dies on the cross; in a passage present in both versions, strings and flutes play a chromatic lament after the evangelist’s words und verschied.85 From here the original church passion proceeded immediately to a third instrumental sinfonia or interlude, which prepares the almost Beethovenian accompanied recitative “Die Allmacht fei’rt den Tod.” For bass voice, its instrumental complement comprises the entire

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orchestra used in the work, including two horns, muted timpani, and divided flutes and bassoons; a persistent dotted rhythm and drumbeat suggest a funeral march. In the Passion Cantata, Bach interposed at this point the soprano arioso “Mein tief gebeugtes Herz”; only then did the bass accompagnato follow, transposed to F and with two oboes replacing the two flutes of the original. The change of instrumentation may be incidental, but the new sequence of movements makes the bass recitative less a funeral march than a triumphant preparation for the final chorus, which here is a so-called vaudeville also in F. The solemn final chorus of the 1769 passion music already represented a departure from both the typically understated conclusion of Telemann’s passions and the sentimental lamentation at the end of Graun’s Der Tod Jesu. Within the context of Emanuel’s 1769 Saint Matthew Passion, his father’s chorale fantasia (in C minor) complemented his own majestic chorus “Dann strahlet Licht und Majestät” (Let light and majesty shine), heard just a few minutes earlier in the work. Prefiguring the resurrection in a grand C major, this was part of a complex of madrigalesque movements whose texts transcended the account of torture and death that ended the gospel narrative proper at Hamburg. The closing complex in effect extended the narrative beyond the traditional gospel text for the day, which at Hamburg ended with Jesus’s death. Whether or not Bach understood any deeper theological purpose here, the result in both versions was to express something grander and more majestic than the emptiness that one feels at the end of most of Telemann’s passions or the mere sadness at the conclusion of Graun’s Tod Jesu. Bach’s subsequent pastiche passions fail to do this, but they were certainly not conceived as potential concert works, and none involved major textual contributions from a significant literary figure. In keeping with Hamburg tradition, they nevertheless share some of the theatrical quality that is as evident in Bach’s 1769 passion as in earlier ones by Telemann. Unlike Sebastian’s two extant passions, these works engage the listener with named characters explicitly represented by the soloists. Thus in the 1769 passion the gospel narration is interrupted at the moment of Judas’s betrayal by an operatic accompanied recitative, introduced by unison strings (“Der Menschenfreund willst du verraten,” $ex. 11.12). In another such interruption, after Jesus has been arrested, one of the two soprano soloists implores Peter not to follow him (“O Petrus, folge nicht!”). Set as a lively arioso in jig rhythm, this is likely to jar a modern listener accustomed to the more inward character of Sebastian’s passions ($ex. 11.13). Bach originally retained both passages without change in the Passion Cantata, but he apparently had misgivings about the jolly “O Petrus” arioso, eventually replacing it with a shorter but more dramatic accompanied recitative.86 Even within the borrowed music of the passion setting, small changes in scoring could be telling. Bach added horns to the first chorus, “Fürwahr, er trug unsre Krankheit,” parodied from the “Et misericordia” of his own Magnificat. This, as well as the transposition from E minor down to D minor, added gravity

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to the movement, which Burney praised after hearing it as “at least equal to any of the best chorusses in Handel’s immortal Messiah.”87 In the two “Lass ihn kreuzigen” choruses from his father’s Saint Matthew Passion, Emanuel replaced the original flutes with oboes. Although this might have been for technical reasons, it produced a heavier, more oppressive sound than in the original, particularly as the two wind parts were each doubled. The original scoring of some of the other turba choruses for double choir created a problem that Emanuel solved by assigning the vocal parts of the first choir to his singers, while having his instrumentalists play the doublings of the second choir.88 Two of these choruses, however, involved antiphonal exchanges between the two vocal bodies; Emanuel evidently felt that these would be ineffective if one vocal choir was replaced by instruments. He therefore susbstituted simple homophonic settings for the turba choruses “Weissage uns,” and “Gegrüßet seist du” (nos. 15f and 29b). The first is from a work by Homilius,89 but the second is one of three turba choruses whose sources have not been identified. Possibly Emanuel composed them himself, although only the four-part fugal setting of “Er ist des Todes schuldig” (no. 15d) is likely, on grounds of style, to be Emanuel’s own replacement for his father’s version in eight voices ($ex. 11.14).90 The third of these turba choruses, “Gegrüßet seist du,” is problematic not only because of its unidentified source but for raising the question of anti-Semitism (or “anti-Judaism”) in German Lutheran passion music. It has been argued that negative references to “the Jews” in J. S. Bach’s works were not expressions of prejudice against actual Jews at Leipzig—where there were essentially none in the eighteenth century.91 But the situation was different in Hamburg, where the long-serving pastor Neumeister is now notorious for his vicious attacks on the city’s Jewish population. Neumeister had been dead more than ten years by the time Emanuel Bach came to Hamburg, but his tradition was carried on by others, and the composer of the little turba chorus “Gegrüßet seist du” appears to have gone out of his way to emphasize the words der Juden (of the Jews) in the text ($ex. 11.15). Although the style is more reminiscent of Telemann than of Bach, the reordering of the words recalls the latter’s rhetorical manipulation of the text in other works.92 The brief passage hardly constitutes a clear anti-Semitic rant, and Emanuel demonstrated a degree of personal tolerance in his relations with Sara Levy and Moses Mendelssohn. Prejudice is not easily eliminated, however, and although the madrigalesque portions of the libretto tend to use expressions such as “the people” instead of referring to “the Jews,” Bach repeated this chorus together with the rest of his setting of the gospel text in each subsequent Saint Matthew Passion. It is disappointing that, after the ambitious Saint Matthew Passion of 1769, Bach should have chosen to perform a work by Homilius as the 1770 Saint Mark Passion. By the time he was preparing that year’s Lenten music, however, Bach seems to have been already disillusioned by the state of music at Hamburg. In a letter of December 1769, he writes that the public there lacks

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taste, preferring “gaudy, strange stuff” to “noble simplicity.”93 Exactly what this means is unclear, and it is possible that he was exaggerating as he counseled a former colleague not to come to Hamburg, where there were already too many musicians competing for scarce jobs. But when Burney visited in 1772, Bach accompanied him to a Vespers service at Saint Catharine’s Church to hear “some very good music, of his composition, very ill performed, and to a congregation wholly inattentive.”94 Were the pastiche passions that Bach performed in 1770 and thereafter examples of the “gaudy, strange stuff” that the locals preferred? Or could Bach by that phrase have meant the colorful pieces by Telemann whose word painting he selectively deplored? Probably neither—yet Bach, having lived and worked for three decades in an aristocratic, court-centered society at Berlin and Potsdam, is likely to have fallen out of touch with the lives and musical preferences of the middle-class bourgeoisie whom he now served at Hamburg’s principal churches. Discovering how ordinary people listened to music in a relatively free society could have been shocking to one who had spent most of his life in a more hierarchic but also more sophisticated milieu. If the merchants and tradespeople of Hamburg thought the latest songs and easy keyboard pieces imported from Paris, Amsterdam, and London to be the highest form of art, they would have been baffled by Bach’s music or even that of the lesser German composers whose works he performed—if they paid it any attention at all, which, Burney suggests, they did not. Yet Hamburg, although a republic, was no democracy, and there Bach served the elite as well as ordinary citizens. He and his music did have admirers there, and he continued to find noble, even royal patrons for his publications; he was himself a royal Capellmeister, a title that, although honorary, probably meant something to the pastors and professors whose society he frequented. With time, moreover, he probably did become reconciled to composing and performing music of a more popular, less aristocratic character, as attested by many of his published instrumental compositions and by the inclusion of simple choral arrangements of his lieder in many of his later church works. Bach did not advertise the fact that much of the music whose performances he led in the Hamburg churches was not his own. Even Burney apparently did not realize that at least one aria from the Michaelmas music that he heard was originally by Benda. Yet Bach evidently saw value in hearing music by various composers, and at least one concert series that he directed at Hamburg explicitly afforded listeners an “opportunity to hear various styles in the works of famous composers.”95 Today that may seem an obvious reason for attending a concert, but it was a novel idea in 1786. In the early 1770s, as Bach embarked on an ambitious series of publications of his own music, the use of church works by respected contemporaries must have seemed a more than acceptable way of fulfilling his responsibilities—and at least some of the large church pieces performed during these years, including the Michaelmas work heard by

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Burney, do appear to have been largely his own work, not music obtained “on commission,” as one church elder apparently scolded him.96 The music mostly by Homilius that Bach performed during Lent 1770 was significantly shorter than his own 1769 Matthew Passion, but it is far from austere and in some ways quite colorful, if not “gaudy.” An enormous bass solo, sung in response to Pilate’s question “Are you a king?” is scored with horns and oboes and contains the sweeping tirate and dotted rhythms characteristic of arias in opera seria for offended royalty. An impressive “Kreuzige” chorus whose four-part texture combines several chromatic ideas contrapuntally is repeated shortly thereafter. The final aria is a long Adagio in E-flat for soprano and muted strings (“Ihr Tränen fließt!”), whose flowing violin parts might have been inspired by “Erwäge, wie sein Blut” in Sebastian’s Saint John Passion ($ex. 11.16). The Luke and John passions for the following years (1771 and 1772) were pastiches comprising music by various composers, built around settings of the gospel by Telemann. Among the borrowed movements in 1772 was the penultimate chorus “Ruht woll,” originally the final number of Sebastian’s Saint John Passion. To this Emanuel himself, perhaps, fitted a new text that somewhat softened the language, eliminating the mention of Hell at the end of the B section. This was probably in keeping with sentiments at Hamburg, but from a poetic point of view the parody is clumsy, repeating the words einst and Gott within the space of just four lines and forcing changes in the declamation due to the addition of a syllable to one line. The new text also eliminated Sebastian’s reflexive association of individual words with the direction of the melodic line, which originally fell for Grab (grave) and Not (need) and rose for Himmel (heaven); in Emanuel’s setting these associations are reversed ($ex. 11.17). When it came time to perform another Saint Matthew Passion, in 1773, Bach again used the gospel framework and chorales of 1769, drawn mostly from his father’s setting, but he deleted his own arias and accompanied recitatives, replacing them with numbers by Homilius (two of them now fell at different points in the narrative). The next year, however, he repeated, in large part, Homilius’s Saint Mark Passion, and the passions performed in the following two years were also essentially works by Homilius.97 Homilius was as capable as Bach of writing an expressive opening theme, as in the aria “Ich geh von Leiden ganz umgeben” in the 1770 Saint Mark Passion. Beginning in F minor, its ritornello modulates immediately to the subdominant; the implications of this early move are realized when the first half of the A section ends (abnormally) in that key. Yet Homilius can think of nothing other than to repeat the modulation to B-flat minor at the beginning of the B section. One hears echoes of Sebastian Bach, as well as expressive formulas also used by Emanuel, but these are applied with relatively little imagination. The B section ends by simply repeating an archetypal progression that leads to a cadenza on a 46 chord ($ex. 11.18).

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Homilius’s recitatives can be highly dramatic (especially when accompanied), yet his harmony is bland, his rhythm and texture conventional despite colorful instrumentation. As a result, his gospel settings lack the rhetorical force of Sebastian’s or even Telemann’s. For instance, early in the Saint John Passion of 1772, a passage of gospel recitative, taken from Telemann (no. 2e), modulates from F to B-flat as Jesus makes an answer to the Pharisees and High Priests (“Ich hab’s euch gesagt”). It then modulates to C minor as the Evangelist quotes an earlier prophecy in an imitative arioso (“Ich habe derer keinen verloren”). At this point in the 1776 Saint John Passion, Homilius’s setting of the same words remains essentially in C major, and the arioso setting of the quotation sounds more like a song than a dictum ($ex. 11.19). Homilius’s aria “Mein Heiland, bald wirst du dein Blut vergießen,” which replaced Emanuel’s own “Donnre nur” in the 1773 Saint Matthew Passion, is merely decorative, whereas Bach’s aria was an outraged yet majestic response to Pilate’s interrogation of Jesus ($ex. 11.20). More challenging, but more old-fashioned, is the duet at the corresponding point in the 1771 Saint Luke Passion. Taken from a 1749 work by Stölzel on which Bach drew for four of the eight “madrigalesque” movements that year, the duet has some of the seriousness and imaginative use of texture characteristic of Sebastian’s and Telemann’s best works ($ex. 11.21). Yet Emanuel tended to use only the gospel and chorale settings of those two older composers. Their arias must have struck him as insufficiently vivid or engaging for the Hamburg congregations of the 1770s, and when he used Telemann’s chorales and gospel settings for the 1772 Saint John Passion he again replaced all the arias. One of these, by Homilius (“Verkennt ihn nicht”), has much in common with the Telemann aria that Emanuel had praised to Lessing a few years earlier. Both use tremolos to represent thunder and lightning, heightened in Homilius’s setting by dissonant passages for divided oboes and bassoons. But at this point in Telemann’s own 1745 passion (Bach’s source for the gospel recitative used in 1772), one finds the more stately aria “Meer und Erde magst du fragen.” Bach evidently preferred the high drama of Homilius’s setting, which made a more vivid reply to Pilate’s question “What is truth?” ($ex. 11.22).98 Possibly Bach found the more frequent and more concrete examples of oldfashioned musical rhetoric in Telemann’s vocal music distasteful. Homilius, however, hardly avoids traditional text painting, and it is striking that Bach’s 1775 Saint Luke Passion should have included something like “Die Hölle rüstet sich.” A grandiose soprano aria with two horns, this sounds like a rollicking call to battle, despite some melodramatic chromaticism that represents Hell’s “fearful rejoicing” (sie jauchzet fürchterlich, $ex. 11.23). Bach did shorten the aria, whose A section states its full text no fewer than four times, converting Homilius’s standard da capo form to a so-called dal segno aria, omitting the first half of the A section on its repeat.

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Not all of Homilius’s music is so operatic; some arias share the phraseology of a lied, as does the chorus “Wir gingen wie verirrte Schafe,” part of the closing complex of the Saint Luke Passion for 1775. The four-square phrasing may seem banal, yet Bach would have noticed that the simple homophonic choral writing, not unlike that of a chorale, could generate real feeling when coupled with an imaginative modulation and an ascending melodic line—even if it verges on the sentimental, like the early Romantic choral writing that it so closely resembles ($ex. 11.24). In Bach’s later years, the aesthetic underlying this movement seems to have come to dominate both his pastiches and his original church works. Long da capo arias grow rare, and in choruses, arias, and even accompanied recitatives, Bach favors a declamatory syllabic style not far from that of his songs. Actual lieder increasingly become the basis of choruses, not only in the passions but in other church works. This style was not entirely an innovation of Bach’s later years, for it is already present, to some degree, in an aria such as “O sel’ge Augen” from his first Hamburg inaugural piece (for Pastor Palm, H. 821a; $ex. 11.25). The aria is longer than later ones of this type, yet its B section is far shorter than the A, as was often true in opera arias from the first half of the century. The harmony is more diatonic than in Bach’s later arias, and the phrasing of the A section is less like that of an arioso than in subsequent examples. That this aria was on a text by Schiebeler, whose songs Bach was setting at about the same time, is probably immaterial, for the lineage of such an aria goes back to quiet examples by earlier composers, such as Sebastian’s “Schlummert ein” (from BWV 82). Emanuel’s increasing predilection for this style, however, suggests that he turned to it for expressive reasons and not merely because it was easier to write such music, or because his congregations could understand it more readily.

Inaugural Pieces and Other Works Although we tend to think of passions and other types of oratorios as among the most important of vocal works, the special traditions of Hamburg meant that Bach put at least as much effort into music for the inaugurations of pastors and into seasonal pieces for Christmas, Easter, Pentecost, and Saint Michael’s Day or Michaelmas. That some of these works are entirely derived from others, whereas some are largely original, probably depended on varying circumstances, including Bach’s work schedule during a particular season or, in the case of the inaugural pieces, whether the person honored was prepared to pay extra for new music.99 Like the passions, some of the inaugural and seasonal pieces incorporate elaborate choruses and virtuoso arias in the post-Hasse or post-Graun style familiar from Homilius. Bach had previously composed his Magnificat in much the same style, and movements from the latter resurface in parodied form in several of these works, as in the inaugural piece for Pastor

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Häseler of 1772 (H. 821d). This incorporates the tenor solo “Quia fecit mihi magna” from the Magnificat, barely changed in musical substance even though the new text, beginning “Hallelujah,” has no direct connection with the fifth psalm tone that is quoted at the beginning of both the ritornello and the first vocal entry. The composition for Häseler nevertheless illustrates a number of recurring features of Bach’s Hamburg church pieces. Its text is by the pastor Christian Wilhelm Alers, who was presumably one of those “good friends” to whom Bach’s daughter traced the libretti (many still anonymous) of other Hamburg church pieces.100 The work opens with one of Bach’s rare chorale-fantasia choruses. The four voices, after a brief introduction, enter in unison, or rather octaves, to sing the chorale “Dies sind die heil’gen zehn Gebot’” (These are the ten holy commandments). Easily recognizable from its repeated notes, which resemble a psalm tone, this was a suitably didactic melody for a work honoring a preacher. Bach does not develop the repeated-note motive, as his father might have done, but simply juxtaposes it against an energetic orchestral accompaniment that is dominated by an athletic violin part (ex. 11.26). Ostensibly in four, five, or even nine parts (including the three trumpets and timpani), the setting is really only in three—violins, bass, and cantus firmus— after doublings and harmonic filler are discounted. Such a texture must have been meant to give the impression of antique polyphony, but only the impression. Like the duet of the Two Armed Men in Mozart’s Magic Flute, it represents a Classical or early Romantic version of cantus-firmus technique, one that could be understood by listeners on whom a more genuinely contrapuntal setting would be lost. This chorus may have been a new composition,101 yet Bach had recently used precisely the same texture in the “prelude” portion of the prelude-andfugue chorus in the Passion Cantata (“Lasset uns aufsehen”). There, however, the text comprises two separate verses from the New Testament, and the “choral unison” apparently presents a pseudo–cantus firmus, something also found in the church music of Friedemann Bach.102 Although Häseler did not hear a fugue in his inaugural piece, Bach attached one to the parody of this movement that opens the Michaelmas Music for 1775 (Siehe, ich begehre deiner Befehle, W. 247). The subject resembles that of a chorus by Friedemann that had served a similar purpose—another odd connection between this work and music by Emanuel’s older brother ($ex. 11.27).103 Despite its lively subject, Emanuel’s fugue is a simpler composition, lacking independent instrumental parts; the trumpets and drums merely reinforce the voices, and the strings and oboes play colle parti. Although the form of the movement is based, in principle, on the demonstration of various contrapuntal techniques, its polyphony is again more an idea that is referred to than an actuality. The initial exposition is followed by just two more, both incorporating quasi strettos—quasi because only the last entry of the subject in each case is

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Example 11.26. Chorale “Dies sind die heil’gen zehn Gebot’,” no. 1 from the Inaugural Piece for Pastor Häselar, H. 821d, mm. 9–19 (without winds and inner strings; tenor and bass double soprano and alto an octave lower)

complete. There is no real countersubject, only the recurring motivic idea that each entry of the subject should be accompanied by a long note in another voice on the word halten (keep, hold). This was an old-fashioned bit of word painting, made obvious when it is extended to pairs of voices that hold pedal points in octaves in the closing passage (mm. 149–52 in $ex. 11.28b). Unlike Friedemann, Emanuel does not integrate this little fugue with the opening “prelude” part of the chorus, which originated independently. There is no common motivic material, and the orchestral introduction never returns as a ritornello. This does not make the music ineffective for its purpose, but the small scale of both “prelude” and fugue suggests a limited conception of how such music might contribute to the solemnity of the occasion for which it was written. To be sure, Friedemann’s more substantial and more unified movements of this type are rarely unalloyed successes.104 It is uncertain whether Emanuel knew any of those pieces; the one church work of Friedemann that he adopted for his own use, the Pentecost piece F. 80, opens with a chorus of a different type, without any fugue.105 The final movement of Häseler’s inaugural piece reveals another thin parallel to Friedemann, for its first four measures are close to the corresponding passage in Friedemann’s first Halle church work, Wer mich liebet (F. 72) of 1746 ($ex. 11.29). Thereafter the resemblance disappears, Bach’s chorus continuing as a modern “vaudeville” type resembling a rondo: the full ensemble alternates with soloists—named in Bach’s score—to present seven stanzas of

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a lied based on a verse from Psalm 40. This is the same type of chorus that Bach wrote during the same period for the conclusion of the Passion Cantata; it recurs in later Hamburg church pieces. The song-like character of the text is reflected in the music, which is close in style to the simple rondos of the ensemble sonatinas and other instrumental works. This is clearest in the use of distinct orchestral colors to accompany the solo stanzas: the tenor Michel by strings, the bass Hoffmann by two bassoons, then Wrede by two oboes and the bass Illert by two bassoons now doubled by two violins. Many of Bach’s later inaugural pieces seem to reveal signs of fatigue, especially where the aging composer was confronted by unduly lengthy texts. In the 1785 inaugural piece for Pastor Schäffer (W. 253/H. 821m), Bach evidently despaired of making anything musically interesting out of the strange opening line of the first aria, “Unwandelbar, welch ein Gedanke!” (Immutable, what a thought!). The opening word is set off through an effective if old-fashioned music-rhetorical device—it is sung unaccompanied, and without a preceding ritornello—but the aria as a whole is more pretty than profound ($ex. 11.30). In the second aria (“Wenn einst vor deinem Schelten”), rather than composing a traditional setting that would have included a second full statement of the text, with new music, Bach simply indicates an unaltered repeat of the twelve-line poem, which is sung as a single unbroken musical paragraph. The setting is lively, but Bach’s approach is more typical of a lied than an aria. To be sure, the two types are merging in these late works, even if Clark could identify only two cases of actual lieder that were converted into solo arias.106 But it is disappointing, in the following aria (“Schon hör ich die Posaune schallen”), to find the poem’s banal references to the last trumpet matched, predictably, by brass-style signals for both the bass voice and an actual trumpet; the latter plays bugle calls similar to ones heard in the Resurrection Cantata. The remaining arias as well give the impression that their successive phrases have been pasted together inorganically, an impression that is only deepened when lines of poetry are set to distinct musical ideas and then not repeated. This reduces the aria to something like an arioso; it becomes a particular problem in the B section of the fourth aria, a prosaic setting of another verbose text (“Seht, Gottes Klarheit füllt sein Haus”). Because these are not in fact ariosos, but arias, with the usual musical designs if not the dimensions of the latter, one misses the more substantive engagement with the text found in the arias of Bach’s earlier works. One is left wondering whether the sermons of Pastor Schäffer and his fellows were as long-winded in person as the librettos that Bach was required to set in their honor. Among Bach’s other Hamburg vocal works are several special compositions of a more or less civic character; these are considered in 11.7.

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Chapter Twelve

Swan Songs Whatever frustrations and difficulties Bach encountered at Hamburg left few signs in the documentary record. His years there were his most productive, even discounting the substantial number of church works that were more arrangements or adaptations of existing music than original compositions. While at Hamburg Bach also published most of the instrumental works that kept his name alive for two centuries after his death, even after most of his other music had been forgotten or become inaccessible. Bach himself, however, seems to have considered those compositions, including the six late volumes of keyboard pieces for Kenner und Liebhaber, to be minor works. They earned him good money, and the fantasias preserved his accomplishment as a Fantast. But what Bach believed would be his lasting musical legacy was the Versuch, together with several large vocal works that he described in his correspondence as swan songs or masterpieces. Bach is not known to have owned any works by Schütz, and he is unlikely to have been aware that the latter had expressly designated his setting of Psalm 119 as his “swan song,” to be sung at his own funeral.1 But the idea of the silent swan leaving a final musical offering to posterity is a traditional one. Unlike Schütz’s, Bach’s swan song appears to have been conceived not for devotional purposes but to help train future generations of musicians and to establish his place in music history. That his style and indeed his entire way of understanding the structure of music would soon pass, to be replaced by approaches emerging to the south rather than in northern Europe, was probably something he could not imagine. Still, the vocal works that he published during his last ten years, as well as several unpublished works, were known and respected more than just locally. They included several of his most ambitious compositions, and they are remarkable for having been written at a time in life when most musicians, including his father, had retired from active musical invention. Among the publications of Bach’s last ten years were four major vocal works of diverse types. Only one, the Resurrection Cantata, is readily classifiable, and today we would term it an oratorio. The others are best described as a small cantata (Klopstocks Moregengesang), a double-chorus motet (the Heilig),

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and a pair of unique quasi-liturgical compositions (the Two Litanies). In his correspondence with Breitkopf, who would print or publish all but the last, Bach referred to only one of these as an actual swan song (Schwanen Lied): the Heilig, which was to be his “swan song of this type”—implying that there might be additional ones of other types.2 The reference to a swan song was premature—Bach would live and compose for another ten years—yet Bach apparently was planning a retirement of sorts, and, as Clark noted, already in 1776 he wrote in his letters of settling his accounts.3 He told several correspondents that the sixth volume for Kenner und Liebhaber would be the last,4 and at the end of 1787, which saw several publications, he wrote that he had concluded his “works for the public” and was laying down his pen.5 In spring 1788 he informed Breitkopf that he would publish nothing more “myself”—leaving open the possibility of nonsubscription publications.6 What impresses the reader of these letters is how completely in command of innumerable small details Bach remains, well past seventy, remembering that Breitkopf owes a subscriber in Kassel three copies of the Resurrection Cantata or that Bach himself needs to reimburse Breitkopf a small amount that Ebeling has paid him. Here and there he refers to letters sent to others, suggesting that the surviving correspondence, consisting primarily of about 200 letters to Breitkopf, is merely the tip of an iceberg that has otherwise disappeared. Although most of these letters concern business minutiae, now and then Bach drops a hint that he maintains a lively social life and is keeping up with current intellectual or cultural affairs.7 The type of mind that could keep so many details straight was also one that could write good counterpoint and pursue a complex musical argument through multiple quick modulations or tempo changes, or plan a pastiche passion that incorporates portions of half a dozen other compositions, some of them not heard for perhaps a decade or more. Evidently blessed with great physical vitality—despite his gout and surely an increasing number of other nuisances—Bach also possessed a lively and restless mind whose energy is as evident in the mundane business correspondence as in the musical masterworks of his last decade. Bach’s description of the Heilig as a swan song was both a self-regarding reference to his age and part of an argument for Breitkopf to commit to a venture that was not without some financial risk to both parties.8 In the event, Bach’s longevity made it possible for him to sing multiple “swan songs” of different types, including the posthumously published New Songs (W. 200) and the quartets and double concerto of his last year. No one composition of Bach’s can be designated his actual swan song or last work, for the question is partly one of definition. The Saint Matthew Passion for 1789, prepared during fall 1788, was, as usual, a pastiche (more so than those of the past few years); a reference to it in NV as “the composer’s last work” would have attracted the attention of collectors.9 Like most of Bach’s passions, it consisted chiefly of arrangements and borrowings (the previous year’s Saint John Passion seems to have been an

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swan songs 287 important exception). The illness that ended his life must have come on suddenly, at the end of 1788. Bach’s last surviving letter, dated November 25, mentions that he is getting better after some two months of being “very sick with gout and other ailments,”10 but three weeks later he was dead.

Klopstock’s Morgengesang It is curious, amid several large works that are concerned with the glories of an eternal afterlife, to find Bach writing a relatively unpretentious composition on the theme of the creation. Bach published his little cantata in 1784— by subscription, appropriately enough—as “Klopstock’s Morning Song for the Festival of the Creation” (Klopstocks Morgengesang am Schöpfungsfeste, W. 239). Although NV places its composition in 1783, its forthcoming publication was announced at Christmas 1782, implying that Bach had already begun planning the work, at least. Neither Klopstock’s poem nor Bach’s composition actually came out for almost two more years, however, and exactly when either text or music was written remains uncertain, as is the precise nature of the evident collaboration between the two friends. This was, with the New Litany, one of two substantial settings of texts by Klopstock that Bach published. He otherwise avoided setting any serious poems by Klopstock, although he did direct performances of Messiah in Klopstock’s translation.11 The work was widely praised, probably as much on account of its theme and Klopstock’s poem, as for Bach’s music. Premiered at Hamburg in 1783, it was performed at Berlin almost immediately after its publication; Beethoven owned a manuscript copy made by his father.12 “Morning Song” was a common title in the collections of the period; one of Bach’s Gellert songs and another by Karsch bear the same heading.13 The genre normally expressed pious thoughts appropriate to that time of day; Bach’s two song settings are relatively simple, moderate in tempo and affect. The “morning” of Klopstock’s title, however, is that of the world; the sunrise typically invoked in these songs is here the first one, the “children” (Kinder) mentioned in the fourth of the poem’s nine stanzas not individuals but all the world’s creatures. Indeed, Klopstock’s poem is no mere song (Lied) but a Gesang, in the same sense as the sections of his epic poem Der Messias, which correspond to the books of the Iliad and the Odyssey. In the literary lingo of the day his poem was also an ode, a serious or high-minded version of the strophic Lied.14 The distinction was not maintained with any consistency, however. Many quite simple strophic songs, including Bach’s, were published in collections with titles such as the Oden mit Melodien (Odes with Melodies) edited by Ramler and Krause. Klopstock’s poem, however, is no simple strophic song; its stanzas, although each comprising four lines, have neither rhyme nor regular meter. The resulting free verse could not have been set as a strophic song even if

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Bach had wished to do so; Klopstock, who (like Bach himself) was compared to Milton by contemporaries, clearly inspired him to compose something far more original and substantial. It was no harder to write music for such poetry than for any other, or, for that matter, than for prose, which Bach routinely set in the biblical narratives and choruses of his Hamburg church works. Still, the putative nature of Klopstock’s text as a “song” might have implied setting it in lied style, as Bach had done even for one of the Cramer Psalms whose meter changes for all six lines in every strophe (Ps. 97). That setting is in a straightforward 83 time, and Bach handled Cramer’s metrical variations in the usual way, extending syllables for an extra beat where necessary ($ex. 12.1). Klopstock, however, assigned each stanza of his poem to either “two voices” or “all,” implying something other than a straightforward setting in song style.15 Bach’s setting accordingly is in the manner of a cantata. Although not one of Bach’s major works, “Klopstock’s Morgengesang” (as it is always called) constituted a substantial publication, comprising forty-four pages that included both a full score and a keyboard reduction of the instrumental parts. Hence, like Bach’s W. 43 concertos of twelve years earlier, it could be performed either in its full setting or, minimally, by a single keyboard player accompanying himself or herself. The full instrumentation is somewhat larger than that of a typical chamber work, comprising two flutes, bassoon, and strings, including divided violas and violone. Following Hamburg tradition, the four-part vocal ensemble lacks an alto; most sections are assigned to one or both of the two sopranos, who are joined in two numbers by tenor and bass. Although the number of sections in Bach’s setting corresponds to the seven stanzas of the poem, Bach’s distribution of the text between the singers differs from Klopstock’s (see the table in 12.1). Only two of the stanzas assigned by the poet to “two voices” are set as duets, the remainder being set as solos—two accompanied recitatives, an aria and an arioso (“Arienmäßig”). Two stanzas that were to be repeated by “all” are set as four-part choruses. The work is through-composed, some of its seven movements or segments connected by modulating codas similar to those in Bach’s keyboard works of the same period ($ex. 12.2).16 As in the Passion Cantata, the opening accompanied recitative is introduced by a substantial instrumental passage, here scored inventively to suggest the genesis of the world out of nothingness. There is no great difference in style between the arias, duets, and arioso, and some sections are not far from lied style. The third section, however, although designated an aria in the most recent edition (CPEBCW 6/4), lacks a heading in the original. This must reflect its strange vocal writing, which is a sort of melodic reduction of the leading line; the latter is played by two violas doubled by flutes, somewhat as in the slow movement of the D-Major Sinfonia, W. 183/2.17 The vocal part, sung by the first soprano, is particularly

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swan songs 289 “Miltonic” in its unmelodic character, at least if sung alone or accompanied only by the keyboard reduction, which lacks the heterophonic melody. One would almost think that the movement is a parody of a previously composed instrumental piece, but the simultaneous combination of the simple vocal line with a florid variation in the flute and viola must be Bach’s “painting” of Klopstock’s “melodious early breezes” (die melodischen Lüfte der Frühe). (For further analysis, see 12.1.)

The Double-Chorus Heilig By the time he published Klopstock’s Morgengesang, Bach had given numerous performances of the double-chorus Heilig (W. 217). Scored for two fourvoice choirs and two orchestras, each comprising three trumpets and timpani, oboes, and strings, it was published by subscription in 1779, although it originated at least three years earlier. The work is a German Sanctus without the Hosanna and Benedictus—in principle a section of the Ordinary of the Mass and a part of the Lutheran liturgy. The text is also quoted in the Te Deum (an Office hymn) as the song sung by the angels closest to God in heaven. By Bach’s time, these traditional meanings of the text might have been understood more figuratively than literally by educated listeners, for whom the words remained a romantic vision of sublime celestial grandeur. In addition to this work, there is a Latin Sanctus attributed to Bach (W. 219), though whether it is really his is open to question; in NV it is listed immediately before the Veni, Sancte Spiritus that was originally by Telemann. The Latin Sanctus has little in common with the double-chorus Heilig, comprising merely a mediocre little double fugue with a brief introduction. Equally unrelated is the single-chorus Heilig W. 218, although it too is a small “prelude” and fugue, the latter parodying the “Sicut locutus” from Sebastian Bach’s Magnificat.18 These minor works are undated but were presumably created early during Bach’s Hamburg period for use in the liturgy. NV lists the double-chorus Heilig as a work of 1778, and indeed it was in that year that Bach first mentioned it to Breitkopf, describing it as “the last [work] of this type, so that I may not so soon be forgotten.”19 The two ensembles of the Heilig explicitly represent a “Chorus of Angels” and a “Chorus of Nations” (Völker). The “prelude” is still, as in W. 218 and 219, a relatively short, slow, homophonic passage that includes the traditional three acclamations by the angel choir, but the latter now alternates with an earthly one. The angel choir concludes each of its three statements with a fermata on the dominant of a “sharp” minor key, only to be answered by the “nations” with music in G or C. The effect of a nonsequitur is deepened by the distinct textures, dynamic levels, and instrumental accompaniments of the two choirs (ex. 12.4).

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Example 12.4. Heilig, W. 217, “prelude,” mm. 1–12 (without violin 2 and viola in mm. 8–10)

This is the classic instance of what Richard Kramer called “the new modulation of the 1770s” in his article of that title. Bach likewise juxtaposed remote tonalities at several points in the Morgengesang to reflect the meaning of Klopstock’s text, as in a passage that alludes to the eventual transformation of things at the end of earthly existence (see $ex. 12.3). At the beginning of the Heilig, however, the device reflects the contrasting worlds of heaven and earth that join in unison later in the work. As usual with Bach, the contrast is represented not through the specific tonalities in which the two respective choirs sing, but in the chromatic and especially the third-related progressions between the successive keys. The most radical of these progressions occur in

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swan songs 291 the “prelude,” but Bach also juxtaposes not only remote tonalities but sharply contrasting textures or types of music within the fugue that follows. These moments are also prefigured in the little “arietta” that serves as introduction. To introduce such disruptions of normal musical progression within either an aria or a fugue was more original and more challenging for the listener—and perhaps for the composer—than to do so in the essentially improvisatory initial section of the Heilig per se. Despite the dramatic modulations and the sumptuous appearance of the work in full score, the “prelude” and, to a large degree, the fugue, remain close to the stile antico, for the structurally essential music lies almost entirely in the vocal parts. One choir or the other (or both) sings almost continuously, except in a few brief stretto episodes for the instruments early in the fugue,20 and the instruments provide no contrapuntally independent parts in the expositions. The instruments nevertheless add essential color in the “prelude,” characterizing the “nations” as loud and warlike, with dotted figures in the strings accompanied by trumpets and drums. The instruments also play a crucial role in the second section of the fugue (mm. 26–73), where Bach introduces a cantus firmus—“Herr Gott, dich loben wir,” the German Te Deum—sung in long notes by the voices in octaves. Simultaneously, the instruments continue the stretto episode that they have begun a few moments earlier, producing counterpoint in six or more real parts. The absence of instruments, other than doubling strings, is also significant when, in the next section of the fugue, the first choir interrupts the animated proceedings, singing an echo of the “prelude” in sustained style, without even the bow vibrato and organ continuo accompaniment that originally gave the passage a measured shimmer (ex. 12.5).21 Although not employing the archaic chorale style of “Heiliger Schöpfer Gott” in the Passion Cantata, the effect is similarly mysterious. The use of double chorus could have been suggested by sacred poetry such as Klopstock’s and Cramer’s that divided certain songs and hymns between two choirs. The litany (see below) was also sung antiphonally, and Emanuel knew double-chorus works of his father, including not only the Saint Matthew Passion but also the Osanna from the B-Minor Mass and Sebastian’s arrangement of a Sanctus by J. C. Kerll (BWV 241).22 But Emanuel’s Heilig could not have been conceived without the additional models furnished by Graun’s equally monumental Te Deum and other recent settings of that text. The Te Deum was traditionally associated with the celebration of wartime victories, as were at least two of Handel’s settings of this text; Graun’s work had been composed, published, and performed as a political and patriotic act during the Seven Years’ War. Bach had probably heard if not performed in its Berlin premiere, and he owned and perhaps directed one of Handel’s settings at Hamburg—most likely the one in B-flat known as the “Chandos” Te Deum (HWV 281).23 Like Graun’s Te Deum, the Handel work includes passages that prefigure the “prelude” in Bach’s Heilig, whose “new” modulation was therefore Bach’s extension of an

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Example 12.5. Heilig, W. 217, fugue, mm. 91–106 (without instrumental doublings)

old tradition. Both earlier composers use the same harmonic idea of thirdrelations to express the sublime or ineffable quality of the seraphic acclamation. Indeed, the third-relation (b:V–D) between Graun’s two statements of the phrase is only slightly less remote than the half-step juncture (f♯:V–D) between Bach’s choruses of Angels and Nations ($ex. 12.6). Although today we may be struck by the conventionality of both Graun’s Te Deum and his Tod Jesu, when new these works stood above less polished contemporary compositions for their relatively high level of harmonic invention.

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swan songs 293 Graun also provided a model for the accompaniment of sustained vocal sonorities by dotted figures in the orchestra. This was, to be sure, a generic type of scoring, used frequently by Handel and many others. But there is a melodic parallel as well between Graun’s and Bach’s respective settings of the initial “Sanctus” text: both set it repeatedly in phrases that end with a suspension decorated by a drawn-out turn (mm. 6–7 in ex. 12.4 above; cf. mm. 6–7 in $ex. 12.7). Graun’s name does not come up in Bach’s correspondence with Breitkopf about the Heilig, but it is hard to imagine that either composer or publisher would have forgotten the earlier work. Graun’s publication had presumably received royal underwriting, but Bach had to gather subscriptions to finance his. That the first printing of Bach’s work—over 500 copies— nearly sold out attests to the interest that Bach’s work attracted from wealthy music lovers, most of whom could have used the score only as a souvenir.24 It indeed preserved Bach’s memory after his death, at least for several decades; Beethoven attended a performance of it at Vienna on Christmas Day 1817, as part of a concert in which he conducted his own Eighth Symphony.25 As late as 1828 the work was heard at Berlin under the direction of Spontini.26 (For an overview of the work’s form and further discussion of its history and structure, see 12.2.) In its published form, the Heilig proper is preceded by an “arietta serving as introduction” (Einleitung), as explained on the original title page. Scored for alto voice (or soprano) and strings, the arietta replaced music by Benda that was used to set the same text in performances going back to at least 1776.27 Benda’s music, in turn, had originally been used to set a text by Herder, performed in honor of a princely birthday.28 One wonders, therefore, whether Bach had replaced Benda’s setting by the time Benda himself, visiting Hamburg in 1778, reviewed the Heilig after hearing it in that year’s Michaelmas Music.29 As Bach later explained, some such introduction is necessary if the opening of the Heilig proper is to have its proper significance; the quiet E-major chords at the beginning would be merely pretty if they did not stand in sharp contrast to the remote G major of the arietta.30 Although short on paper, in performance the “prelude” occupies nearly half the total length of the Heilig. This is inherent in the work’s tempos, about which Bach had clear ideas. Breitkopf failed to include in the score a notice, requested by Bach, demanding “very slow” performance of the adagio “prelude.”31 On the other hand, the composer must have expected a lively pace in the fugue, for after its publication Bach expressed indignation at a performance in Berlin in which the fugue lasted far longer than the three minutes that Bach considered the maximum duration.32 Taking three minutes to perform the 146 measures of the fugue would yield a tempo of half note = ca. 97. This is lively yet still comfortable, although Bach’s musicians, who performed the work frequently, would have had more practice doing so than those at Berlin.33

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Proper tempo and formal proportions would have been particularly important in this work, which, unlike most of Bach’s, has a distinctive formal design of the type that is sometimes described as “architectural.” Yet it is unclear whether Bach and his contempraries—or his father—consciously likened the temporal proportions of a musical work to actual architecture, that is, a physical or geometric structure. The type of tabular or graphic representation of musical design now taken for granted was still several decades in the future, and, unlike his father, Emanuel does not seem to have counted measures in constructing his published collections.34 Nevertheless, the formal planning of the Heilig is comparable to that of many of Sebastian’s compositions, above all in the symmetrical division of the fugue into four sections; the largest of these, the second and third, are further subdivided symmetrically.35 The first section of the fugue, that is, the opening exposition, is sung by the two choirs in unison, presenting a lively subject that sets the phrase “Alle Lande” (all nations; see ex. 12.9). The second section (mm. 26–72) introduces the Lutheran Te Deum melody, sung first by the Angels, then by the Nations a fifth lower. The modal character of the melody makes its tonality ambiguous, but at the end of this section the music is firmly in the subdominant F, and the fugue is exactly halfway over, having completed 73 of 146 measures. The third section (mm. 73–133), slightly longer than the second, begins with an episode, followed by what ought to be an exposition as the fugue subject enters in the bass of the second choir (the Nations; see ex. 12.5). This is in fact the tonal answer on G that was first heard at measure 5 in the tenors (ex. 12.9a). Now, however, it is interrupted by the first choir (Angels), singing an echo of the “prelude.” Yet the bass of this choir completes the tonal answer of the subject in augmentation (ex. 12.9b). The entire passage is then repeated sequentially, a tone higher (mm. 100–109). The division of the subject between the basses of the two choirs, although clever, did not require any particular contrapuntal skill, given the scalar nature of the last four notes of the subject. Nor is it likely to be heard by any listener to whom it is not pointed out. It is, then, a rare and somewhat idiosyncratic example of “demonstration counterpoint” in one of Bach’s public vocal compositions; the only other instance in this work occurs near the end, in a brief stretto that leads into an equally short coda (mm. 134ff.). Whether all the artifice of the Heilig adds up to something quite as sublime as Emanuel and his listeners thought it did might be doubted by anyone who knows works like the Sanctus from Sebastian’s B-Minor Mass or the Credo of Beethoven’s Missa solemnis. Because Emanuel’s counterpoint is not as engaging as his father’s—or Beethoven’s—his Heilig runs the risk of seeming a bit empty and perhaps too short to stand on its own, outside of a larger composition. Still, the fact that one must cite works of such supreme stature in order to judge its relative value is at least an indication of Emanuel’s ambitions for the Heilig. It must indeed have made “an exceptional impact” on listeners, as Bach assured Breitkopf when he first raised the possibility of publishing it.

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swan songs 295 Example 12.9. Heilig, W. 217, fugue, subject: (a) mm. 5–9, tonal answer as sung by tenors 1 and 2; (b) mm. 91–98, same, partial statement by bass 1, completed by bass 2 in augmentation

Other Choral Fugues Even if the fugue in Bach’s Heilig is not an unalloyed musical triumph, it is his one work to combine traditional choral polyphony with an inventive formal and expressive design. To the extent that it succeeds, it does so by avoiding the mechanics of conventional fugue writing as understood at the time; its great moments arise not through counterpoint but from the juxtaposition of contrasting tonalities, melodies, and rhythmic textures. Nevertheless, several other choral fugues, although less imaginative, suggest that in his late years Bach was concerned with establishing his credentials not only as a Fantast but as a contrapuntist, if not at the level of his father then at least that of Graun or even Handel. These fugues were probably composed before the Heilig, but at least one was revised afterward specifically to demonstrate the use of varous contrapuntal techniques. Although Bach’s Israelites contains no choral polyphony, by the time of its publication it seems to have become customary in northern Europe for oratorios and other large choral works to contain at least one large fugue, often in the Italianate stile antico. The tradition probably reflected the popularity not only of Handel’s oratorios but of Graun’s two major choral works. Although Emanuel’s concert and church performances included a few of his father’s choral fugues, he never imitated them in his own compositions.36 He nevertheless must have felt called upon to surpass what Graun had done in the Te Deum and Tod Jesu, which both included ostentatious fugal movements in retrospective style.37 Published in 1757 and 1760, respectively, these works reflected the same interest in imitative counterpoint that had led a few years earlier to Marpurg’s treatise on the fugue and canon. Marpurg quoted a number of Graun’s works; Nicolai related an anecdote according to which King Frederick had Graun’s Te Deum, as well as a mass by his brother Gottlieb, sung for d’Alembert in the chapel of Charlottenburg Palace as examples of “contrapuntal pieces.”38

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Emanuel’s Magnificat of 1749 almost certainly preceded both those works, yet the double fugue used for its “Sicut erat” follows the same Italianate models emulated by the Graun brothers, rather than anything by Sebastian. From 1768 onward, Emanuel repeatedly turned to the Magnificat for parody movements in his Hamburg church works, and he first reused the closing fugue in the Christmas Music for 1772 (H. 811).39 In 1783 he used it in another way, sending it to Princess Anna Amalia as a sample of his contrapuntal skill. It was this version that he subsequently incorporated into his Easter Music for 1784 (W. 243). What prompted Amalia’s titular Capellmeister to send her the fugue is not known. One would imagine that Bach’s brief dedicatory letter to her of March 5, 1783, which accompanied the score, had been preceded by a request or at least an expression of interest, possibly from Kirnberger, her librarian. Bach had been using the Magnificat as a concert piece at least since 1779, when it was heard alongside the Heilig.40 What the princess received, however, was the parody “Herr, es ist dir keiner gleich” (Ps. 86:8), an expanded version of the fugue that, as Bach explained, he had “entirely reworked [umgearbeitet],” since “the two themes are especially apt for demonstrating many contrapuntal devices without contrivance [Zwang].”41 Bach had already revised the musical surface to accommodate the German text; the latter fits the first subject far less elegantly than the original Latin, but by restricting the last word, Hallelujah, to the second subject, he ensured that the two subjects would represent distinct ideas, as in his father’s choral double fugues.42 Emanuel had also added the trumpets and drums that were mandatory in seasonal pieces at Hamburg, although these parts, like the original horns, remain incidental to the fugal counterpoint. The revised version sent to the princess in 1783 adds a total of thirty measures to the original; these take the form of inserts and substitute phrases of a few measures each, in which Bach demonstrates the combination of inverted and upright forms of the two subjects, additional stretto entries, and other contrapuntal devices.43 (12.3 contains a detailed analysis and comparison of the two versions.) Even in the original version one has the impression, as in some of his keyboard fugues, that Bach has assembled the fugue by “piecing together a series of short counterpoints,” as Clark put it.44 Each of these presumably had been worked out separately, like the examples of fugal and canonic devices that Marpurg illustrated in his Abhandlung von der Fuge. That Bach indeed worked in this way is suggested by the survival of one substitute passage among the parts for the Christmas Music of 1772.45 The additive, rather than periodic, nature of fugal phrasing made such a procedure tolerable. Yet one must wonder to what degree Emanuel appreciated how far his work lay from the seamless designs of his father’s most successful fugues of this type. The superficial splendor of the present fugue, especially when amplified by trumpets and timpani, makes it sound like similarly scored works by Sebastian. Yet the instrumental parts are

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swan songs 297 inessential, adding color but not contrapuntal substance, and their presence provides a distraction from the inorganic construction of the movement. Bach’s other major composition of this type is the double fugue “Auf daß wir, der Sünde abgestorben” in the Passion Cantata. The text (from 1 Peter 2:24) echoes Isaiah 53:5, and it is not impossible that by 1769 Bach knew the setting of the latter verse in Handel’s Messiah. Handel’s setting concludes with the fugue “And with his stripes we are healed,” likewise in stile antico. Its subject is of the same type used by Bach in the fugues of both the Magnificat and the Passion Cantata, although the resemblances are probably more generic than products of actual modeling ($ex. 12.14). The first subject in the fugue from the Passion Cantata is a skillful asymmetrical setting in nine measures of a rather difficult text; although in D major it begins by outlining a B-minor triad. A later statement of the subject that seems to be in G, entering after a cadence in that key (soprano, m. 168), is accordingly in B minor. The end of this entry in turn overlaps with one in D whose conclusion marks the return to the tonic (bass, mm. 174–82; see $ex. 12.15).46 This already ensures that the present fugue will be more engaging than the “Sicut erat.” It becomes additionally so with the entry of the more lively second subject, half of which comprises a melisma emphasizing the operative word heil (healed).47 Although avoiding the more exotic contrapuntal devices that Bach added in his revisions to the Magnificat fugue, this is a more successful example of “demonstration counterpoint.” It doubtless reflects lessons that Bach had learned in composing the keyboard fugues of the 1750s. The design is simpler and more cogent than in the earlier choral work, each subject being developed in both a regular exposition and a substantial stretto before the two are combined. There is, moreover, no anticlimactic extension of the final section, which ends relatively soon after the return to D major.48 The result is a more satisfactory if more conventional work; even the pedal points on V and then I near the end are more elegant than those in the earlier composition, if unsurprising.

New Harmonies Having demonstrated, with the fugue in the Passion Cantata, that he could surpass Graun and probably every other contemporary in writing Italianate a cappella polyphony, Bach wrote no further examples. In the Resurrection Cantata, composed during the next few years, each half ends with a choral fugue, but both numbers are relatively short and are not primarily demonstrations of contrapuntal craft. Harmony, not imitative counterpoint, would be a more pressing concern of Bach’s during his remaining years, although he was doubtless proud of his mastery in both realms of composition. When he sent the fugue from the Magnificat to Princess Amalia in 1783, he included with it a demonstration of his harmonic prowess. The work in question proved to be

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a forerunner of the Two Litanies, whose illustration of harmonic invention the composer considered among the most important products of his old age. Although little known, the chorus “Leite mich nach deinem Willen” (W. 227) is worth a close look. Bach wrote to Amalia that its bold “harmonic clothing” was due to its words; in it a simple melody “is guided by the harmony . . . along dark and rough paths, and follows it like a child.”49 This must be an allusion to Bach’s counterintuitive harmonization of the work’s diatonic melody, which opens as a plain descending scale. In fact the words (“Lead me according to your will”) are not particularly striking; this is not a penitential text like others that Bach set in a similar style. Perhaps, however, the setting was originally for a solemn occasion (such as a funeral) for which the dark chromatic harmonization in the minor mode would have been appropriate. The text, whose origin is unknown, is a paraphrase in three strophes of portions of Psalm 25. The melody, presumably Bach’s own, is also strophic, although Bach’s setting ends with a little coda whose text repeats bits of the last stanza, reordering the syntax in Bach’s usual manner. The vocal parts are in the chorale style that Bach had been using occasionally for lieder, as well as in actual hymn settings, since the Gellert Appendix of 1764. The harmonization and the instrumental accompaniment are varied for each stanza, however, making the work a set of variations (ex. 12.16). It therefore resembles other choral movements arranged from songs that Bach incorporated into his Hamburg church works.50 “Leite mich” particularly recalls “Zeige du mir deine Wege” (W. 223), Bach’s expanded version of his strophic setting of the same Psalm 25 from the Cramer songs.51 “Leite mich” anticipated the Two Litanies not only by providing challenging harmonizations to a simple repeated melody, but also in its detailed indications for expressive dynamics. The litanies are far more extended exercises in piety and récherché harmony, the latter being impressed upon the listener by the slow, sustained tempo on which Bach insists in all three compositions.52 Bach had essayed the style of “Leite mich” as early as 1771, when he arranged “Mein Heiland, meiner Zuversicht,” the last song from the Gellert Appendix, for use in a church pastiche of that year.53 The underlying idea of a chorale with expressive orchestral accompaniment goes back further, to works like Sebastian’s Herr, gehe nicht in’s Gericht (BWV 105). There the concluding chorale is accompanied by the same bow vibrato called for in the choral version of “Mein Heiland” (W. 221; see $ex. 12.17). Twelve years later, in “Leite mich,” the orchestral component is conceived more imaginatively, yet the austere character of the vocal parts places the emphasis more squarely on harmony itself. Particularly in the last strophe, where the violins provide continuous arpeggiated figuration, the orchestral effect approaches that of a Romantic piano part adding a halo-like accompaniment to a song. No wonder, therefore, that the collector Poelchau chose this work to publish in 1820, in an edition dedicated to a “worthy connoisseur and friend of the Bachian muse.”54

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swan songs 299 Example 12.16. Leite mich nach deinem Willen, W. 227, opening of each stanza (without viola, continuo, and doubling winds)

Bach sent “Leite mich” to a princess who was known for her piety and her interest in musical arcana. He would have expected it to be carefully examined as well by her teacher and librarian Kirnberger, the leading German harmonic theorist.55 Bach’s exploration of esoteric harmony in music that is at once expressive, devotional, and pedagogical would find its purest and most austere expression three years later in the Two Litanies (W. 204). These strange and, today, unfashionable compositions were not intended for church performance, although the litany, a repeated formula of supplication, was a standard element in Lutheran service books of the time (as it still is today). In his preface, Bach explained that these settings, for two four-part choirs and continuo, were for “private devotion,” as the liturgical litany was normally unaccompanied, at least in the traditions with which he was familiar.56 The two works together constituted Bach’s major publication for the year 1786; his correspondence shows that Bach hoped they would “bring me much honour even after my death” while providing “much profit to lovers of the art”—that is, the art of harmony or, rather, voice leading. Elsewhere he described the Two Litanies, together with the Resurrection Cantata, as “among all my works the most heavily worked out pieces,” using an expression (stark gearbeitet) that implies a thick contrapuntal or harmonic texture.57

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That Bach late in life devoted significant effort to this work, which could have no concert or liturgical use, suggests that it held special personal significance for him. It would have served not only as an expression of genuine religious devotion but as a pedagogical supplement to his father’s four-part chorale settings—hence its dedication “for the use and enjoyment of those eager to learn harmony.”58 That the work was indeed studied as such is suggested by the fact that none less than Beethoven mentioned the Litanies to a visitor during the period that preceded the composition of his Missa solemnis.59 Bach’s hectic workload at the time he sent the music to the printer is revealed in a letter to Breitkopf listing his current obligations. Among these was the composition of “some new melodies and some corrections” of old ones for inclusion in a new hymnbook for Hamburg; for the composer this activity was probably of a piece with his settings of the litanies.60 In a Lutheran litany, the choir and the congregation alternate in singing a long text to a simple repeated melodic formula that resembles a Gregorian psalm tone. Both text and melody have varied historically from region to region. The two versions of the text set by Bach, described as “old” and “new,” were taken from a hymnbook issued in 1780 for the neighboring Danish territory of Schleswig-Holstein.61 The author of the “new” text, which appeared anonymously, has been identified as none other than Klopstock, making Bach’s setting the second of his two major collaborations with the poet.62 Klopstock’s text for the New Litany comprises forty-two verses, as opposed to fifty-eight for the Old, which is largely Luther’s. Klopstock’s lines of free verse are typically much longer, however; their style recalls passages from Blake or even Whitman for an English-speaking reader. As a result, Bach’s New Litany is some thirty measures longer than the Old. The two works are, in principle, no different from other chorale settings: four-part harmonizations of traditional melodies. In this case, however, the melody comprises dozens of repetitions of a very simple chant formula, or rather three distinct formulas for the two main sections and final Amen that constitute each text. Bach must have prepared his first settings of these texts by 1783, the year of the Morgengesang, when the two litanies appeared in a hymnbook for German-speaking congregations in Copenhagen; this publication contained the melodies only, with figured bass accompaniment. The editor was Niels Schiørring, who studied with Bach at Hamburg and had been serving as Danish royal keyboard player since 1773; the settings were apparently Bach’s. The same melodies and texts appear in Bach’s own publication of 1786, which retains portions of the earlier figured bass lines. The two inner voices are filled in, however, and certain progressions are heightened by the introduction of dissonances, deceptive cadences, and the like (ex. 12.18).63 Bach’s involvement with chorales and hymns would continue into 1787, when, in addition to the Resurrection Cantata, he would publish fourteen settings of texts from the new Hamburg hymnbook (W. 203).

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swan songs 301 Example 12.18. Old Litany, W. 204/1, (a) mm. 426–29, (b) mm. 474–77, both with figured bass from the 1783 Copenhagen hymnbook (the latter to be performed without the three lower voices)

In his preface, Bach alludes with typical acerbity to a well-known feature of Klopstock’s poetry, mentioning that the New Litany “required far more labor on my part than the Old due to the long verses.” He also apologizes for having occasionally departed slightly from the traditional melody in order “to give more variety to the harmony.”64 Indeed, the whole point of Bach’s settings was to demonstrate how many diverse progressions and modulations he could create by varying the lower voices in no fewer than fifty-eight and forty-two statements, respectively, of a traditional melody that in most iterations used just three or four pitches. That this was undertaken for more than abstract theoretical or pedagogical reasons is clear from the detailed notation of dynamics— and from the inclusion of rubrics that describe, in terms more characteristic of the next century, the expressive import of certain passages. Thus, in the Old Litany, one verse is described as a “heartfelt prayer for help” (Herzliche Bitte um Hilfe, m. 48). Bach elsewhere adds annotations pointing to significant words in the text—NB. wiederbringen (“take back in,” m. 242)—or to the presence of unusual harmonies or progressions: NB. Dissonanzen in measure 396, NB. Konsonanzen three measures later, but more often just NB. alone. Both texts set by Bach can, for purposes of musical analysis, be divided into six sections plus an Amen (see 12.4 for an overview and further analysis).

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Each verse is divided between the two choirs: the first choir, representing the clergy, sings a versicle or petition, invoking the divinity in some form; the second choir, symbolizing the congregation, responds with a brief recurring prayer (“hear us,” “help us,” etc.). At the outset of each setting this alternation goes relatively swiftly, although Bach, in his preface, insists on a slow tempo. Especially in the New Litany, however, the much greater length of Klopstock’s invocations in many of the later verses causes the alternation to proceed more slowly ($ex. 12.19; cf. $ex. 12.20). The alternation between the two groups is not essential to the musical structure, and when the two choirs join together at the end to sing a melismatic Amen, they merely double one another. But because of the length of each setting—well over twenty minutes—and the steady sustained style, one would not wish to perform either work without the full complement of eight singers and continuo.65 The continuo is musically essential, as the figured bass is occasionally independent of the vocal bass, especially in the New Litany; the latter also includes a number of passages without continuo and several for the three upper voices alone. Bach reused a portion of the Old Litany—appropriately, the “Agnus Dei” section (mm. 477–514)—together with the more extended Amen from the New Litany in his Saint Matthew Passion for 1789, where these passages follow an opening chorale. Here the four voices sing both versicles and responses, the former without instruments, which accompany only the responses ($ex. 12.22). The absence of even continuo to accompany the versicles in this version was a reference to the normal liturgical performance practice for a litany at Hamburg. The same reference is made in another late work, “Bitten” (Prayer), one of four motets, as they are termed in NV, for three or four voices and continuo (W. 208). An arrangement of one of the Gellert Songs (W. 194/9), “Bitten” comprises varied settings of each of the original four stanzas. In every stanza the final line, marked pianissimo in the original, is for the four voices alone; in the final stanza, this line receives a new, drawn-out ending that fades away to triple piano (ppp), probably the sole instance of this dynamic marking in Bach’s vocal music. Even more remarkable, however, is the chromatic progression that precedes it, setting the words im Tode (in death, $ex. 12.23).66 The passage, absent from the original song, is not unrelated in its voice leading to one from Sebastian’s B-Minor Mass that Emanuel puzzled over during this period (see below). Presumably all four motets were intended, like the similarly scored litanies, for private rather than church performance.

The Resurrection Cantata Likewise not for church, but for the concert hall, was the work published in 1787 as “Karl Wilhelm Ramler’s Resurrection and Ascension of Jesus.”67 It is, like the Passion Cantata, an example of the so-called lyrical oratorio, which by

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swan songs 303 this date had become a mainstay of German concert music before and during the Easter season. One result of this concert use of oratorios and other sacred works was that it freed sacred music from the church itself (as had already happened in London with Handel’s oratorios). This was an exciting idea at a time when formal religious and denominational boundaries were beginning to blur; Bach had advertised the Israelites as suitable to all Christian denominations, and Gluck had performed it in Catholic Vienna.68 There could have been little religious diversity among Bach’s audiences in an overwhelmingly Lutheran city such as Hamburg, but the content and character of these works were now defined by poets of real stature and originality, not clergymen moonlighting as versifiers. Although the underlying theology remains orthodox, the poetry focuses not on doctrine, nor even on moral or ethical teaching, but on evoking an immediate emotional response in the listener, who in Ramler’s works is invited not merely to “see,” “hear,” and “feel” the events of the narrative but to participate in them. This approach has a debased modern version in contemporary evangelical kitsch. At the time, however, it must have been thrilling for religious audiences, for whom there had been “nothing as simple, nor as powerful as this” in the texts set by previous generations of composers and still used in older church music.69 The subject matter of Ramler’s text was clearly on Bach’s mind as he entered his seventy-third year, although most of the music had been in existence for at least a decade. Ramler’s poem was the last of an informal trilogy that included poems on the nativity and the passion as well. Graun had set the previous installment, Der Tod Jesu, and Telemann had set all three, having specifically asked Ramler for the poem on the resurrection, which was to serve as his own swan song.70 A Berlin performance of Telemann’s Resurrection Cantata is not documented, but enthusiastic responses to its score by members of Bach’s circle suggest that he must have known something of it.71 Bach’s work, composed during the 1770s, thus followed by a decade or two the Ramler settings by his two most important predecessors at Berlin and Hamburg. By spring 1786, when Bach was readying his work for publication, he was also preparing for the famous Palm Sunday concert whose program included compositions by two other predecessors. Surely it was no coincidence that “I know that my Redeemer liveth,” from Messiah, and the Credo from Sebastian’s B-Minor Mass, performed on that concert, invoke the same religious themes as Ramler’s Cantata. By this date Emanuel had probably already worked over the remarkable chromatic passage in the Credo that expresses faith in the resurrection of the dead. Performing the latter work would have reinforced the association in Emanuel’s mind between difficult chromatic or enharmonic modulations and the transition from an earthly realm to a spiritual one ($ex. 12.24).72 According to NV, Bach’s Cantata was composed in “1777 and 1778,” but the poet Voß reported what was apparently a rehearsal of it in a letter dated as early as April 2, 1774. Voß describes the work as “new”; it was performed in the choir

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loft (aufs Chor), suggesting that Bach was to use the Cantata, or at least portions of it, in church the following day (which was Easter Sunday).73 Four years later the work was again described as new in one of those ostensive reviews in the local newspaper that served as free publicity for Bach. Presumably written by Bach’s friend Leister, the detailed movement-by-movement description of the work was based on what was described as the first rehearsal or reading (erste Probe), probably supplemented by commentary from Bach himself. Bach surely provided some input when a revised version of the review—perhaps better described as a press release—was reprinted six years later, while Bach was seeking subscriptions for the work’s publication. The new “review” reported details that only Bach could have provided, such as the information that Ramler had supplied the text for a substitute aria at the composer’s request.74 Bach had first written to Ramler only after the 1778 performance, which must indeed have been the work’s concert premiere. If, however, Bach had already used Ramler’s text for an Easter piece in 1774, then the history of the work would resemble that of the Passion Cantata, which originated as a church piece even though its poem was originally meant for a so-called lyric oratorio. Bach apparently continued to use portions of the work in church even after repeated concert performances, employing the first seven movements as part of the Easter Music for 1782.75 Among the latter was “Wie bang,” which had replaced one of the original da capo arias (“Sei gegrüßt”). Ramler had sent Bach the substitute text two years earlier, fulfilling the composer’s request for a poem that could serve for an Adagio. Apparently, however, Ramler had first sent Bach a text for a conventional da capo aria; replying, Bach asked instead for a poem that could be set as a bipartite aria (AB form) with a quick second section.76 The exchange makes clear that Bach had definite ideas about the design of the work as a whole, at least insofar as aria types were concerned. At the time of his correspondence with Ramler, his setting already included four “two-tempo” arias in da capo form, and Bach wished for one that would not return to its initial slow tempo. More far-reaching than the replacement of one aria were alterations that Bach had made previously to the recitatives. He originally composed these as in a liturgical oratorio, assigning reported speech to distinct singers, who therefore represented actual characters in a drama. At a relatively early date, however, he eliminated this feature, redistributing the recitatives among the eight singers required by the work. For example, where the recitative no. 10 (“Freundinnen Jesu!”) was originally divided between a tenor narrator and a bass singing the words of Jesus, it was now sung entirely by the second tenor. Whether these changes, which affected a relatively small portion of the music, altered the genre of the work, turning an oratorio into a cantata, is a matter of definition.77 What matters is that Bach recognized that Ramler’s poetry was remote in style from the gospel passages that formed the framework of his church passions and other liturgical dramas. Like that of the Passion Cantata,

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swan songs 305 the Resurrection poem spiritualizes the narrative, which is no longer primarily an account of historical events. It is therefore fitting that, when the resurrected Jesus exclaims “It’s me! Greetings!” (Ich bin es! Seid gegrüßt!), it is the addition of strings in the accompaniment and a new sustained style of melody, rather than a change of singer, that marks the new voice.78 The strings produce a sound that Richard Will describes as “luminous,” but—unlike the string “halos” in earlier works, such as Sebastian’s Saint Matthew Passion—they are not numinous, signifying divinity. Bach uses accompanied recitative for reported speech as well as for narrative that he wishes to elevate above the mundane.79 Bach first broached the idea of publication to Breitkopf in 1780, five years after the latter had issued the Israelites and apparently a year after Bach’s first performance of the Resurrection Cantata.80 Bach does not seem to have been in a rush to bring it out, perhaps because he wanted to ensure that the earlier oratorio would sell before he published another large vocal work. Why Bach published this work and not the more popular Passion Cantata is unknown. It may be that, uncertain whether he could afford to publish both, he found the theme of the Resurrection Cantata more appealing at this stage of his life, despite its larger score and more challenging music. The challenges lay above all in the newer work’s advanced harmony, although this probably made it seem all the more essential to Bach to publish the Cantata as an instructive “masterpiece”—his own word for it—“written for teaching and not for ladies and musical windbags.”81 The project dragged on for the next six years. At one point Bach advertised for subscriptions to the Cantata, only to be devastated when Breitkopf’s estimate of the number of pages needed to print it—and therefore the cost—was far higher than expected.82 Bach evidently despaired of publishing it, underlining his declaration that the printing of the work “will be abandoned” and determining instead to continue the Kenner und Liebhaber series—whose last two volumes we therefore may owe to the high cost of paper. Yet less than a year later he informed Breitkopf that “the Ramler cantata must come out,” asking his friend if he would be willing to issue it as his own publication rather than merely printing it on commission for Bach.83 This was indeed how the Resurrection Cantata was finally issued, in 1787, and it has been supposed that with its appearance Bach considered his lifework completed.84 If so, it did not stop him from undertaking further projects, including the presumed commissions of 1788 for Levy. The Resurrection Cantata, like the Passion Cantata, indeed descends from the old liturgical passion but replaces the traditional gospel narrative and chorales with newly written poetry. Telemann’s setting, although apparently used only in concerts, had retained elements of the traditional church passion, including, as in the early version of Bach’s setting, the use of simple recitative for narration and distinct singers to present the words of the various speakers. Telemann’s opening chorus was an a cappella motet in ecclesiastical style,

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without independent instrumental parts. The three stanzas of the “Triumph!” chorus, which Ramler places at the ends of three of the poem’s seven sections or “scenes,” were sung to simple music resembling that of a turba chorus in one of Telemann’s passions.85 Bach’s work evokes a very different atmosphere. It is longer; Telemann’s lasts roughly an hour, Bach’s well over ninety minutes. This is due not to the greater duration of Bach’s arias but to his choruses, which are remote from traditional Lutheran church types and closer to the elaborate style of Handel’s and especially Graun’s oratorio choruses. Bach’s recitatives, especially in the final version, are also far more distinctive. Ramler’s texts for these are very long, and Telemann had already set the first one (“Judäa zittert”) as a fairly vivid, if conventional, accompanied recitative. Bach, on the other hand, sets them using the full range of his fantasia style, surpassing the accompanied recitatives of the Easter Music of 1756 and the first two Hamburg oratorios in the use of “painterly” orchestral writing. Thus the opening accompagnato includes a timpani roll (with an implied crescendo) as “Judea trembles”; the lively string writing that represents the onset of “Cherub Michael” also accompanies the fleeing of the Roman guards.86 Bach, like Telemann, uses the same music for each stanza of the “Triumph” chorus, but Bach’s setting is on a far larger scale, in the manner of Italianate choruses such as “O Wunder” in the Israelites. The contrast with the surrounding numbers is thus more dramatic, the work as a whole grander and more monumental. Bach also follows Telemann in dividing the work in two with a prelude-and-fugue setting of the chorus “Tod! wo ist dein Stachel.” Bach’s work closes, however, with a rondo-like “vaudeville” that concludes in a grand fugue. Although Telemann also closes with a fugue, the final choral section in his setting is shorter than the duet that precedes it (“Ihr Thore Gottes”). The latter is therefore the musical climax of the work, despite its modest scoring and oldfashioned style.87 However significant Telemann’s setting might have been as a model for Bach, Graun and his Tod Jesu were more important, or rather it was the latter’s influence that Bach was most anxious to counter, perhaps in Harold Bloom’s sense of “misreading.”88 That Bach was conscious to the end of competing with his former colleague is clear from his having to assure Breitkopf, barely a year before his death, that his own work would eventually “sell as well as Graun’s Tod Jesu.”89 Bach’s Cantata nevertheless reveals parallels to Graun’s famous work,90 and his closing fugue echoes the impressive double fugue at the end of Graun’s Te Deum ($ex. 12.25). Elsewhere, however, Bach complicates Graun’s vision of the “lyric oratorio,” chiefly through his far more distinctive harmony. Bach’s harmonic inventiveness is revealed not only within, but, as in his instrumental works of the period, between individual movements of the Cantata. Thus the first chorus, in D major, is followed by a recitative that opens on a dissonance in E-flat minor. In the first aria (“Mein Geist, voll Furcht und

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swan songs 307 Freuden”), the initial progression passes through an augmented-sixth chord, which is also the penultimate sonority of the B section. The latter opens in B-flat minor, ♭vii of the tonic C minor—the first of several striking departures in the arias from conventional tonal designs. Bach himself drew attention to a modulation early in the duet “Vater, deiner schwachen Kinder,” which moves from D minor to A minor “through” (durch) B-flat minor. This is, however, an “entirely common” modulation, one that acquires “a particular expression” only through the use, in this case, of numerous little pauses in both the voice and the instruments, and from the dynamics marked for the latter (ex. 12.26).91 The duet is, in fact, arguably the most conventional number in the work, despite its through-composed da capo form. Perhaps this proves Bach’s point about the ordinary quality of the modulation, although as usual he avoids mentioning what actually makes the passage so distinctive: it moves chromatically in a descending sequence through keys that stand in no clear functional relation to the tonic—C minor (vii6, m. 14) as well as B-flat minor (vi6, m. 16); these are “foreign chords” that mark the expressions der Gefallne (“the fallen one”) and der Betrübte (“the troubled one”).92 The phrase ends on the minor dominant (v), whose relationship to the tonic D minor is also ambivalent (m. 20). What makes the phrase remarkable, however, is its return in measure 17 to the diminished triad on B♮, heard previously in measure 13 but without the G♯ that turns it into a diminished-seventh chord and sends it modulating in a completely different direction. This momentarily gives the phrase a circular quality (even the words der and dir sound similar), suggesting that the descending sequence has been a mere parenthesis—until the next chord, on the downbeat of measure 18, wrenches the passage away from“flat” or deep subdominant domains to the dominant A minor. The shift in direction corresponds to a movement from weakness and doubt to the “solemn comfort” (ernster Trost) that is the actual subject of the text. That Bach’s, and subsequent, analyses have tended to remain focused on the musical surface is not surprising. To relate such details to the movement or the work as a whole is an inherently subjective exercise. Perhaps all that can be said unequivocally is that, as in certain nineteenth-century works, the generally high level of tonal instability and the frequent remote modulations give the work a peculiar quality that is not unrelated to its theme. As we have seen, Bach himself evidentally made some such connection, at least intuitively. Like Telemann’s Seliges Erwägen, Bach’s Resurrection Cantata consists essentially of a series of what Telemann called “reflections” (Betrachtungen).93 Each begins with recitative contemplating one of the events that followed the crucifixion—typically an encounter between the risen Jesus and others. An aria (or duet) and, usually, a chorus follow to round off each segment (for an overview, see the table in 12.5). Unfortunately, the absence of a strong narrative line or any compelling musical impulse from one movement to the next means that, at least today, the work is more likely to lose its grip on listeners than a

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Example 12.26. Duet “Vater, deiner schwachen Kinder,” no. 9 from the Resurrection Cantata, W. 240, mm. 9–20

liturgical passion or another more conventionally dramatic type of oratorio. This is so despite the fact that the arias are shorter than those in the Israelites or the Passion Cantata, and the overall design is perhaps clearer, insofar as the two halves both begin with brief instrumental introductions and end with choral fugues. There is also, as in the Israelites and the 1769 Saint Matthew Passion, a central or at least a recurring tonality: E-flat, which is the key of the three “Triumph!” choruses as well as the concluding complex of choral numbers. Four of the six arias (but not the duet) are in closely related keys, and E-flat governs all but two of the “scenes” or “reflections.” Yet there is also a separate strand of movements in D (major and minor) and related keys; these include not only the middle scenes of Part 1 but also the introductions of both halves. Moreover, as in the Passion Cantata, the wide-ranging tonal and emotional peregrinations of the recitatives probably eliminate any possibility of hearing the central keys of successive scenes in a clear relationship to one another. The ambivalence between fear and joy expressed in the first aria—through the use of harsh dissonances in a minor key (C)— is resolved with the first statement of the “Triumph!” chorus (no. 5) in the relative major, E-flat. Each of the following “scenes” in effect begins the process over. The work ends with a particularly grand aria (“Ihr Thore Gottes”),

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swan songs 309 followed by the longest choral number, but whether the latter sounds like a triumphant culmination or an overextended coda probably depends on the performance. (For a detailed discussion of the individual movements of the Resurrection Cantata, see 12.5.) With his late vocal works Bach presented the case that his music, if not quite the equal of his father’s and Handel’s, was of comparable stature and constituted a worthy extension of their tradition. So much was implicit in the programming of the famous concert on Palm Sunday 1786 that opened with the Credo from his father’s B-Minor Mass, preceded by Emanuel’s own orchestral introduction; this was followed by “I know that my redeemer liveth” and the “Hallelujah” chorus from Handel’s Messiah. The second half comprised a sinfonia, the Magnificat, and the Heilig by Emanuel himself. The program’s quasiliturgical design, not entirely unlike that of some of Bach’s seasonal pieces, was heightened by the incorporation of chant or chorale citations in the opening and closing works, including Emanuel’s newly composed orchestral introduction (H. 848). The latter quotes the chorale melody Allein Gott in der Höh’ sei Ehr, Luther’s German version of the Latin Gloria, making it an appropriate preface for Sebastian’s Credo (ex. 12.41). That Emanuel at the end of his career could have regarded his own music as approaching the status of his father’s may seem breathtakingly wrong. Yet some two decades after the deaths of Handel and J. S. Bach, he might have been encouraged by the adulation that he received from friends and admirers in what seemed a sophisticated and culturally advanced city. That Hamburg was in fact isolated from the most dynamic and fruitful developments ongoing in European music would hardly have been suspected there; that the music of Emanuel’s father would be a more important influence than his own on every significant European musician, alive and in the future, could not even have been imagined. Yet could our point of view be wrong? Could the superiority of J. S. Bach, Handel, and the Viennese triumvirate to Emanuel Bach and his contemporaries be merely an appearance, a product of the cultural politics of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries? Do the mature works of Haydn, Mozart, and Beethoven really achieve an integration absent from Emanuel’s music, and if so was that an entirely positive feature?94 Through much of the twentieth century, even when his music was viewed as flawed, Bach was valued as a predecessor to both the Viennese Classical composers and the Romantics, a link in an evolutionary development from the Baroque to later musical idioms. That model of music history now seems simplistic, and current trends favor recognizing the independence and value of music produced in other traditions, including those of eighteenth-century Berlin and Hamburg. In such places, a work like Bach’s Resurrection Cantata must, at least for a short time, have seemed the absolute pinnacle of musical achievement, not least to the composer himself. Yet weaknesses of the type

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Example 12.41. Instrumental introduction for J. S. Bach, B-Minor Mass, mm. 1–12

found in this work, such as the episodic character of its final chorus, have long troubled thoughtful musicians and scholars who nevertheless find things to admire in Bach’s music. The discontinuities at the level of large-scale form in that final chorus correspond to the refined disruptions and interruptions of the musical surface that have long been understood as defining features of his style. Episodic construction would become typical of nineteenth-century European music generally, and audiences then, like the audiences for Bach’s music, evidently failed to find it troubling. Yet his audiences did not know the music of his Viennese Classical contemporaries or of his father—or, if they did, they may have failed to perceive the very real differences between those repertories and Bach’s. During the twentieth century, as Emanuel Bach’s music again became reasonably well known, its fragmented melodic lines and unexpected modulations became a source of disquiet for commentators who did know the music of his great contemporaries. The peculiarities of his music somehow blocked their ability to follow or enjoy it, and its irregularities and disjunctions were taken as products of a manneristic aesthetic that prized shock or surprise for its own sake. My dissertation, completed in 1982, was one of several from that period that sought to justify the ways of Emanuel Bach to readers who were immersed in the Classical style. My conclusion then was that his music intentionally skirted the boundaries of coherence and intelligibility, and that the choice of one type of music over the other—his or theirs, “manneristic” or “coherent”—was essentially arbitrary. Today, as the canon of “classical” music has broadened, the centrality of the Viennese Classical style to the “western” musical tradition is less certain and its values of integration and coherence are less widely shared or even understood. As in Emanuel’s time, many listeners,

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swan songs 311 including scholars and sophisticated musicians, have no particular familiarity with either the slightly older or the slightly more recent European music against which his was once measured. Indeed, it has become rare to hear the types of unflattering comparisons between his music and that of the Viennese Classicists that were common until the end of the twentieth century, and therefore it no longer seems necessary to defend his music against detractors. Still, there was indeed a strand in Bach’s music that resulted from the deliberate injection of irregularity, unpredictability, and agitation into conventional or regular forms and patterns. By the end of his life, disruption of this sort had become such a habit that Bach himself may have been unconscious of it as such. His continuing cultivation of the difficult, the unexpected, would have been justified on the grounds of expression or effective text setting; such things were necessary to evoke strong feeling or to respect the meaning of a poem, even of scripture. Another justification lay in pedagogy: it was instructive to be shown things that are rare or counterintuitive. Wit—the desire to amuse—and the urge to be original surely were motivations as well. That Bach thought along these lines makes sense in light of what we know of his music and his personality. Less certain is to what degree he understood how far his music—not only the small number of fugues and similar exercises—indeed failed to meet the standard of integration achieved by his father or his contemporaries to the south. Like other northern Europeans of his generation, he shows no awareness of what was being accomplished musically in Vienna, where by the 1780s Haydn and Mozart had developed a mature Classical style. We must suppose that, for Emanuel, Haydn and Mozart were only two among hundreds of capable younger contemporaries, Vienna just one of a dozen or so major musical capitals. We might therefore forgive a son of Bach for failing to recognize the significance of what we call Viennese Classical music, perhaps even for abandoning his father’s style for one that was locally more acceptable and brought him fame and material success during his lifetime. His works today force us to ask not only what things we value most in music, but also whether sense and expression, reason and emotion, must always work jointly to a single end within an artistic creation.

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Notes Chapter One 1 In 1735 Johann Gottfried Bernhard became organist at the church of Saint Mary in Mühlhausen, but he left in 1737 and died two years later. On Friedemann, see Schulenberg, Music of W. F. Bach. 2 Mozart performed Emanuel’s Resurrection Cantata in Vienna, and Beethoven recommended study of his Versuch über die wahre Art das Clavier zu spielen; see Holschneider, “C. Ph. E. Bachs Kantate Auferstehung und Himmelfahrt Jesu,” and Czerny’s report that Beethoven had his father purchase Emanuel’s book for him (Erinnerungen aus meinem Leben, 15). 3 Sebastian’s position as princely Capellmeister at the minor court of AnhaltCöthen was surely less prestigious than that of royal Prussian chamber musician, which involved intimate association with one of the most powerful monarchs in Europe. Sebastian’s only royal appointment was an essentially honorary one as Polish court composer, obtained just a few years before Emanuel’s. 4 The first serious biography was that of the nineteenth-century German scholar Carl Herrmann Bitter, whose two-volume work on the Bach sons (Carl Philipp Emanuel und Wilhelm Friedemann Bach und deren Brüder) is devoted largely to Emanuel, the other brothers receiving relatively cursory treatment. The only subsequent monographic biography of any substance is that of Hans-Günter Ottenberg (Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach). Although updated for its 1987 English translation by Philip J. Whitmore, it no longer reflects current views or available information. More recent are the entries on Bach by Ulrich Leisinger in the current editions of the standard English- and German-language music encyclopedias (Grove and MGG), which include useful bibliographies and lists of works. These are supplemented by the collections of letters and other documents that have been edited by Ernst Suchalla, Barbara Wiermann, and Steven Clark. 5 For corrections to some common misconceptions about Bach’s role at Frederick’s court, see Oleskiewicz, “Like Father, Like Son?” 6 Virtually the sole source for Bach’s life at Frankfurt and Berlin is his autobiography, published as an insertion into the German translation of Charles Burney’s so-called Musical Tours (listed as Bach, Autobiography, in the bibliography). 7 Hübner, “Der Zeichner Johann Sebastian Bach d. J.,” includes a checklist of known works and a thorough review of the sources; for a critical evaluation of the oeuvre one must still consult Stechow, “Johann Sebastian Bach the Younger.” Additional works by J. S. Bach the Younger are included in Annette Richards’s catalog of Emanuel’s portrait collection (CPEBCW, 8/4).

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8 See Schulenberg, “C. P. E. Bach in Zerbst,” for corrections to Bach’s biography during the war years. 9 Bach suffered from gout, which must have exacerbated the discomfort of riding by carriage between Berlin and Potsdam. Possibly it led to the fear of travel mentioned by Friedrich Nicolai. See Oleskiewicz, “Like Father, Like Son?,” 262. 10 See Schulenberg, “C. P. E. Bach and Handel.” 11 A revised edition was published by Schwickert of Leipzig, the second volume appearing posthumously in 1797. 12 “He [Sebastian] lived at a time when a gradual but striking change in musical taste was taking place” (Versuch, i.1.7, as translated by William J. Mitchell, p. 42). References to Bach’s Essay on the True Manner of Playing Keyboard Instruments will be given as shown, incorporating volume, chapter, and paragraph (or section and paragraph) numbers. 13 “Our predecessors . . . were more concerned with harmony than melody” (Versuch, i.1.6; Mitchell, p. 42). 14 The phrase is used, not without irony, as the title of the opening chapter in Sutcliffe, The Keyboard Sonatas of Domenico Scarlatti. 15 Thus Wollenberg, “Changing Views of C. P. E. Bach,” 461n1. 16 Youngren, C. P. E. Bach and the Rebirth of Strophic Song. 17 Versuch, i.3.7 (as translated by Mitchell, p. 150). 18 Burney, Present State of Music in Germany, 2:271. 19 On the long history of references to Horace’s Ars poetica (line 102), see Dahlhaus, “Si vis me flere.” 20 Both movements originated as separate pieces for solo keyboard (see chap. 10). Bach had described his “Hamlet” Fantasia, W. 63/6/3, as “dark” (finster) in a letter to Forkel (February 10, 1775, no. 77 in Clark, Letters, 76). 21 From a review of Johann Nicolaus Forkel, Allgemeine Geschichte der Musik (Leipzig, 1788), published in the Hamburger unpartheyische Correspondent (January 9, 1788) and reprinted in Bitter, Carl Philipp Emanuel und Wilhelm Friedemann Bach, 2:110; quoted by Kramer, Unfinished Music, 35–36. 22 The Probestücke, eighteen graded sonata movements (W. 63) that Bach published in conjunction with volume 1 of the Versuch, generally are not constructed from motives suggested by digital techniques or patterns. 23 For a flute sonata by Quantz that exploits a technique described in the latter’s Versuch, see Oleskiewicz, “The Flutes of Quantz,” 210. Friedemann’s music at times suggests comparable compositional thought at the keyboard; see Schulenberg, Music of W. F. Bach, 67–70, citing a piece that Emanuel knew: Friedemann’s Presto in D minor, a version of the Minuet F. 25/2, copied by Emanuel in P 683. 24 Emanuel, according to his friend Ebeling, held Quantz “really to be a Genius” (letter to Burney of June 20, 1773, in Stewart, “Christoph Daniel Ebeling,” 52). On the alleged break with Friedemann, see Schulenberg, “An Enigmatic Legacy,” 160–61. 25 Galant, an adjective now applied to various types of pre-Classical style, was for Bach’s contemporaries the opposite of “strict” (gebunden) or “contrapuntal”; see Schulenberg, Instrumental Music of Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach, 9–10, citing Marpurg, Kritische Briefen, 2:9.

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notes to pp. 8–13 315 26 See Fox, “Melodic Nonconstancy,” as well as the efforts to explain Bach’s apparent discontinuities as superficial elaborations of a coherent deeper structure by Petty, “Compositional Techniques,” and myself (in the Rondo W. 59/2 and the Fantasia W. 59/6; see my Instrumental Music of Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach, chap. 7). 27 The Chromatic Fantasia was likely inspired by the slow movement of a Vivaldi violin concerto; see my Keyboard Music of J. S. Bach, 150. 28 Emanuel’s First Prussian Sonata, whose second movement is interrupted by recitative, was preceded in this by the opening movement in King Frederick’s A-Minor Sonata for flute and continuo, dated “ca. 1734” by Oleskiewicz (liner note to Seven Flute Sonatas by King Frederick “The Great” of Prussia, 6). The king’s sonata is no. 21 in the thematic catalog included in Spitta’s edition of the king’s Musikalische Werke (3 vols., Leipzig: Breitkopf und Härtel, 1889). Oleskiewicz, “Quantz’s Quatuors,” 485, dates a Quantz sonata containing a recitative movement (QV 1:116) even earlier, “perhaps from around 1720.” 29 As argued by Schering, “C. Ph. E. Bach und das redende Prinzip.” 30 For the picturesque, see Richards, The Free Fantasia and the Musical Picturesque. In my dissertation I concluded with the assertion that “Emanuel’s music elicits such surprise . . . to introduce a type of agitation, both emotional and intellectual, not found in Baroque or Classical music” (Instrumental Music of Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach, 164). 31 Richards, “An Enduring Monument,” 154. 32 In a letter dated December 20, 1747, to the poet Gleim (“Bach ist ein Milton, er will durchaus exercirt seyn”); no. 9 in Berg, Correspondence of Christian Gottfried Krause, 37. 33 Richards, “An Enduring Monument,” 162. 34 “herrschende Simplicität,” Hamburgischer Correspondent, no. 172 (October 27, 1784), in Suchalla, 2:1001. 35 “Er [Bach] hat in diesem Gesange die größte Simplicität mit der tiefsten Kunst vereinigt,” letter dated October 1784 to a fictitious friend in Hamburgischer Correspondent, no. 184 (November 18, 1778), in Suchalla, 2:702. Both quotations in Richards, “An Enduring Monument,” 167. 36 See again Richards, “An Enduring Monument,” 169–70, citing Mendelssohn’s “Betrachtungen über das Erhabene und das Naïve in den schönen Wissenschaften” (published 1758). 37 Most of volume 2 of the Versuch concerns details of figured bass realization; on the Miscellanea musica (W. 121), see chapter 10. 38 Rosen, The Classical Style, 44, 48. 39 Williams, “The Road to Damascus,” 110–11. 40 Forkel (Ueber Johann Sebastian Bachs Leben, 44), translated in NBR, 458.

Chapter Two 1 As noted by Williams, J. S. Bach, 62–63, commenting on the obituary of J. S. Bach by Emanuel and his Berlin colleague Johann Friedrich Agricola.

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2 Wolff, Johann Sebastian Bach, 211, points out that Emanuel’s maternal aunt Friedelena Margaretha Bach had lived with her sister and brother-in-law since at least 1709; she must have helped care for the children, and her presence might have mitigated the effects of Maria Barbara’s death on Emanuel. 3 Emanuel’s other godfather, Adam Immanuel Weldig, was a court singer and the family’s landlord at Weimar prior to moving to Weissenfels. There Weldig’s colleagues included the trumpeter Johann Caspar Wilcke, father of Emanuel’s stepmother. 4 See BD, 1:271. 5 For further discussion, see Schulenberg, Music of W. F. Bach, 27–32. 6 The manuscript P 672, in the hand of Emanuel’s principal Hamburg copyist Johann Heinrich Michel, contains a repertory of minuets and polonaises by family members resembling those in Anna Magdalena’s second book. These might have been copied from a similar book of Emanuel’s; see Wollny, “Zur Überlieferung der Instrumentalwerke Johann Sebastian Bachs,” 10. 7 Letter of January 13, 1775, to Johann Nicolaus Forkel, no. 76 in Clark, Letters, 72–75, also translated in NBR, 398–400 (no. 395); original German in BD, 3:288–90 (no. 803), also as no. 202 in Suchalla, 1:479–80. 8 The Musicalisches Gesang-Buch (Leipzig: G. C. Schemelli, 1736) includes the sixty-nine figured-bass chorale settings BWV 439–507; Joh. Seb. Bachs vierstimmige Choral-Gesänge, edited by Emanuel jointly with Kirnberger, came out in four volumes (Leipzig: Breitkopf, 1784–87). 9 The March in E-Flat, BWV Anh. 127 (no. 23 in P 225), is an expanded and embellished version of a piece that occurs in simplest form as the second movement of a little suite in the same key. An intermediate version appears as the second of three “Dance Movements in E-Flat Major” in CPEBCW I/8.2 (nos. 67 and 69, respectively). 10 The Musette in D and the Polonaise in D minor, BWV Anh. 126 and 128, frame the much more convincing March in E-Flat BWV Anh. 127; the two minuets W. 116/7, which Bach published in the Musikalisches Vielerley in 1770, are elaborated versions of movements also found in Friedemann’s much earlier keyboard sonatas F. 6A and 1A. 11 See Schulenberg, Music of W. F. Bach, 67–69. 12 Versuch, i.1.7. 13 Versuch, i.3.22. Nonlegato does not necessarily mean a single unvaried degree of shortening or articulation of each note; Quantz (Versuch, chap. 6) gives numerous examples that make clear how intricately the articulation of individual notes within unslurred passages could be varied, at least in woodwind playing. 14 Friedemann taught Nichelmann, who is usually described as a pupil of J. S. Bach; see Falck, Wilhelm Fridemann Bach, 10, citing Marpurg, Historisch-Kritische Beyträge, 1:433. 15 “Bach’s Orchester-Compositionen zeugen überall von einigem Mangel an genauer Kenntnis der Streich- und Blasinstrumente, woran die verkehrte Art, mit der er, der von Natur links war, einige der erstern in der Jugend getrieben hatte, wol zum Theil Schuld seyn mag.” Reichardt’s visit in 1774 included a public reading of Bach’s sinfonias for strings, W. 182 (Reichardt, “Noch ein Bruchstücke,” col. 29).

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notes to pp. 18–21 317 16 Burney, Present State of Music in Germany, 2:275. 17 On the pedaliter organ works attributed to Friedemann, see my Music of Wilhelm Friedemann Bach, 66–67 and 117–18. 18 CPEBCW I/9:xi and xii, citing Martin, “Vom ‘unsterblichen Leipziger’ zum ‘vortreflichen Berlinischen Bach.’” 19 References to Bach’s clavichord playing are gathered together in Schulenberg, “When Did the Clavichord Become C. P. E. Bach’s Favourite Instrument?” 51–52. 20 Versuch, i.intro.11. 21 Forkel, Ueber Johann Sebastian Bachs Leben, 17. 22 For example, in a long editorial footnote inserted into the translation of Forkel’s biography in David and Mendel, Bach Reader, 311. 23 Speerstra, Bach and the Pedal Clavichord. 24 For example, Emanuel’s Sonata W. 55/2 and the Rondo W. 66, which contain notation for the distinctive clavichord effect of Bebung. 25 See, for example, Quantz (Versuch, 14.9) on “auszudrückende musikalische Licht und Schatten” produced by changing dynamic levels (“das abwechselnde Piano und Forte”). Bach’s frequent use of the same phrase, particularly within his own discussion of dynamics (Versuch, i.3.29; here “Schatten und Licht”), indicates that the visual metaphor was either in common use or borrowed from his older colleague. 26 The term cembalo in Bach’s titles is clearly an Italian equivalent of the generic Germanized French term clavier (a point overlooked in van der Meer, Klangfarbliche Identität, which relies on overly literal readings of eighteenthcentury title pages). 27 As Emanuel declared in his Versuch, i.intro.15, referring here to clavichord and harpsichord (the fortepiano does not come into serious consideration until volume 2). 28 From the entry for Heinrich Nicolaus Gerber in Gerber, Historischbiographisches Lexicon, vol. 1, col. 490 = BD, 3:476 (no. 950). 29 Letter of January 13, 1775, no. 76 in Clark (Letters, 73). 30 See especially Yearsley’s discussion of the little augmentation canon shown in his example 7.4 (“C. P. E. Bach and the Living Traditions of Learned Counterpoint,” 182; no. 2 in table 7.1, p. 177, listing nine canons by Bach). 31 Marpurg writes of having “discussed matters pertaining to fugue” with J. S. Bach during a visit to Leipzig; letter 34 (February 9, 1760) in Marpurg, Kritische Briefen, 1:266 = no. 701 in BD, 3:144, translated as no. 357a in NBR, 363. 32 In the Prussian Sonatas (W. 48): nos. 1 (movement 1), 3 (movement 2), and 4 (movement 3); in the Württemberg Sonatas (W. 49): nos. 4 (movement 2), 5 (movement 2), and 6 (movement 3). In addition, the Sonata in B-Flat, W. 62/1, opens with a direct parody of the F-Major Invention. 33 These are movements 1 and 2 of the B-Minor Trio W. 143 and movement 1 of the G-Major Trio W. 144. In addition, movement 2 of the G-Major Flute Sonata W. 127 is a fugue (in two voices). 34 Only one or two of these trio sonatas, however, survive in forms likely to be close to the original ones; NV places all seven in 1731.

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35 This trio is the first of “Einige vermischte Stücke” listed in NV, p. 65, outside the main sequence of works that Emanuel acknowledged as his own. The description accords with that of item 679 in the chronological list of works in Bitter, Carl Philipp Emanuel und Wilhelm Friedemann Bach, 2:341, although it is unclear whether Bitter saw every item or merely drew on older lists. 36 See Oleskiewicz, “Quantz’s Quatuors,” 487. 37 In addition to the examples in Versuch, ii.41, see those from earlier Italian sources reproduced in Nuti, Performance of Italian Basso Continuo, esp. 63–65 and 74–75. The later Italian tradition traced in Sanguinetti, The Art of Partimento, has no direct relationship to the Bach circle. 38 These are W. 65/35 and 36, both based on W. 51/1 in C; for a synoptic score showing all three pieces simultaneously, see http://faculty.wagner.edu/davidschulenberg/files/2013/01/w51_1+65_35+65_36.pdf. 39 Bach gives a general account of variation in this sense in Versuch, i.3.31; varied reprises are further illustrated by the Probestück in F (movement 3 of W. 63/5). Later publications such as the Reprisen-Sonaten W. 50 and the keyboard pieces W. 113–14 contain many more examples. 40 Hofmann, “Zur Echtheit der Triosonate G-Dur BWV 1038.” This would make the piece a parallel to the counterpoint exercises worked out in alternation by Friedemann and Sebastian (see Schulenberg, Music of W. F. Bach, 36). Hofmann has published a reconstruction of the putative original version (Wiesbaden: Breitkopf und Härtel, 2008), substituting viola for the flute part of BWV 1038. 41 See the list in Schulenberg, “Composition and Improvisation,” 40–42. 42 Printz, Phrynis Mytilenæus, 2:45–53. Berg, “‘Das Verändern,’” provides further illustrations of Emanuel’s compositional embellishment of individual melodic intervals. 43 Niedt, Musicalische Handleitung; Quantz, Versuch, chap. 13. 44 Heimann, Der Generalbass-Satz, 131, identifies J. N. Bach as the teacher described in the preface to the first volume of Niedt’s treatise. Schulze, Studien zur Bach-Überlieferung, 126, showed that a manuscript containing extracts from Niedt’s treatise belonged to a pupil at the Leipzig Saint Thomas School, but whether the copy represents J. S. Bach’s own teaching is uncertain. 45 Swack, “Quantz and the Sonata in E-Flat Major,” argued that Quantz might have composed BWV 1031, but this work more closely resembles BWV 1020, with which it forms almost measure-for-measure correspondences in the outer movements, than it does any work by Quantz (such as the trio sonata in E-flat QV 2:18). Further discussion in Oleskiewicz, “Quantz and the Flute at Dresden,” 202. 46 Although the role of numbers in Sebastian’s compositional planning has been exaggerated, Ruth Tatlow has conclusively demonstrated the presence of specific types of formal proportions in certain works (see most recently Tatlow, “Bach’s Parallel Proportions”). I have found no comparable patterns in works of Friedemann or Emanuel Bach. 47 Emanuel rarely employed Sebastian’s through-composed (“free” or “modified”) da capo form (see chap. 11) and hardly ever the more irregular types considered in Schulenberg, “Modifying the Da Capo?”

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notes to pp. 24–27 319 48 Lester, “Heightening Levels of Activity.” Niedt implicitly lays out a theory of form in volume 2 of his Musicalische Handleitung; the theory becomes explicit in Marpurg, Principes du clavecin (Berlin, 1756), 44–50 (this matter is absent from the German version, Anleitung zum Clavierspielen [Berlin, 1755]), and in works by other writers such as Riepel and Koch. For further discussion, see Schulenberg, “Composition and Improvisation,” 28–29. 49 Further on differences between Friedemann and Emanuel in Schulenberg, Music of W. F. Bach, 46–59. 50 See Oleskiewicz, “Quantz and the Flute at Dresden,” chap. 5. But Oleskiewicz also points out that neither Quantz nor King Frederick, Emanuel’s first employer, was antithetical to counterpoint (“The Trio in Bach’s Musical Offering,” 80–84).

Chapter Three 1 Letter to Eschenburg of January 21, 1786, no. 287 in Clark, Letters, 244; the burning of early works is described as an “auto da fé” in CPEBCW 5/5.2:xiii n. 11. 2 Frisch, Dictionnaire des passagers (1755), col. 151, gives as examples “ein Testament caßiren” (anéantire un testament) and “ein Regiment caßiren” (congédier un régiment). 3 Ibid., col. 1659, gives rajeunir (“verjüngern”) as an equivalent of “erneuern,” also racommoder (col. 1655) and ressusciter (col. 1743, for “wieder erneuern”). 4 At the conclusion of his biography of J. S. Bach, Forkel (Ueber Johann Sebastian Bachs Leben, 69) mentions the composition of “such numerous and perfect artworks” (so zahlreiche und so vollendete Kunstwerke) as Sebastian’s chief accomplishment (translated in NBR, 479). 5 The four pieces, once attributed to J. S. Bach, are listed as both BWV Anh. 122–25 and H. 1. 6 Emanuel’s entries in P 225 are dated “around 1732” (CPEBCW 1/8.2:151), hence perhaps a year later than the earliest compositions listed in NV. It is suspicious, however, that the latter places no fewer than nine large works in 1731 and only two in each of the following years, raising the possibility that the dates in NV are only approximate for these early works. 7 A third march of the same type in P 225, BWV Anh. 127 in E-flat, is a revised version of the second movement from a little suite preserved elsewhere (no. 67 in CPEBCW 1/8.2). 8 Emanuel’s copy of the Presto BWV 970, an early version of Friedemann’s minuet with hand-crossings F. 25/2, is in P 683. 9 See, for example, the chromatic bizzarria in measures 13–18 of a murki in D, BWV Anh. 126 (designated a musette in Anna Magdalena’s copy), as well as the more audacious figuration in the Tempo di Minuetto from a suite in B-flat, H. 370, printed as an incertum in CPEBCW 1/8.2 (no. 71). 10 In BWV 1067 the opening theme of the overture, including its imitation in the bass, is anticipated in the Allemande of Froberger’s Suite 19 in C minor. The latter, although not known to have circulated among Bach’s pupils, had appeared in posthumous editions of 1698 and ca. 1710. (BWV 1067 probably

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11 12

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notes to pp. 27–31 originated as a violin work in A minor, possibly around 1730; see Rifkin, “The ‘B-Minor Flute Suite’ Deconstructed,” esp. 42–43.) Or its early version in C minor (BWV 831a), copied by Anna Magdalena Bach around 1730 in P 226. Compare the little echoes for soloists in the opening ritornellos of the concertos BWV 1056 and BWV 1060 with those marked in the first movement of the Trio BWV 1036, probably by Emanuel (discussed below). Emanuel included echoes as well in the Siciliano of his Sonata W. 65/5 (like W. 65/4 in E minor), and Friedemann used echoes in the Siciliano of his early Sonata in F (F. 202), later arranged as a movement in a flute sonata. The early version was likely performed with impromptu embellishments and inner voices—but not those of the Berlin revision, which is entirely in the style of Bach’s works of the 1740s; it does hew closely to the harmonic outline of the original for the first sixteen measures. At this date the Well-Tempered Clavier still comprised only the first book; see the preludes in D, D minor, and E minor. Another relevant piece is the Allemande from Sebastian’s Suite in E-flat BWV 819, which exists in a “varied” version BWV 819a copied around 1730 by his student Kayser (see Talle, “Nürnberg, Darmstadt, Köthen,” 157). The idea derives from pièces croisées by Rameau and other French composers. Anna Magdalena’s copy of the movement in P 225 dates “probably . . . between 1734 and 1742” (CPEBCW 1/8.2:151n. 9), but the assertion that Anna Magdalena’s copy of the aria from the Goldberg Variations was “copied directly from the original print” cannot be sustained (see my Keyboard Music of J. S. Bach, 486n18). Therefore, the copy of W. 65/7 that immediately follows need not be as late as 1741 or 1742. Examples of three-section sonata movements in the sense described here appear to be restricted to the sarabandes of the partitas in D major and E minor (the latter copied in Anna Magdalena’s 1725 book); the form occurs more frequently among the preludes of part 2 of the Well-Tempered Clavier (see Schulenberg, “Fugues, Form, and Fingering”). This was an essential theme not only of Rosen’s Classical Style but his Sonata Forms, originally drafted as an article for the New Grove encyclopedia (personal communication). The later version appears to be chiefly a product of the Berlin “renovation” of 1744. Bach’s reworking of W. 65/7 has been analyzed previously, notably by Berg, “Carl Philipp Emanuel Bachs Umarbeitungen.” For a synoptic score showing the early and late versions together, see the author’s edition online at http://faculty.wagner.edu/david-schulenberg/files/2013/06/w65_7_rev2.pdf. A single concerto, W. 1, is considered in chapter 4, as are the solo sonatas, several of which may date from Leipzig. Two other early concertos survive only in versions from the 1740s. The two minuets that conclude W. 71 are an exception, for here the violin is entirely subsidiary to the keyboard, as in so-called accompanied keyboard sonatas of the later eighteenth century. One of the two upper voices might be copied into the same performing part as the figured bass, producing a partial score that could be played by a

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23 24 25 26

27 28 29 30

31

32 33

34

keyboardist alone or shared by the latter with a flute or violin. This practice was addressed by Sheldon, “The Transition from Trio to Cembalo-Obbligato Sonata,” although his assumption that it represented a step toward the later “accompanied” keyboard sonata is problematical. For this reason, trios will sometimes be identified by their NV numbers rather than by Wotquenne’s. CPEBCW 3/1:xv. See below on Bach’s possible authorship of several other works. Christoph Wolff cites both Mattheson, Der vollkommene Capellmeister, 344, and Scheibe, Der Critische Musicus, 676, in CPEBCW 2/2.1:xi–xii. The cadenza is signified by a fermata on the 6/4 chord in the penultimate measure. Emanuel revised the slow movements in his early concertos W. 1 and 4 to allow the insertion of cadenzas (see CPEBCW 3/9.1 for the early version of W. 1; early and late versions of W. 4 are shown online simultaneously at faculty.wagner.edu/david-schulenberg/files/2012/12/w4-6_w4_2_both.pdf). Compare measures 13–14 (and mm. 16–17) with the opening of BWV 1036 in $example 3.13. The sole sources are B Bc 6360 (copied by Westphal) and SA 3638, a copy by Michel for obbligato keyboard and violin. Stinson, The Bach Manuscripts, 23, dates the earliest source of BWV 1034 to “1726/27.” The relationship between the two works seems to have been first noticed in Siegele, Kompositionsweise und Bearbeitungstechnik, and was subsequently addressed by Leisinger and Wollny (“‘Altes Zeug von mir,’” 175–79); for further discussion, see Wolff, “Carl Philipp Emanuel Bachs Trio in d-moll.” An example in Leisinger and Wollny, “‘Altes Zeug von mir,’” 177, demonstrates that the opening of movement 3 in W. 145 freely varies that of movement 2 in BWV 1036; the first three beats of the same passage also recur at the opening of W. 145 (movement 1). The sole source (Leipzig, Städtische Musikbibliothek, ms. 9) belonged to the Mempell-Preller collection, whose relationship to the Bach family is uncertain. As in his renovation of the first movement of the Sonata W. 65/7 ($ex. 3.6). Models for such revision occur in Sebastian’s works, as in the gradual expansion of the Courante of the Second French Suite, BWV 813 (see Schulenberg, Keyboard Music of J. S. Bach, 311). Hofmann, “Zur Echtheit der Triosonate G-Dur BWV 1038,” regards BWV 1022 as an independent arrangement of the lost original version of BWV 1038. As Wolff puts it, “Carl Philipp Emanuel Bachs Trio in d-moll,” 189.

Chapter Four 1 The city, traditionally known as Frankfurt an der Oder (Frankfurt-on-theOder), is on the west bank of the river that now forms Germany’s eastern border with Poland; its official name is Frankfurt (Oder). Telemann spent time there in 1706 before serving as music director in the much larger city of Frankfurt (Main) in western Germany.

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2 In his Autobiography, 199–200, Bach states that after leaving Frankfurt he turned down an offer to “lead a young man abroad,” having received “an unexpected and gracious summons [Ruf] to Ruppin.” 3 Oleskiewicz, “Like Father, Like Son?” 267–68. 4 On music and instruments at the Schwedt court, see Oleskiewicz, “The Court of Brandenburg-Prussia,” 108–10. 5 On Friedrich Wilhelm’s “repudiation of court culture,” see Clark, Iron Kingdom, 78–84. 6 Sebastian dedicated works not only to Margrave Christian Ludwig but to the Saxon Count Joachim Friedrich Flemming. 7 Bach, Autobiography, 199. 8 “Urpsprung der musicalisch-Bachischen Familie, Ende 1735” in BD, 1:261 (item 184). 9 The D-Major Ouverture BWV 1068, the Sinfonia from the Easter Oratorio, and the Coffee Cantata; see Wollny, “Zur Überlieferung der Instrumentalwerke Johann Sebastian Bachs.” 10 Wollny, “Zur Überlieferung der Instrumentalwerke Johann Sebastian Bachs,” mentions two concertos: BWV 1043, for two violins and strings, and BWV 1052a, an independent transcription of the lost work that became the D-Minor Concerto BWV 1052. Although BWV 1052a is preserved in Emanuel’s hand (and therefore listed as H. 484), his parts in St 350 show no evidence that it is his own adaptation. 11 Thus Wollny, “Zwei Bach-Funde in Müglen,” 129, citing the historian Jacob von Stählin; see BD, 5:235 (item C 895b) for the latter’s account of performances with the Leipzig collegium. 12 “naturel, profond, pensif, et nanmoins drole en Compag[ni]e.” Stählin adds (BD, 5:235) that Emanuel was known as the “black” Bach, presumably for his hair color. 13 Pisendel, director of the Saxon court orchestra, later wrote to Telemann that, of the Bach sons, only Emanuel could “hold a candle” (das Waßer reichen) to the father. “I know who the old Bach was” (Wer der alte Bach geweßen weiß ich wol), he wrote; Friedemann was no Sebastian. Undated letter from 1750, in Telemann, Briefwechsel, 354. 14 Facsimile in Berg, 3:193–95. 15 The tempo change is explicit in the Adagio of W. 64/2, originally an Andante. The varied reprises in the brief final movements of W. 64/2, 64/5, and 64/6—presumably added only at the time of their renovation, if not later—may also have reflected an effort to add depth or substance to the music, although the decoration does not substantially change the proportions of the movements. 16 That the surviving early versions of W. 65/9 and 65/10 are those of 1737–38 (their dates of origin, according to NV) is implied by their preservation in P 368 alongside the early version of W. 65/7. Peter Wollny identifies their copyist in P 368 as (probably) the Dresden organist Johann Friedlieb Zillig (see WFBCW, 1:167). 17 Details of the Berlin visit are uncertain; see Dunning, Pietro Antonio Locatelli, 1:111–15.

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notes to pp. 42–46 323 18 Most of the quick movements with repeats in opus 2 are full three-part sonata forms, not mere rounded binary forms; see Saccà, “Le sonate dell’Opera II di Pietro Antonio Locatelli.” 19 Whether Bach knew Locatelli’s complete opus 2 in printed form is impossible to say. The fact that his flute sonata in B-flat, W. 125, has the same incipit as Locatelli’s sonata in the same key (op. 2, no. 3) suggests that he knew more than just the minuet from op. 2, no. 10. 20 Helm lists only the copy by Westphal in B Bc 5899 and the early edition (Vienna: Traeg, 1803) reproduced in Berg, 6:113–25. 21 There is also a parallel to another ostinato work by Sebastian Bach: the opening of variation 16 is reminiscent of the Andante in the flute sonata BWV 1034, also in G. 22 Locatelli could have found a model for this in the music of his supposed teacher Corelli, whose Follia (op. 5, no. 12) contains a comparable variation (no. 11). 23 In the early flute and oboe sonatas, the bass line is essentially the same for both the initial and varied statements of the last movement. 24 The earliest version of the sonata seen here is that in Kiel, SchleswigHolsteinische Landesbibliothek, Mb 52:1 and 52: 2, both in unidentified eighteenth-century hands. 25 The intermediate version of the work illustrated in $example 4.10b, with final Cantabile in 43, is preserved in an early print by Rellstab (Berlin, 1792). In the late version of the sonata in P 775, the note values of the last movement are halved (the meter is 83) and the tempo mark is Allegretto grazioso. 26 Frederick, letter of June 8, 1735, to his sister Wilhelmine (Berlin-Dahlem, Geheimes Staatsarchiv, Brandenburg-Preußsisches Hausarchiv, Rep. 47 Friedrich der Große, no. 305, vol. 2, fol. 224r). Text kindly provided by Mary Oleskiewicz, who elsewhere warns that Emanuel Bach’s autobiography fails to mention a call to court before 1738, leaving open the possibility that the unnamed “fils de Back [sic]” was Friedemann (“The Court of BrandenburgPrussia,” 90). The third son, Johann Gottfried Bernhard, was traveling with Sebastian at precisely this time to obtain an organist’s position at Mühlhausen (see Wolff, Johann Sebastian Bach, 399). 27 CPEBCW 2/1:xii–xiii. 28 Given the uncertainties in dating the surviving versions of the trios, the fugue in the G-Major Flute Sonata of 1739 (W. 127) can be considered Emanuel’s earliest surviving composition of that type. Although the second movement of BWV 1034 is also a fugue for flute and continuo, a closer model would have been the second movement fugue in Quantz’s G-Major Sonata QV 1:111 (dated to the 1720s by Oleskewicz, liner note for Johann Joachim Quantz: Seven Flute Sonatas, 4). 29 The expression was applied to Bach’s music “in his day” (zu seiner Zeit) according to an anonymous review of an early edition of the Locatelli Variations, in the Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung 6/15 (January 11, 1804), cols. 243–44. 30 Quantz, Versuch, 15.2. 31 The manuscript copy in B Bc 5871 is mostly in the hand of Johann Heinrich Michel; facsimile edited by E. Eugene Helm as Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach: 75 Cadenzas (H. 264 / W. 120) (Utrecht: STIMU, 1997).

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32 Quantz, Versuch, chap. 15; Bach, Versuch, i.3.32. Two of Bach’s Probestücke (W. 63/4, movement 2, and 63/6, movement 2) incorporate written-out cadenzas, both significantly longer than Quantz’s. 33 In St 350 the strings have this indication in movement 3, measure 250; the keyboard solo is written out up to measure 266. 34 The sole indication for an improvised cadenza in a work of J. S. Bach occurs, surprisingly, in the Canon at the Tenth from the Art of Fugue. 35 See Oleskiewicz, “New Cadenzas from Eighteenth-Century Berlin,” 454. The fermata is explicit at the end of the Adagio in the late version of Bach’s Sonata W. 65/9 in P 775 (facsimile in Berg, 3:220). Yet the fermata is absent from the earlier version in P 368, which otherwise gives the final cadence in the same form (Berg, 3:214). 36 The early version can be viewed (together with the late one) online at http:// faculty.wagner.edu/david-schulenberg/files/2012/12/w4-6_w4_2_both.pdf. A cadenza had been added by the time of the intermediate version, edited in the appendix of CPEBCW 3/9.2. 37 Wollny, “Zwei Bach-Funde in Müglen,” 120–21, places the work’s composition as early as 1732 but more likely in 1733–34; it would have been performed on either February 1, 1733, or February 21, 1734 (CPEBCW 5/5.2:xi–xii, based on the liturgical assignment to Septuagesima Sunday, specified in both Picander’s text and Bach’s autograph). 38 The critical report in CPEBCW 5/5.2 lists only a few of the numerous corrections and alterations visible in the facsimile published separately (CPEBCW, supplement to series 5). 39 As Emanuel described his earliest works in the 1772 CV. 40 Compare, for example, the ritornello of the aria “Stirb in mir, Welt,” from Gott soll allein mein Herze haben (BWV 169) of 1726, or in the first aria of the Coffee Cantata. 41 See CPEBCW 5/5.2:113; the facsimile of the first page of the autograph (shown as plate 1 and in a supplement volume) is too reduced in size to permit verification of the transcription. 42 Number 3 from Komm, du süsse Todesstunde (BWV 161), composed at Weimar but revised apparently in the 1730s, to judge from the handwriting of Bach’s entries in a copy of the score (P 124). 43 Sebastian had set a version of the same text (Ich bin vergnügt mit meinem Glücke) as BWV 84, probably in 1727. During the same period, he treated the same moralizing theme in the secular cantata Ich bin in mir vergnügt (BWV 204); both are, like Emanuel’s work, for a single soloist. 44 Melamed, “J. F. Doles’s Setting of a Picander Libretto,” 466. 45 CPEBCW 3/9.1:xiv. 46 Typically as “continuation sketches” to record thoughts that were “to be written on the following verso once the ink had dried” (Marshall, The Compositional Process of J. S. Bach, 1:141). 47 Bach told Burney (Present State of Music in Germany, 2:253) of a letter he had written to Hasse, expressing admiration for the “divine effects” that the latter could create within the essentially three-part texture of his orchestral music. Melamed, “J. F. Doles’s Setting of a Picander Libretto,” 459, cites Doles’s

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48

49 50

51 52

53

54 55 56 57

58

59

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autobiography (in Bernhard Friedrich Richter, “Johann Friedrich Doles,” Monatshefte für Musikgeschichte 25 [1893]: 127). The E minor of the second aria is all the more surprising in view of the cadence in D with which the preceding recitative concludes. Yet there is no hint in the autograph score that anything was meant to come between these two movements. E minor was also the key of the opening aria in Sebastian’s setting of the same text. As Wollny observes, CPEBCW 5/5.2:xii. Letter of November 18, 1752, no. 122, in Telemann, Briefwechsel, 366–67. SA 1449 preserves a copy of Telemann’s Sechs Cantaten (Hamburg, 1731) in Agricola’s early hand (title page and one page of music reproduced in Reipsch, “Der Telemann-Bestand,” 321–22). The usual comparison was to Handel, not Telemann; see Schulenberg, “C. P. E. Bach and Handel.” See Schulenberg, “Modifying the Da Capo?” Although it is not quite right to speak of such arias as “identified only in the works of J. S. Bach” prior to 1740 (CPEBCW 5/5.2:xiv), they certainly were a special preoccupation of his. Emanuel’s use of the form suggests that Sebastian’s pupils were aware of it even if they used it rarely. As demonstrated by Stevens, “An Eighteenth-Century Description of Concerto First-Movement Form,” drawing on Heinrich Christoph Koch, Versuch einer Anleitung zur Composition, 3 vols. (Leipzig and Rudolstadt, 1782–93). On this point, see Schulenberg, “The Sonate auf Concertenart,” esp. 60, 65–68. Alternate approaches to the return in a concerto movement are the subject of Davis, “H. C. Koch, the Classic Concerto, and the Sonata-Form Retransition.” As in the early “Solo” in E-flat, discussed in chapter 3, and still in the third movement of the A-Major Concerto W. 8 of 1741. In measure 88 the bass (continuo) merely has a few formulaic notes leading back to the tonic. A similar device occurs at the return in the first movement of W. 4, Emanuel’s first Berlin concerto (m. 147). It may not be wholly coincidental that Emanuel seems to quote his father’s work here, for, apart from the identity of key, the texts of the two passages express related ideas, “give to me what is needed” or “what is my portion.” In the Passion, this aria follows Matthew’s version of the words of institution (“Drink, eat”), spoken prior to Holy Communion in every Lutheran Hauptgottesdienst. In German the letter B stands for the note B♭, H for B♮. For further examples from the Concerto W. 22 and the Piano Trio W. 90/1, see Schulenberg, Instrumental Music of C. P. E. Bach, 41. The motive also occurs as a bass line in works of J. S. Bach, for example, the Second Brandenburg Concerto (movement 1, mm. 109–11). But a melodic diminished third (the sixteenths g–e♯) in measure 82 of the edition in CEPBCW 5/5.2 is the product of an unlikely editorial sharp; another is applied to the first violin’s a′ in measure 15 (see $ex. 17b). The fact that Bach did write a sharp at the corresponding point in the second ritornello (m. 63), producing a minor third rather than a diminished third, suggests that the absence of the accidental in the parallel passages was deliberate.

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61 Another melisma on teile (mm. 60–65) also sounds like Telemann. An earlier melisma on the same word (mm. 34–40) employs the syncopated motive from the ritornello; it also includes the stuttering repeated notes found elsewhere in Emanuel’s early melodic writing. 62 The six extant libretti are edited in CPEBCW 5/5.2:128–34. A seventh libretto, now lost, was for a wedding. 63 It was during this visit, accompanied by Crown Prince Frederick, that the latter got to know the royal musicians Buffardin, Quantz, Pisendel, and Weiss; they subsequently performed at Berlin. See Oleskiewicz, “The Court of Brandenburg-Prussia,” 83. 64 Recounted by Johann Jacob Moser, head of the Faculty of Law during 1736–39, in his Lebengeschichte . . . von ihm selbst beschrieben (Frankfurt (Main), 1777), 169– 75; this apparently took place in 1737, hence during Bach’s time in Frankfurt. 65 As shown by Wollny, “Zur Überlieferung der Instrumentalwerke Johann Sebastian Bachs,” 9, 11. 66 On the inessentiality of the brass and percussion in BWV 1068, see Rifkin, “Besetzung—Entstehung—Überlieferung.” 67 “Es wird der frohe Tag, den wir mit Lust besingen, / Dem Lande so viel Glück als Preußens Krönung bringen.” (The happy day, which we sing about with pleasure, / will bring as much good fortune to the land as Prussia’s crowning.) The word Krönung clearly is meant figuratively, but its use in a work praising the crown prince is surely suggestive. 68 CPEBCW 5/5.2:xviii. 69 The account is reproduced in CPEBCW 5/5.2:xvii–xviii. 70 But Emanuel’s Frankfurt experience with vocal music could not have been entirely irrelevant to his appointment at Berlin, where he probably accompanied singers as well as the king.

Chapter Five 1 Bach, Autobiography, 3:209. Among “trios” Bach included works for obbligato keyboard with violin or flute (in 1772 the trios with violin and cello had not yet been composed); “solos” comprised both sonatas and other works. 2 Bach, Autobiography, 3:200. 3 Oleskiewicz, “Like Father, Like Son?” 258–60, points out that Frederick’s official residence by this point was actually Rheinsberg, casting some doubt on Emanuel’s accuracy. Exner, “C. P. E. Bach at His Word,” 257–59, suggests that Bach’s engagement by the court might not have occurred until after a year of mourning for Frederick’s father ended on June 1, 1741, and that the king might not have played his first flute solo at Charlottenburg, accompanied by Bach, until afterward. 4 Oleskiewicz, “Like Father, Like Son?” refutes the idea that Bach was underpaid and underappreciated at Frederick’s court. 5 Schneider, Geschichte der Oper und des Königlichen Opernhauses in Berlin, 53, does not state his source for this.

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notes to pp. 60–65 327 6 On Berlin’s demographic and economic changes in the eighteenth century, see Escher, “Die brandenburgisch-preußische Residenz und Hauptstadt Berlin.” 7 For corrections of several misconceptions about Bach’s life during the war years, see Schulenberg, “C. P. E. Bach in Zerbst.” 8 Benda’s Autobiography (see bibliography) does not mention Bach. 9 Letter of April 28, 1784, to Johann Heinrich Grave (item 469 in Suchalla, 2:1009; see Clark, Letters, 204). 10 Agricola, Anleitung zur Singkunst. 11 For an overview, see Oleskiewicz, “Chamber Music and Piano Music,” 107–10. 12 See the inventories in Schwinger, Die Musikaliensammlung Thulemeier, some of which are traced to Nichelmann, others to the directors of Berlin musical organizations active in the second half of the century. 13 Oleskiewicz, “Chamber Music and Piano Music,” 109, citing Nicolai, Anekdoten, 7:162fn. 14 Quantz’s Versuch devotes considerable attention to improvised melodic embellishment, and written-out examples are common in the works of Franz Benda, Nichelmann, and other Berlin colleagues of Bach. 15 Bach “tried to do with decoration what Haydn, who was so indebted to him, was to learn to do with structure”: Rosen, “Keyboard Music of Bach and Handel,” 105. 16 On the varying formal plans underlying Sebastian’s ritornello-form concerto movements, see Schulenberg, “The Sonate auf Concertenart,” 76–79 and 90–93. 17 A Schenkerian effort to find coherence and originality in Bach’s music at deeper levels (Petty, “Compositional Techniques”) is unlikely to convince nonbelievers. Richard Kramer, Unfinished Music, adopts a different approach in the chapters relating to Bach, but few Berlin works are considered. 18 Burney’s judgments were accepted by, among others, E. Eugene Helm, whose views of Bach’s Berlin contemporaries (expressed in his Music at the Court of Frederick the Great) continue to be widely repeated, even though at the time of writing he could have seen only a tiny fraction of the repertory. 19 The resemblance to Graun’s aria is closer in the original version of the ritornello, visible beneath corrections in P 354. An ascending arpeggio (concerto, m. 18) is also common to both, and in the aria the violins have multiple stops that Bach uses to dramatic effect in W. 46 and other early Berlin concertos. 20 According to Mangum, “Apollo and the German Muses,” 228. 21 A slow aria with the singer entering on a sustained note is a common type, as in Bertarido’s aria “Fonte ch’accresci” from Rodelina, act 2; Bach imitates this in the Adagio of W. 6. But in none of Graun’s or Hasse’s arias from the period does the singer make a slow first entrance after a lively ritornello, as in “Furie terribili” from Handel’s Rinaldo. 22 Marissen, “A Trio in C Major,” referring to BWV 1032 in A; Swack, “On the Origins of the Sonate auf Concertenart,” referring to the Trio in E-flat QV 2:18, putative model for the Trio BWV 1031 in the same key (sometimes assigned to Emanuel Bach, although his own title page in P 649 attributes it to his father). 23 See Schulenberg, “The Sonate auf Concertenart,” 87, on the trio GWV Cv:XV:120 in G, preserved in D B ms. 8284/22 and SA 3699. Another trio, GWV A:XV:13

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328

24

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26

27

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30 31 32

33

34

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notes to pp. 65–72 in A, is also labeled as a work with “two themes” (in SA 3772, although “con 2. Themata” is probably a later addition to the original title “SONATA à Trè”); for an extended example from this sonata, see Schulenberg, “The Sonate auf Concertenart,” 61–62. The Program Trio, W. 161/1, has the two violins entering with sharply contrasting thematic material in the first two movements, but neither employs the quasi-ritornello form of the other movements mentioned here. The early version of W. 15 is preserved in SA 2623, a manuscript copy by Agricola. The latter probably made his copy well after Bach had created the revised version, which is preserved in the autograph P 352, datable from the handwriting to no later than the end of the 1740s. Bach’s autograph score of W. 15 (in P 352) is unique for a work of this period in providing a date (“Fine. d. 5 Apr. 1745”). This seems to confirm the date for the work given by NV, yet the manuscript is almost certainly not a composing score (contrary to the assertion in CPEBCW 3/9.5:172, which is qualified by the admission that it “was probably preceded at the very least by a considerable number of assorted sketches”). The C-Minor Concerto W. 5 of 1739 is exceptional in that NV lists it as undergoing renovation in 1762, yet its predecessor W. 4 also underwent extensive revisions, as did W. 15 and other later works. The Magnificat is discussed in chapter 7. Also unique, although tabulated by NV as “solos,” are the unaccompanied flute sonata W. 132 of 1747 and the duet W. 140 for flute and violin of the following year. O’Loghlin, Frederick the Great and His Musicians, 171, assumes that Bach’s solos and other Berlin gamba works were “probably written for the court virtuoso,” that is, Ludwig Christian Hesse. The earliest detailed list of court musicians places his name immediately after Bach’s as one of those engaged in 1741. Cf. CPEBCW 2/1:xix. Wade, “Bach’s Sequence of Decision-Making,” in The Keyboard Concertos, 68–72. See the examples for the trios W. 77 and 78, and for the Concerto W. 164, reproduced and transcribed in CPEBCW 2/3.1:173–79 and 3/5:84–85, respectively. Wollny asserts that in their “renewal” (his translation of Erneuerung), the concertos W. 2 and 3 “were taken apart and, with the help of continuity drafts, completely formed anew and reassembled” (CPEBCW 3/9.1:xiv). For example, in the first movement of the Concerto W. 12 (autograph score in P 352), Bach substituted three measures for a single crossed-out measure in the final solo episode. He also made two aborted versions, each crossed out, of what became a five-measure portion of the final ritornello. Both instances of rewriting took place almost certainly during the initial writing out of the score. This list is based on the revisions documented for the Concerto W. 4 (details in CPEBCW 3/9.2:175–77). Bach’s first Berlin concerto, W. 4 is also the first concerto for which NV does not list a renovation, yet its compositional history was similar to that of the concertos that followed—including W. 5, which was renovated. For details, see the online edition (http://faculty.wagner.edu/david-schulenberg/files/2012/12/w4-6_w4_2_both.pdf) at measures 6 and 45 (viola), and

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36 37

38

39 40

41 42

43

44

45 46 47

at the fermata in measure 46, where a striking dissonance was brightened by changing the bass note; in modern terms, the harmony was changed from a diminished seventh to a dominant ninth. See Wade, The Keyboard Concertos, 25, confirmed by Wollny (CPEBCW 1/9.1:174–77). Bach removed multiple stops for the cello in the autograph score of W. 2 (in P 354, movement 1, beginning in m. 101). The early readings for W. 6, movement 3, measures 122–42, can be seen in the composite score online at http:// faculty.wagner.edu/david-schulenberg/files/2012/12/w4-6_w6_3_both.pdf. In the autograph score (in P 354), the early reading shown on the lower staves of example 5.11 appears on a discarded page (now designated folio 68r); no such page survives for the opening of the movement (see Wade, The Keyboard Concertos, 98–99). Versuch, i.3.22. An earlier isolated instance occurs at the beginning of the Sixth Württemberg Sonata. In Versuch, i.intro.12, Bach recommends a keyboard extending to e‴; the accompanying Probestücke do not go above c‴, but this limitation was adopted only in these rather special pedagogic works. See Versuch, i.3.31, referring to the third movement of W. 63/5. See, for example, the facsimile of the embellishments for W. 49/6 in Berg, 6:161–63 (from the partial autograph P 1135). The title, in the hand of Bach’s daughter (Leisinger and Wollny, Die Bach-Quellen, 330), appears in B Bc 5885. For an earlier example of similarly notated embellishments for another piece—a copy by Nichelmann of embellishments for the second movement of the Concerto W. 4—see CPEBCW 3/9.2:173 and 211–13. Kramer, Unfinished Music, 53, referring to the last of the Reprise Sonatas (W. 50/6), a single movement whose rondo form incorporates varied restatements of the main theme. In an undated letter to Gerstenberg (ca. 1768), no. 24 in Briefe an Freunde, 48–51, the poet Claudius describes a performance at Bach’s home for himself and Lessing; Bach played two adagios and an allegro composed for his Silbermann clavichord, the first time as written, the second time “varied” (verändert). Such as Krause mentions in a letter of December 20, 1747, to Gleim (no. 9 in Berg, Correspondence of Christian Gottfried Krause, 36). Kramer, “Beethoven and Carl Heinrich Graun,” 29 and 40. “2 mal durchaus verändert” according to NV (p. 16).

Chapter Six 1 None of the earlier published sets of sonatas listed by Newman, The Sonata in the Classic Era, 81, comprises regular three-movement works. Although Bach might have been preceded by a set of six sonatas by Platti published the same year, he could not have been influenced by them. 2 Both recitative and fugue occur in QV 1:116, recorded by Mary Oleskiewicz and the author, with Stephanie Vial, cello, on Johann Joachim Quantz: Flute

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330

3

4

5

6 7

8

9 10

11 12

13

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notes to pp. 80–85 Sonatas (Naxos 8.555064, 2003). Frederick incorporated recitative in his Sonata no. 126 (Spitta no. 21) and fugal imitation in no. 189 (Spitta no. 83), both edited by Mary Oleskiewicz in Frederick II: Four Sonatas for Flute and Basso Continuo (Wiesbaden: Breitkopf und Härtel, 2012). As Oleskiewicz, “The Trio in Bach’s Musical Offering,” argues was the case with Sebastian’s publication of five years later, also dedicated to Frederick and printed by the same Nuremberg publisher Schmid. In addition to having played the subject of the Musical Offering for Sebastian Bach in 1747, the king accompanied Franz Benda when the latter first auditioned for him (according to Benda’s Autobiography), and he had studied with Gottlieb Hayne, organist of the Berlin cathedral. Sonata no. 261 in F (Spitta no. 118). All three of Frederick’s sonatas cited here were recorded at Sanssouci Palace, Potsdam, by Mary Oleskiewicz with the author and Balázs Máté on Seven Flute Sonatas by King Frederick “the Great” of Prussia (Hungaroton Classic, HCD 32698, 2011). Several of these sonatas, including W. 62/6 and 52/4 of 1744, did eventually appear in print. Bach’s earliest surviving actual fantasia, H. 348 in E-flat, incorporating some very similar passages, is from about this time (the dating “c. 1740–45” in CPEBCW 1/8.1:130 may be a bit early). Bach, in a letter to Forkel of February 10, 1775, mentioned two sonatas “similar to a free fantasy” that were “the only ones of this type I have ever composed” (Clark, Letters, 75). Bach adds that these were among six composed at Töplitz in 1743 on a clavichord with a short octave (i.e., with some bass strings and keys left out to make the instrument cheaper and more portable). NV lists only three sonatas from Töplitz, a resort town whose spa would have provided treatment for Bach’s gout; no sonatas match this description better than W. 65/16 and 17. Their advanced style suggests that Bach erred in his letter and that the dates of these sonatas as recorded in NV (and CV) are correct. As I argued in “When Did the Clavichord Become C. P. E. Bach’s Favourite Instrument?” 44. Presumably the work was the result of a commission from the owner of a special instrument, although the latter has not been identified. The terminology used in the registrations, for example, “flute” for the quiet concluding variation, has caused the sonata to be misunderstood as an organ work; for clarification see Koster, “The Harpsichord Culture in Bach’s Environs,” 67–69. These include most of the individually published sonatas of the late 1740s and early 1750s, such as W. 62/8, 9, 11, and 13. Although labeled Sonata per il Cembalo in the autograph (P 776), W. 65/24 has the restricted compass (D–d‴) and heavy texture, with numerous doublings, also present in the Organ Praeludium W. 70/7 of 1756. Versuch, footnote to i.intro.9. As Mitchell noted in his translation (32n7), this is part of a long justification by Bach for omitting some of the unidiomatic repeated notes in a basso continuo part, a practice criticized by Quantz (Quantz, Versuch, 17.6.32). Rosen, Classical Style, 115, referring to the B-Minor Sonata W. 55/3 of 1779.

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notes to pp. 86–94 331 15 As noted by Oleskiewicz (CPEBCW 2/1:xv). Bach also calls for f‴ in later flute parts, as in the aria “Mitten unter deinen Schmerzen” in his 1787 Saint Luke Passion. 16 For alternate ways of analyzing Sebastian’s ritornello-form concerto movements, see Schulenberg, “The Sonate auf Concertenart,” 90–93. 17 As is occasionally suggested, for example, by Stevens, The Bach Family and the Keyboard Concerto, 58–62, with regard to BWV 1052, 1053, 1054, and 1055. 18 Schwinger, Die Musikaliensammlung Thulemeier, 484, mentions a Berlin concerto by Janitsch dated 1736 in one source, another by Graun from the following year. For further discussion, see Schulenberg, “J. S. Bach, C. P. E. Bach, and the Invention of the Concerto for Keyboard and Strings,” 50–51. 19 Stevens, The Bach Family and the Keyboard Concerto, 69–73, argues for Tartini’s influence, but although J. G. Graun had studied with him, hardly any Tartini concertos survive today in Berlin sources. 20 The style that historians since the nineteenth century have identified with Berlin actually originated at Dresden, as argued by Oleskiewicz, “Quantz and the Flute at Dresden,” esp. chap. 5. 21 As argued in Schulenberg, Music of W. F. Bach, 176. 22 Peter Williams applies Harold Bloom’s idea to music in “Is There an Anxiety of Influence Discernible in J. S. Bach’s Clavierübung I?” 23 Williams, ibid., 141, uses the idea of “swerving” away from an established style as an equivalent of Bloom’s “misreading.” 24 For example, the third movement of W. 2 includes several leaps of a diminished octave (mm. 72, 75). Some awkward figuration in the first movement was clearly inspired by Sebastian; compare W. 2, movement 1, measures 123– 25 and elsewhere with movement 1, measures 122–32 in BWV 1052 (or 1052a, which Emanuel copied). 25 NV does not specify when or in what order he worked on these three concertos during 1743, and the autographs provide no clues. 26 Owners, respectively, of the manuscript sources listed as D6, D5, D4, D3, and D10 in CPEBCW 3/9.1:174. 27 The composer Hertel, a pupil of Franz Benda, heard Bach play W. 11 in a Berlin concert in 1745, the year of its publication (Johann Wilhelm Hertel: Autobiographie, 24, 29). The collector J. J. H. Westphal later acquired Hertel’s copy of the printed edition (Leisinger and Wollny, Die Bach-Quellen, 38). 28 On the presumed original versions with solo oboe of BWV 1055, 1056, and 1059, and of the double concerto BWV 1060, see the reconstructions in NBA 7/7 as well as Rifkin, liner notes to J. S. Bach: Oboe Concertos. 29 Two concertos of the 1740s, W. 13 and 22, certainly originated as flute concertos; three more, W. 26, 28, and 29 of 1750, 1751, and 1753, were composed as cello concertos and later adapted for both flute and for keyboard. Two further works from the very end of the Berlin period, W. 39 and 40 of 1765, originated as oboe concertos, and one additional flute concerto was arranged from the organ concerto W. 34. 30 Compare the Andantino of the Sonata W. 62/5, composed in 1744. Haydn included a number of slow movements of this type in his early symphonies, such as Hob. I: 2 in C.

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31 As suggested by Wade, The Keyboard Concertos, 66–67. 32 The early C-Minor Concerto W. 5 was not merely revised but, according to NV, renovated in 1762. 33 As no sources of W. 14 appear to predate the print, it is impossible to determine to what degree the latter incorporates revisions made after 1744. At least the numerous ornament signs must have been added only in the 1750s, when Bach began using them regularly. 34 Something similar happens in the slow movement of W. 3, but there the ritornello theme is an unisono melody acting more like an ostinato bass. 35 By “tonic preparation” is meant a pause on what turns out to be the tonic harmony of the following passage (as in m. 293 of $ex. 6.27)—a mildly surprising variant of the more common dominant preparation. 36 Equally formulaic is the unimaginative circle-of-fifths sequence in measures 263–69, which recalls a similar passage in the First Württemberg Sonata (movement 3, mm. 74–84)—a weak link in an otherwise exceptional work. 37 The “embellished” version of W. 17 is relegated to an appendix in the new edition, but the editor admits that it “very likely . . . originated with Bach himself” (CPEBCW 3/9.5:173), concluding that one source “derived directly from Bach’s performing parts” (ibid., 175). 38 Bach at some point added horns to W. 46, and possibly also to W. 14 (the horn parts are dismissed on unstated grounds as “unlikely” to be Bach’s in CPEBCW 3/7:164). No other work was furnished with as many added parts as Bach eventually provided for W. 27—pairs of flutes, oboes, horns, and timpani, plus three trumpets mentioned in NV that do not survive (see CPEBCW 3/9.8:251). 39 Miklós Spányi, in notes to his recording (C. P. E. Bach: The Complete Keyboard Concertos, Volume 16), 9, posits that “a fundamentally different texture” in W. 27 makes the use of harpsichord for the solo part “more convincing” than the fortepiano or tangent piano (Tangentenflügel), which he employs in other works of the period. Tangent pianos equal to the demands of Bach’s works were probably unknown before the last decade or two of the century, but a large harpsichord would indeed have been the most likely instrument for public performances of concertos such as this that included wind and timpani parts, at least until the 1770s. 40 CPEBCW 3/9.5:xii, xiv. 41 As supposed by the inventor of the “storm and stress” idea, de Wyzewa, “À propos du centenaire de la mort de Joseph Haydn.” 42 Denkmäler der deutscher Tonkunst, vols. 29–30 (Leipzig: Breitkopf und Härtel, 1907), xii–xiii. 43 For further examples, see Schulenberg, Instrumental Music of C. P. E. Bach, 34–40. The Concerto W. 14 opens with a major-key version of the same progression, also with wide leaps in the violins. 44 Alterations in the first cadenza suggest that this idea came to Bach only as he wrote out the revision autograph in P 354. 45 Bach also modulates to the subdominant in the slow movements of several sonatas, such as W. 52/1 (composed in 1747)—but rarely if ever in a movement in a major key, and never in a quick movement, as in the first movement of a sonata in G major by Müthel.

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notes to pp. 99–102 333 46 The revised version must have been made soon after the work’s composition in 1745, for the handwriting in the autograph score (P 352) is distinct in small details from that of W. 23 and other works of a few years later. 47 CPECW 3/9.5:xiv. 48 That Bach later arranged W. 22 for keyboard implies that it was not composed for the king, who probably would have demanded its sole use; still, its limited dissemination suggests that it was a private commission. 49 As in the interruption of the second solo episode by a harshly dissonant imitative passage for the strings (movement 1, mm. 142–45). 50 The early keyboard versions of W. 13 preserved in St 200 make the necessary adjustments to the string accompaniment but hardly revise the solo part, even retaining the “plus” or “cross” signs for ornaments typical of Bach’s early autographs. The embellished version in the late source B Bc 5887 continues to repeat the entire opening ritornello at the end of the first movement, something that Bach by then had eliminated from the flute version (which begins a “dal segno” at measure 4 of the opening ritornello). 51 Like the late version of W. 16, the keyboard version of W. 22 requires the soloist to ascend to f‴ and therefore is unlikely to date from before the 1760s. 52 Example 6.31a silently emends a number of deficiencies in the source seen here (AmB 101), including the absence of a separate bass (cello) part. For technical reasons, Bach’s symbol for the three-note slide (“inverted turn”) in measure 13 of example 6.31b is replaced by three small notes. 53 See measures 16–30 and parallel passages in the first movement of QV 5:81 in D minor, “probably composed while Quantz was still at Dresden” (Oleskiewicz, liner note to Johann Joachim Quantz: Seven Flute Concertos), hence before 1741. The work has been edited by David Lasocki (London: Musica Rara, 1972). 54 The cadenza for the first movement is no. 38 in the collection preserved in B Bc 5871 (W. 120). A different cadenza for the second movement of W. 21 occurs there as no. 39. Bach also incorporated a cadenza into the first movement in the revised version of W. 16. 55 Spányi, “Performer’s Remarks,” in liner notes to C. P. E. Bach: The Complete Keyboard Concertos, Volume 15, p. 8, crediting violinist Sándor Devich with pointing out the resemblance. One might also note a thematic parallel between the final movement of the Brahms concerto and that of Sebastian’s three-keyboard concerto in the same key (BWV 1063)—yet neither movement is at all dark, despite being in D minor. 56 The Zwey Trio of 1751 (W. 161/1 and 2) were dedicated to Count Wilhelm of Schaumburg-Lippe, an ally of Frederick whom the count evidently emulated as both a military leader and a patron of the arts; Emanuel’s half brother Friedrich entered his service in 1749. Two later trios, W. 158 and 160, were published in an anthology. 57 The obbligato-keyboard version W. 73 transfers the flute part to the upper staff of the keyboard; it survives in a manuscript copy with autograph title page (B Bc 27907) but is identical musically to the trio sonata W. 149. At least five other manuscript copies instead transfer the original violin part to the keyboard (see CPEBCW 2/3.1). No copies of W. 150 assign either part to

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58 59

60

61

62

notes to pp. 103–109 obbligato keyboard, perhaps because a passage over a tasto solo bass in the last movement (mm. 126–50) would be ineffective in such a scoring. As in “Se mai più saro geloso” from Hasse’s Cleofide, or “Parto da te, ben mio” from Graun’s Rodelinda. See Schulenberg, “Crossing the Rhine with Froberger,” 287. Will, “When God Met the Sinner,” 176–81, relates the “meeting of opposites” in the Program Trio to contemporary literary works that juxtaposed contrasting “characters.” Musicalische Vorstellung einiger biblischer Historien (Leipzig, 1700). Kuhnau provided detailed verbal explanations for all six of these programmatic keyboard sonatas; particularly relevant here is the opening section of Sonata no. 6, in which laments by Jacob’s sons alternate repeatedly with their father’s benedictions. There is no evidence that Bach knew this work, although it may well have been remembered in Leipzig when he was growing up. GWV A:15:11 in G. Wolff, in CPEBCW 2/2.2:xvi, note 11, cites Peter Wollny for the view that Bach “may have known the work when he composed his trio in 1749.” Graun’s trio has been dated “no later than 1765” (GWV, p. 62), probably on the basis of an entry in one manuscript copy, “1765 à Potsdam” (ibid., p. 63). The heading in the basso continuo part of SA 3686, from the collection of Sara Levy, is clearly a later addition in a foreign hand; the alternate title survives in a handwritten 1783 catalog of chamber music then in the possession of Benjamin Itzig (D B Mus. ms. theor. Kat. 583; see Wollny, “Ein förmlicher Sebastian und Philipp Emanuel Bach–Kultus,” 64). The relatively late source SA 3686 gives the trio in a distinct version for flute, violin, and bass.

Chapter Seven 1 Bach advertised the Versuch as early as February 1752 (see CPEBCW 7/1:xx, note 12), but how much was written by then is unknown. 2 Wollny, “Fundstücke zur Lebensgeschichte Johann Sebastian Bachs,” 44–46; Christine Blanken allows for several possible occasions in 1749 and 1750 (CPEBCW 5/1.1:xv). 3 Wolff, Johann Sebastian Bach, 457. 4 Such an instrument, comprising three clavichords with a pedalboard, could be assembled to serve as an ersatz organ, as shown by Speerstra, Bach and the Pedal Clavichord, 25–27. 5 Annette Richards and David Yearsley assume that Emanuel was a capable organist, at least through the 1750s (CPEBCW 1/9:xi–xii). That both brothers did cultivate their father’s pedaliter organ music is only suggested by their ownership of manuscript copies of it (Christian received several works, including a copy of BWV 535 now in the Leipzig Bach-Archiv). 6 Emanuel gave his autograph score of the Resurrection Cantata (P 336) to Friedrich, who noted the fact on the title page. 7 The Magnificat in C of 1760 is edited by Ernest Warburton in The Collected Works of Johann Christian Bach 1735–1782, vol. 22 (New York: Garland, 1985).

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notes to pp. 110–112 335

8

9

10 11

12

13

14

15

16 17 18

19

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Christian’s six Berlin concertos appear in volume 32 of the same series; on the disputed authorship of the one in F minor, see Schulenberg, Music of W. F. Bach, 186. Gärtner, John Christian Bach, 99, places Christian’s departure in 1754, the date given (wrongly) by Emanuel in his annotations to the Bach Genealogy. Gärtner also mentions war jitters, soon justified, as a possible reason for leaving. As argued by Gärtner, John Christian Bach, 103–5, noting the prince’s family ties to Milan. Lobkowitz, best known for his support of Gluck, was the father of Prince Joseph Franz Maximilian, patron of Haydn and Mozart. As Bach complained in a letter of February 18, 1783, to the publisher Engelhardt Benjamin Schwickert, no. 224 in Clark, Letters, 191. The Magnificat was originally in E-flat (BWV 243a); the familiar D-major version (BWV 243) dates from 1732–35, leaving uncertain whether Emanuel knew it before he inherited the autograph score (P 39). Emanuel may not have added these parts until 1779, although they occur earlier in the parody of at least one movement, which Bach prepared in 1772; see CPEBCW 5/1.1:xiv. Quantz’s motet Exultate, o stellae beatae QV7:1a survives in a Dresden score and parts (SA 791). Graun’s only certain Latin sacred work is the Te Deum discussed below; four masses and other Latin works attributed to him are doubtful according to GWV. This Magnificat in F (GWV D:VI:11), as well as a somewhat less accomplished one in D (GWV D:VI:10), is scored in Britt, “A Critical Edition of the Magnificats of Johann Gottlieb Graun.” Neither Britt nor Grubbs, The Sacred Vocal Music of the Graun Brothers, 2:1024–25, addresses the provenance of the sources, and therefore the attribution as well as the date of both works must remain open. For Gerlach’s Magnificat performances, see Glöckner, Die Musikpflege an der Leipziger Neukirche, 98–104; Glöckner dates these to the 1730s, well after J. S. Bach composed BWV 243a. Neither work is dated, but Metastasio’s libretto was written by 1730. The entry for the missa in GWV (A:VI/1) cites a Berlin newspaper announcement of its performance on August 1, 1762, in the Justinischer Garten. Possibly this was the “Messe ex D♭” (recte “ex Dis”?) listed anonymously alongside two others in Leisinger, “Die ‘Bachsche Auction’” (lots 196–99). Wolf, “Überlegungen zu den mehrsätzigen Magnificat-Vertonungen,” 48. As pointed out by, for example, Butt, Bach: Mass in B Minor, 19–20. This has led to the suggestion that Emanuel’s fugue originated as an instrumental piece (Blanken, “Zur Werk- und Überlieferungsgeschichte des Magnificat,” 248). The reuse of the opening music for the “Sicut erat” (As it was in the beginning) was an old music-rhetorical pun, employed, for example, by Monteverdi and Schütz. Although restatements of the opening music occur in Magnificat settings by Vivaldi and Zelenka, there is none in the Magnificat by Caldara that Sebastian copied in the 1740s (in D B 2755), nor in the D-Major Magnificat attributed to Graun (GWV D:VI:10) or the three settings by Christian Bach.

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20 Ulrich Leisinger describes two of Homilius’s passion works as “well known, particularly in Berlin,” although apparently not until the 1760s (CPEBCW 4/4.2:xiii). 21 Blanken, “Zur Werk- und Überlieferungsgeschichte des Magnificat,” 243. Emanuel’s attitude toward text painting is considered in chapter 8. 22 This is the tonus peregrinus, familiar to Lutherans from its use as a chorale melody setting the German version of the Magnificat text. Polyphonic settings of this melody using the Latin text were rare, apart from Sebastian’s and Emanuel’s settings of this verse; see Lundberg, Tonus Peregrinus, 279. 23 For further discussion, see Schulenberg, “C. P. E. Bach and Handel.” 24 By contrast, a complaining letter of September 20, 1785, to Breitkopf (no. 277 in Clark, Letters, 235) makes clear that Bach did not own the plates for his Württemberg Sonatas, issued in 1744 by Haffner, and that they were still being used by Haffner’s successor to produce copies. 25 Hardly any letters survive from before Bach’s move to Hamburg; the great majority of those from afterward concern his business dealings with Breitkopf and other publishers and agents; Clark, Letters, xxxv–xlii, provides a useful overview. 26 Bach, Autobiography, 208–9. 27 Bach’s revision of volume 2 involved a greater number of changes and was not published until 1797, after his death. See CPEBCW 7/3:14–21 for the publication history of both volumes. 28 Tobias Plebuch attributes the formation of Bach’s “appealing writing style” to his university studies and his association with “literati” (CPEBCW 7/1:xxx). 29 See CPEBCW 1/3:xiv–xv. 30 For example, three-note slurs added in the left hand throughout movement 3 of Sonata 3 (W. 63/3) are mentioned in Versuch, i.3.18 (see CPEBCW 1/3:xv). 31 In particular, notes in inner voices were sometimes drawn without stems, leaving their precise note values indeterminate, as Bach explained in Versuch, i.1.96. 32 Versuch, i.1.7. 33 Ibid., i.1.6. 34 I restrict the term ornament to figures indicated by signs or one or two small notes, the first of two “classes” (Classen) of decorations (Manieren) distinguished by Bach in Versuch, i.2.1.6. The expression embellishments will refer to the more elaborate decorations or variations of the second class, which must be written out. 35 Discussed in Versuch, i.2.4.27–32; Couperin does not explain the sign, a combination of trill and turn symbols, although it had already appeared in his first book of harpsichord pieces (1713). 36 The long appoggiatura takes two-thirds the value of a dotted note (Versuch, i.2.2.11). Bach’s terms are “variable” (veränderlich) and “invariable” (unveränderlich), since short appoggiaturas are in principle always very brief, whereas long ones vary in duration depending on the value of the main note that follows. 37 Quantz, Versuch, 8.7. 38 As I argue in “‘Toward the Most Elegant Taste,’” 161–62.

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notes to pp. 118–123 337 39 In a rare passage where Bach asks a theoretical question—“In what does good performance consist?”—he replies in circular fashion that it involves playing notes and their ornaments in “correct time” and “according to the true content of the piece” (Versuch, i.3.2–4). This begs the question of what makes something “right” or “true.” 40 Bach authorized copyists to substitute “tr” for the original “t.” or “+” indications in his keyboard parts, according to a note that he added at the end of the autograph score of the concerto W. 18 in P 352. Wade, The Keyboard Concertos, 67, cites this as evidence that Bach contemplated having this work published (this one because of its unusually simple style?). 41 Versuch, i.1.10–14, i.3.4. 42 Ibid., i.intro.15. 43 The approach to clavichord technique described here is explained in greater detail by Speerstra, Bach and the Pedal Clavichord, 95–105. 44 Letter to Gerstenberg, no. 24 in Claudius, Briefe an Freunde, 48–51. Which piece Bach played for Claudius is uncertain. The only movement marked simply Allegro in the Leichte Sonaten is movement 1 of no. 1, in A minor, but the Allegro assai of no. 3 and the Allegro spirituoso of no. 5 are also possibilities; the last, with its octaves, might particularly have produced the effect described by Claudius. 45 Versuch, i.2.1.14. 46 There has been some question about this, since in Bach’s songs the vocal part usually is incorporated within the upper staff of a keyboard score. But nothing in the preface to the Gellert Songs, Bach’s first collection of lieder, suggests that he did not expect singers to execute the ornaments, even if he also allowed the performance of the songs as purely instrumental pieces (Handstücke). 47 Cf. Bach, Versuch, i.2.1.19–21. 48 Quantz, whose Versuch devotes entire chapters to such issues as how exactly to form an embouchure on the flute, was far ahead of Bach in this respect. Possibly this reflected Quantz’s experience as an instrument maker as well as player, and as a flutist rather than a keyboardist, both of which required him to consider the physicality of performance to a greater degree than Bach. 49 This is the fundamental insight of Schenker, “Die Kunst der Improvisation,” a study of the final chapter of Bach’s Versuch. 50 Although Bach mentions neither author, at his death he owned a copy of Heinichen’s General-Bass in der Composition (lot 357 in Leisinger, “Der ‘Bachscher Auction’”). 51 As, respectively, in an ascending series of 7–6 progressions (Versuch, ii.13.1.16) and in realizing certain chords of the major seventh (Versuch, ii.16.1.7). 52 For example, in Versuch, ii.13.2.5, Bach advises leaving out the third of a minor-seventh chord (that is, a dominant seventh) when a “fine accompaniment” is required; compare Quantz, Versuch, 17.6.20, on avoiding a unison doubling between keyboard and soloist on g♯′, a♯′, d♯″, and e♯″, when these are major thirds above the bass. 53 The last plate was finally replaced by the publisher Schwickert, who acquired the complete set of plates from Bach in 1780, eventually producing a new edition from them (see CPEBCW 1/3:165).

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notes to pp. 123–125

54 Letter of February 10, 1775, to Forkel (no. 77 in Clark, Letters, 76). Plebuch, “Dark Fantasies,” 46, refutes the notion that the fantasia “might have been composed as a lament” for Sebastian Bach, argued by Schleuning, Die Freie Fantasie, 224–25. 55 Bach describes the fantasia as “short” (klein); such pieces are “always” (allezeit) without bar lines (Versuch, i.3.15). This account better matches the shorter and earlier Fantasia in E-flat, H. 348. For further on the compositional history of the Probestücke, see CPEBCW 1/3:163–66. 56 The idea of publishing one-movement sonatinas in groups of six went back to three collections by Sorge, dedicated to J. S. Bach (so they are sure to have been known in the family); see Newman, The Sonata in the Classic Era, 389. 57 Hans-Günter Ottenberg and Ulrich Leisinger have edited an entire volume on the subject: Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach als Lehrer. 58 As in the posthumously published account in Christian Friedrich Daniel Schubart, Ideen zu einer Ästhetik der Tonkunst (Vienna, 1806), 179, quoted in the preface to CPBECW 7/1 (p. xi). 59 Sachs, Musikgeschichte der Stadt Berlin, 183, claims that Emanuel taught the organist Bertuch (whose playing of a fugue by J. S. Bach is described by Burney), but Sachs names no source; Ledebur, Tonkünstler-Lexicon, 65, reports only that Bertuch studied with Adlung. 60 In a letter of March 8, 1788, to Breitkopf (no. 330 in Clark, Letters, 279), he expresses a desire to write an “introduction to composition . . . for our present times [nach jetziger Zeit].” 61 On W. 121, see chapter 10. 62 Letter of February 10, 1775, to Forkel (no. 77 in Clark, Letters, 76). 63 The Gellert Songs are considered in chapter 8. On the Little Pieces W. 81, see 7.4. 64 See Stauffer, “The Breitkopf Family.” 65 For an account of reproduction engraving as carried out in Sebastian’s Art of Fugue, see Koprowski, “Bach ‘Fingerprints.’” Emanuel, who inherited the plates for the Art of Fugue, used them to print the work and eventually sold them, as he did the plates for his own Probestücke. 66 See the new catalog of the works of J. S. Bach the Younger (Fröhlich, Zwischen Empfindsamkeit und Klassizismus), especially the biographical essay by Maria Hübner (pp. 13–32). 67 Berg, “The Keyboard Sonatas,” 101. 68 “Composed pursuant to a high command”—doubtless that of King Frederick himself (“auf hohen Befehl verfertiget,” according to Marpurg)—the Te Deum must have been written well before the event it ostensibly celebrated, as observed by Henzel, “Die Erstaufführung von Carl Heinrich Grauns Te Deum,” 58. 69 This followed the bloody battle of Torgau, less than forty miles to the northeast, which solidified Prussia’s hold on the region. Frederick was attended at Leipzig by a number of his musicians, including Fasch but not Bach, according to Zelter, Karl Friedrich Christian Fasch, 19. 70 Carlyle, History of Friedrich II, 6:149–56, relates the incident in entertaining fashion, translating Gellert’s own transcript of his dialogue with the king; Carlyle’s account largely follows Preuß, Friedrich der Große, 2:274.

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notes to pp. 125–131 339 71 In a letter to the king; see Schulenberg, Music of W. F. Bach, 10. 72 Manuscript sources for many works employ the word cembalo, an Italian equivalent for Clavier. 73 Latcham, “Pianos and Harpsichords for Their Majesties,” 380–87, describes a number of these instruments, which the king apparently began to acquire around 1747. 74 Particularly doubtful are the crude transcriptions of W. 174 and 179 published among the “Incerta” in CPEBCW 1/10.2, although some of the problems in these arrangements are due to easily emended copyist errors. An arrangement of W. 176 is more idiomatic; a few unidiomatic details in W. 122/2 (based on the E-Minor Sinfonia W. 177 or 178) are likely errors in Breitkopf’s print. 75 As Berg notes (CPBCW 1/5.1:130), the history of W. 62/11 is uncertain; several sources combine its last two movements with the first of W. 62/19, which NV dates to 1757. Perhaps only movement 1 of W. 62/11 dates from 1750, but then one wonders how that work relates to Bach’s next sonata, W. 65/26, also of 1750 but in the same simple style and key. Did Bach simply compose a few easy movements in G, grouping six of them into two sonatas in the early 1760s? 76 Burney, Present State of Music in Germany, 271, describing Bach’s performance on clavichord of the W. 43 concertos. 77 Versuch, i.intro.11 and i.2.3.36. 78 On Silbermann pianos at court, see Oleskiewicz, “The Trio in Bach’s Musical Offering,” 98–101. 79 Versuch, i.intro.11. 80 CPEBCW 1/8.1:xiv. 81 The omission of fingerings from most of W. 114 suggests that it was not meant for beginners, but Bach must have left Berlin without having proofread the volume, to judge from the puzzling lacunae and apparent errors in the fingerings, reproduced verbatim in CPEBCW 1/8.1. 82 Bach may, however, have considered reusing the ritornello theme within a Hamburg church work, for the opening measures recur in a group of autograph sketches apparently for a sacred composition performed in December 1773 (P 1130). 83 Reproduced in Berg, 2:72–74. W. 50/5 was the first of the Reprise Sonatas to be composed. 84 Étienne Darbellay incorporated the later embellishments into his edition of W. 50 (Winterthur: Amadeus, 1976); Berg, “C. P. E. Bach’s ‘Variations’ and ‘Embellishments,’” 165–72, objected to this, pointing out that Bach authorized the unaltered reprint of the Reprise Sonatas in 1785. 85 At the time Bach was struggling to get his Resurrection Cantata into print (see chap. 12). Serwer, “C. P. E. Bach, J. C. F. Rellstab, and the Sonatas with Varied Reprises,” shows that a revised edition of the Reprise Sonatas would have cost more, and Bach and his publisher wished to undersell an unauthorized reprint of the original version. 86 See, for example, the discussion of W. 53/1 and 53/5 (from the Easy Sonatas) in CPBCW 1/3:xvi; both are ostensibly in C, but the last two movements of W. 53/5 are in A minor, and an early version in B-flat survives for the final movement of W. 53/1.

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87 The review, published in the Hamburger Correspondent, July 31, 1779, is quoted in Suchalla, 1:763. This is one of the few works whose notation explicitly calls for Bebung. 88 For a detailed account, see Schulenberg, “C. P. E. Bach in Zerbst.” 89 Bach wrote the “Abschied von meinem Silbermannischen Claviere,” W. 66, at the time of its sale in 1781 to Dietrich Ewald von Grotthuß, from the Latvian town of Jelgava (known as Mitau in German). 90 NV has a single entry for six fugues composed at Berlin in 1755; these are presumed to be W. 119/2–7 (the two-part fugue W. 119/1 is by Marpurg, as demonstrated by Horn, “Friedrich Wilhelm Marpurg, Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach und das ‘Duo in contrapuncto’ Wq 119/1”). NV lists most of the character pieces as belonging to several small groups of petites pièces (“little pieces”). 91 In a conversation with the poet Claudius, recounted by the latter in a letter of 1768 to Gerstenberg, no. 20 in Briefe an Freunde, pp. 42–44. Bach later wrote to Westphal, “I do not concern myself with such things” (letter of August 4, 1787, no. 317 in Clark, Letters, 266), probably referring to a programmatic battle piece (“The Battle of Rossbach”) attributed dubiously to Graun. 92 The subject is of the same general type as the royal theme in the Musical Offering, and a chromatic passage (mm. 62–65) recalls the Three-part Ricercar (BWV 1079/1, mm. 47–52); one might also compare Emanuel’s sequential treatment of a repeated-note motive (mm. 100–103) with similar passages in the two triple contrapuncti from the Art of Fugue (e.g., BWV 1080/11, mm. 122–25). 93 On Emanuel’s role in their transmission, see Schulenberg, “An Enigmatic Legacy,” 159. 94 W. 119/6 was the second of two fugues by Bach that Marpurg included in his series Clavierstücke mit einem practischen Unterricht für Anfänger und Geübtere, 3 vols. (Berlin, 1762–63). Marpurg’s analysis divides the fugue into four Paragraphen, the first three introducing the three subjects in turn, the fourth combining them. 95 Claudius, recounting a conversation about Bach, described these to Gerstenberg as “pieces in which  [recte ] are expressed” (Briefe, no. 20, pp. 42–44). The Greek word, from the verb , originally meant a design or legend stamped on a coin—hence our use of the word character for a letter or other sign. A listener such as Claudius might have expected a “character piece” to depict distinctive marks or features of its subject, not general character in the modern sense. 96 As in several entries in NV; see CPEBCW 1/8.2:xiv. 97 Instances of smaller pieces being incorporated into multimovement works are listed in CPEBCW 1/8.2:xiv and xvi–xvii. 98 O Himmel, schone, F. 90, discussed in Schulenberg, Music of W. F. Bach, 252–63 (score online at http://faculty.wagner.edu/david-schulenberg/ files/2012/12/F90.pdf). 99 Georg Ernst Stahl, physician, court counselor, and son of a famous chemist of the same name, was a family friend (see Berg, “Bach’s Character Pieces,” 30); in 1745 Friedemann Bach had dedicated his first publication, the keyboard sonata F. 3, to him.

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notes to pp. 134–137 341 100 Richards, “Picturing the Moment in Sound,” 67, observes that Krause’s little essay “Vermischte Gedanken, von dem Verfasser der musikalischen Poesie” (in Marpurg’s Historisch-kritische Beyträge, 3:533–35), appeared just as French genre paintings were becoming popular in Berlin. 101 A handy table in CPEBCW 1/8.2:xvii identifies the individuals named in the titles of fourteen of Bach’s character pieces. Stevens and Berg, “Bach’s Circle, the Small Character Piece, and the Sonatina,” 4, point out that five of Bach’s pieces share titles with French works: Dandrieu’s “Capricieuse” and “Complaisante,” Couperin’s “Auguste,” “Sophie,” and “Langueurs tendres.” 102 For example, “Les Vestales.” In “La Gleim,” however, the “part” in A major is really just a fourth couplet, and the main rondeau theme subsequently returns in the original key (A minor); this is not usually the case in Couperin’s multipartite pieces. 103 Versuch, i.1.88; elsewhere Bach calls for unslurred notes to be held for only “half” their value. This produces a very different keyboard sound from that evidently desired by Couperin, although one wonders how literally one is to understand ihre Hälfte (Versuch, i.3.22). 104 The date is uncertain. The pieces are good imitations of those of French composers, including a gavotte in A minor with variations; Rameau’s Nouvelles suites of ca. 1729–30 included precisely such a movement, and Marpurg’s composition must reflect his admiration for the French composer-theorist. 105 Berg, “C. P. E. Bach’s Character Pieces,” 3–4. 106 Walden, “Composing Character,” 382–83. 107 “Indem ein Musikus nicht anders rühren kann, er sey dann selbst gerührt” (Versuch, i.3.13); “Aus der Seele muß man spielen, und nicht wie ein abgerichteter Vogel” (i.3.7). The first of these echoed one of the “canonic writings of classicism,” the Ars poetica of Horace, as noted by Dahlhaus, “Si vis me flere,” 51, but it also contradicted the “imitation principle [Nachahmungsprinzip] of the Baroque.” 108 “man kanns näher haben, wenn man Worte dazu nimmt”; quoted by Claudius in the letter to Gerstenberg previously cited (no. 20 in Briefe an Freude, p. 44). 109 The composer himself replaced the apparently autobiographical title in D B ms. 38050 (facsimile in CPEBCW 1/8.2:xxvii). 110 Berg, “Bach’s Character Pieces,” 31. 111 Walden, “Composing Character,” 391. 112 The other type comprises a simple drum bass doubled in octaves, as in “La Boehmer” (W. 117/26), which is explicitly designated a murki in the partially autograph D B ms. 38050. The meaning of the term, which is perhaps Polish, is unexplained; it is spelled here with an i, as in some eighteenth-century sources, to avoid confusion with the unrelated English adjective murky. 113 Kramer, “The New Modulation.” 114 “ganz gewöhnliche Modulationen” (original emphasis), in the last of his additions for the posthumously published revised edition of the Versuch (at ii.41.12). 115 Hildegard von Hohenthal, ed. Carl Schüddekopf ([Leipzig]: Insel, 1903), 59, quoted by Schleuning, Die Freie Fantasie, 279. Heinse’s novel, which incorporates a considerable amount of informed discourse about music, describes a

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notes to pp. 137–143

chromatic modulation such as C to C-sharp major as “a surge as if into another world” (ein Ruck, wie in eine adre Welt), to be used only for “harsh catastrophes” (starcken Katastrophen). 116 He complains of pupils being “tortured with vapid murkis and other street songs” (Man martert im Anfange die Scholaren mit abgeschmackten Murkys und anderen Gassen-Hauern, i.intro.5). 117 I am not convinced by a view of this piece as “a Turkish-style romp” in which Bach depicts “himself in carnivalesque Turkish disguise” (Richards, “Picturing the Moment in Sound,” 75, 78). Having had an uncle (Johann Jacob Bach) who was held prisoner in Istanbul, Emanuel might not have wished to place himself, even metaphorically, within the Ottoman Empire. In any case the name Rupalich or Rupali seems to be South Asian rather than Turkish, even if it did refer to Bach or someone else in his circle depicted informally—in mufti, as it were.

Chapter Eight 1 Many contemporary references are collected in Busch, C. Ph. E. Bach und seine Lieder. 2 At his death, Bach owned not only Quantz’s flute duets and a concerto but a copy of his Neue Kirchen-Melodien zu Gellert’s Liedern, all listed in the posthumous sale catalog of his estate reproduced in Leisinger, “Die ‘Bachsche Auction.’” 3 Busch, C. Ph. E. Bach und seine Lieder, 38. “Extraordinary” probably meant something like an assistant professor, “poetry” (Poetik) what we would call literary history and theory. 4 In his foreword to the Gellert Songs. Three songs also appear in the Keyboard Pieces of Various Types (W. 112). 5 Only once does the introduction mention “pieces where there is only music” (Stücke wo nur Musik ist, Versuch, ii.intro.24), that is, no text. The reference at this point to “figures” in the Mitchell translation (p. 175) is an error for Fugen, by which Bach means fugal choruses, as is clear from an earlier reference to church music (ii.intro.3). The flute is mentioned only at ii.29.8, in advice for accompanying a quiet “voice or . . . instrument,” the voice thus taking priority. 6 Oleskiewicz, “Like Father, Like Son?” 261, makes a similar point about Bach’s colleague Nichelmann, observing that the latter’s more substantial qualifications as a professional composer for the voice might have accounted for his higher initial pay. 7 Youngren, C. P. E. Bach and the Rebirth of Strophic Song. 8 Berg, “C. P. E. Bach’s Character Pieces,” 29, raises the possibility that Schlichting was the Friedrich Ernst Schlichting who belonged to the group. 9 Krause’s Von der musikalischen Poesie originally appeared anonymously; his authorship is established by a long footnote in Nicolai, Anekdoten, 5:161–62 (source of the above quotation). His letters are edited and translated in Berg, Correspondence of Christian Gottfried Krause, which also provides useful background.

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notes to pp. 143–145 343 10 See Le Cocq, “The Early Air de cour,” 191, on the late adoption of basso continuo in France. 11 “Bach ist ein Milton, er will durchaus exercirt seyn.” Letter no. 9 of December 20, 1747, to Gleim, in Berg, Correspondence of Christian Gottfried Krause, 35–37). In the same letter Krause asks whether Gleim can find someone to arrange a Bach harpsichord concerto for flute—that is, transcribe the solo keyboard part for flute and continuo. 12 This is so even if for Krause the word Melodie can mean the song as a whole (voice and accompaniment), as in modern French and in Bach’s rubrics within the Sturm Songs, or in the title of Bach’s final, posthumous collection (Neue Lieder-Melodien, W. 200). Krause wrote before Bach had published any lieder containing his characteristic harmonic excursions (as in the Gellert Songs). 13 Krause, Von der musikalischen Poesie, preface (unpaginated, fol. 3). 14 Ibid., fol. 6r–v. 15 “In der Musik ist beständig etwas dramatisches, eine Vorstellung, eine Handlung”; “lange Beschreibungen, ausgeführte Gleichnisse, neue Bilder und verblümte sinnreiche Ausdrückungen, sind mehrentheils ein Werk des Fleißes und der Mühe; davon wissen die Leidenschaften nichts” (ibid., pp. 177, 176). 16 See Schulenberg, Music of W. F. Bach, 202–3, on Friedemann’s vocal works, whose conservative texts resemble those of Sebastian’s compositions. Friedemann is not known to have composed any lieder. 17 “So vielerley Affecten auch darinn vorkommen, so muß doch einer davon herrschen. . . . Der Uebergang nun von einer Leidenschaft zu der andern ist den Recitativen gewidmet” (Krause, Von der musikalischen Poesie, p. 233). 18 For example, in “Trost eines schwermütigen Christen,” no. 24 from the Gellert Songs, the last nine stanzas have a completely different setting from the first five (Wotquenne listed the two sections as distinct entities, W. 194/24–25, and in this was followed by Helm). So-called two-tempo arias are another apparent exception to Krause’s dictum. 19 “Miltons Paradieß nicht leicht einem Frauenzimmer gefällt” (Krause, Von der musikalischen Poesie, p. 34). 20 Engel, “Ueber die musicalischer Maherley.” The article is framed as a letter to the Prussian Capellmeister Reichardt. Cramer’s footnotes are omitted from the translation in Contemplating Music, 299–342. 21 He gives a single example (p. 1173), citing lines from the aria “Sacri orrori” in Hasse’s oratorio Santa Elena al Calvario. Even this aria, depicting the sea (mar), is more complicated than Engel’s account suggests, for the same figures in the violin accompaniment that seem to represent waves in the A section later accompany a reference to the wind “murmuring” (mormorando) in the leaves. 22 The appendix comprises the articles “Mahlen (Redende Künste; Musik)” and “Gemähld (Musik).” J. A. P. Schulz, in the Allgemeine Musikalische Zweitung 2, no. 16 (January 15, 1800), cols. 276–78, reported that he and his teacher Kirnberger had taken part in drafting the articles on music, but that Sulzer “worked them over and gave them their final form” (verarbeitete, und ihnen die gehörige Form gab).

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23 “diese Mahlereyen sind dem wahren Geist der Musik entgegen, die nicht Begriffe von leblosen Dingen geben, sondern Empfindungen des Gemüths ausdrücken soll.” Allgemeine Theorie der Schönen Künste, 2:608, reprinted in Magazin der Musik 1 (1783): 1182. 24 “er verschiedene Charactere seiner Freunde und Bekannten ziemlich glücklich ausgedruckt hat,” Magazin der Musik 1 (1783): 1179. 25 Johann Heinrich Pott was a professor of chemistry; “La Pott” is a simple minuet, moving predominantly in somewhat stodgy quarter notes that might represent a person’s gait. 26 “er Dinge mahlte, welche die Musik gar nicht mahlen sollte,” Lessing, Kollektaneen, 2:173–74. Lessing, also a Monday Club member, moved from Berlin to Hamburg in 1767, just before Bach did; he remained there off and on until his death in 1781, but his conversation with Bach, which took place “hier in Hamburg,” is undated. 27 “er war so sehr in die musikalischen Mahlereyen verliebt, daß er sie nicht selten ganz widersinnig anbrachte, an einem mahlerischen Worte oder Gedanken kleben blieb, und darüber den Affect des Ganzen vergaß; daß er in Spielwerke verfiel, und Dinge mahlen wollte, die keine Musik ausdrücken kann.” Ebeling, “Versuch einer auslerlesenen musikalischen Bilbiothhek,” in Hamburger Unterhaltungen 10 (Hamburg, July 1770); extracts in Telemann, Singen ist das Fundament zur Musik, 295. Ebeling, one of the translators of Burney’s Travels, was a professor in the Academic Gymnasium, housed in the same building as the Johanneum (Latin School) to whose faculty Bach, as cantor, belonged. 28 Telemann, Singen ist das Fundament zur Musik, 296. 29 Letter of January 14, 1752 (no. 100 in Telemann, Briefwechsel, 290); translation from Czornyj, “Georg Philipp Telemann,” 249. 30 As in the passion oratorio Wer ist der, so von Edom kömmt of which Emanuel owned a manuscript score; his autograph title page in D B, Mus. ms. 8155, is reproduced in the edition by Peter Wollny and Andreas Glöckner (Leipzig: Hofmeister, 1997). A pastiche, the oratorio incorporates the arias “Ihr Tropfen, fallt auf meine Brust” (no. 4), whose string accompaniment is suffused with staccato eighths representing teardrops, and “Harte Marter, schwere Plagen” (no. 12), whose syncopated chromatic theme expresses the opening words (“harsh martyrdom”); both arias are from Graun’s passion oratorio Kommt her und schaut (GWV B:VII:4). 31 The aria, identified by Poetzsch-Seban, “Tonmalerei und Affektdarstellung,” 179, opens the church piece Horche nur, dort regt sich was for Easter Tuesday (TWV 1:806); its preservation in SA 634 suggests that it was heard at Berlin. Another work from the same cycle, Bequemliches Leben, gemächtlicher Stand (TWV 1:123), was performed at Berlin in 1764 by Jacob Ditmar, cantor and music director of the Nicolaikirche (see the libretto reproduced in Reipsch, “Der Telemann-Bestand,” 314–15). Bach probably played the aria from memory for Lessing; at his death he owned a considerable amount of Telemann’s music, but nothing listed in NV or in the “Bachsche Auction” catalog can be identified as being from the Zell cycle. 32 Poetzsch-Seban, “Tonmalerei und Affektdarstellung,” 179.

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notes to pp. 146–149 345 33 “er [Telemann] das Erstaunen und Schrecken über die Erscheinung eines Geistes ganz unnachahmlich ausgedrückt habe, so, daß man auch ohne die Worte, welche höchst elend sind, gleich hören könne, was die Musik wolle” (Lessing, Kollektaneen, 2:173). 34 The work is one of thirty-seven from Telemann’s cycle listed as being in the possession of the Nikolaicantor Ditmar around 1740; see Henzel, “TelemannÜberlieferung,” 393–94. 35 “Verkennt ihn nicht,” originally no. 25 in Homilius’s Saint Mark Passion, inserted by Bach into his 1772 Saint John Passion (see $ex. 11.22a). 36 “Graun hingegen hatte einen viel zu zärtlichen Geschmack . . . er selten oder gar nicht mahlte, und sich meistentheils mit einer liebliche Melodie begnügte” (Lessing, Kollektaneen, 2:173). 37 In Graun’s letters to Telemann there is a recurring food metaphor according to which the latter “prefers hotter musical spice than I” (lieben mehr scharffes musicalisches Gewürtz als ich). Letter of November 9, 1751 (no. 98 in Telemann, Briefwechsel, 279; translation from Czornyj, “Georg Philipp Telemann,” 237). 38 Hence, perhaps, his comment to Claudius about adding words to his character pieces (see chap. 7). Larry Todd, in “Mendelssohn’s Lieder ohne Worte,” describes some remarkably similar endeavors to add text to Mendelssohn’s songs without words and a similar response by the composer. 39 Letter of October 21, 1773, no. 45 in Clark, Letters, 42; Clark also reprints as no. 45a a draft of the letter to which Bach was responding (the original is lost). Neither Gerstenberg nor Bach seems to have known Kuhnau’s Biblical Sonatas. 40 Nichelmann owned the Concerto BWV 1052a in a manuscript copied from one in Emanuel’s hand (St 350). His copy of the Concerto W. 4 is the sole source of a set of embellishments for an early version of the work (see CPEBCW 3/9.2:221–23). 41 The controversy has a faint echo in Vladimir Nabokov’s choice of the name Vivian Darkbloom for a character in Lolita. The letters of the name “Caspar Dünkelfeind” cannot, however, be rearranged to form the name of any known Berlin composer, whereas “Vivian Darkbloom” is an anagram for that of Nabokov—who was a direct descendent of Graun through the latter’s granddaughter Antoinette Theodora. 42 Nichelmann’s treatise, Die Melodie, nach ihrem Wesen sowohl, als nach ihren Eigenschaften, has not appeared in a modern edition, but Christensen provides a sympathetic summary in “Nichelmann contra C. Ph. E. Bach.” 43 The history of the work is ingeniously reconstructed by Wollny, “C. P. E. Bach, Georg Philipp Telemann und die Osterkantate.” 44 The local newspaper report is listed in Henzel, “Das Konzertleben der preußischen Hauptstadt,” 255. 45 Cochius, confused in older writings with his uncle Christian Johann, received a royal appointment as court and garrison preacher at Potsdam in 1749. Although one is surprised to read of a “court” preacher under Frederick, Cochius must have preached chiefly to the king’s officers. Interests in music are suggested by the inclusion in his estate of copies of Kircher’s Musurgia and

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346

46 47

48 49

50

51 52

53 54 55 56

57 58

59

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notes to pp. 150–157 Bach’s Versuch, as well as a double harpsichord by Hildebrandt and music by Bach and Quantz (Wollny, “C. P. E. Bach, Georg Philipp Telemann und die Osterkantate,” 81–83). The crescendo is indicated by successive dynamic markings p, mf, f, ff, as is typical in Bach’s scores from the 1750s onward. The opening tempo mark andantino, which occurs with some frequency in Bach’s works, is notoriously ambiguous. Koch, Musikalisches Lexikon, col. 144, defines it as somewhat quicker (etwas geschwinder) than andante, which seems correct for Bach even though others used the word differently (e.g., Türk, Klavierschule, 109). The last movement of the A-Major Sonata W. 54/6, whose theme is a version of the one used in the andantino section of the aria, is marked Allegretto. The aria is from Sebastian’s church cantata Ich habe genung (BWV 82) of 1727. Busch, C. Ph. E. Bach und seine Lieder, 214, 225–32. The actual number of arrangements is probably higher, even though Busch counted items from works missing when she wrote (these were mentioned by Miesner, Philipp Emanuel Bach in Hamburg). As Clark points out (Letters, xxxi), Emanuel listed the first volume, containing 100 of Sebastian’s chorale settings, among his own printed works (no. 24 in his Autobiography, p. 205). The complete series came out from Breitkopf only after Kirnberger’s death, in four volumes (1784–88); this too is listed among Emanuel’s printed works (NV, p. 190). Gellert’s suggestions, originally listed in an appendix to his Geistliche Oden und Lieder, are reproduced in CPEBCW 6/1:xvi. The bass is usually unfigured even in later songs, including that shown in example 8.27 below. As such songs appear to require a realization, they are a puzzling exception to Bach’s call at the opening of part 2 of his Versuch (ii.1.1) for complete and correct figures. The numbering here follows CPEBCW 6/1 and the original edition, not Wotquenne and Helm, who divide no. 24 in two. This text is one of twenty-two in Gellert’s volume not written to an existing chorale melody; most chorale texts have simpler prosody. The text in example 8.27 is the first stanza; likewise in subsequent examples unless otherwise indicated. This is the song, recently published by Voß, that rests on the music desk in an unsigned portrait of Klopstock’s second wife, the singer Johanna Elisabeth von Winthem (1747–1821) (cat. no. 120 in Lohmeier, Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach, 81). As in the Concerto W. 14. Youngren discusses the song in C. P. E. Bach and the Rebirth of Strophic Song, 314–20. Alexander Alexandrov’s melody—readopted under Putin in 2000 for the Russian national anthem—was apparently composed in 1939. That year also saw the film version of The Wizard of Oz, in which Harold Arlen’s “Over the Rainbow” uses the same progression, echoing the “Song to the Moon” (Mesícku na nebi hlubokém) in Dvořák’s opera Rusalka (1901). Youngren, C. P. E. Bach and the Rebirth of Strophic Song, 243, raises the possibility that Bach’s ending contains an element of irony or commentary on the war.

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notes to pp. 157–160 347

60 61 62

63

64 65

66 67

68

69

70

71

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This might explain Bach’s failure to submit the song in time for publication in an anthology of Preußische Kriegslieder issued by Gleim in 1758, but that is probably to attribute greater sophistication to Bach’s song, and to Bach, than is warranted. Thus in Ottenberg, Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach, 37, we read of “the largely postfeudal economic and social conditions in Prussia.” “Ich bin en Christ!”—literally, “I am a Christ,” a common periphrasis in eighteenth-century Lutheran poetry. Youngren, C. P. E. Bach and the Rebirth of Strophic Song, 263. According to Youngren this was Bach’s second through-composed song, following “Die Küsse” (whose text is not, in fact, exactly strophic). “Holde Freude” was probably composed by 1768 although published only in the posthumous Neue Lieder-Melodien of 1789. Gellert, Geistliche Oden und Lieder von C. F. Gellert (Leipzig: Weidmann, 1757), xv–xvii. Whether there was any real distinction between the “odes” and the “songs” mentioned in such titles is doubtful, despite efforts during the eighteenth century and afterward to define the two terms differently (see CPEBCW 6/1:ix). CPEBCW 6/1:xi. Numbers 45–47 in Bach’s volume correspond to Gellert’s 34–36. These three songs are all more or less penitential in character, but the only principle governing the ordering of either volume as a whole appears to be variety. The same appears to be true of the two later volumes of Sturm Songs. Beethoven published his six Gellert-Lieder, op. 48, as late as 1803. Youngren, C. P. E. Bach and the Rebirth of Strophic Song, 204, mentions a letter (from Gellert to Bach’s friend Borchward in Berlin) that was apparently accompanied by thirty-one of the poems in manuscript. As explained by Oleskiewicz, “The Court of Brandenburg-Prussia,” 105–7. The vouchers were worth only one-fifth their face value, according to Zelter, Karl Friedrich Christian Fasch, 15. When cash payments did resume, in June 1759, Bach and others who normally received above a certain amount were paid only three-quarters of their full salaries; this continued for three years. But Zelter, Karl Friedrich Christian Fasch, 16, reported that Fasch was unable to find employment and was forced to write many compositions that he later destroyed, as they were not the products of “free work” (freie Kraft). Youngren, C. P. E. Bach and the Rebirth of Strophic Song, 216–20. Youngren does not discuss Beethoven’s setting, the last in his opus 48 and the one of that set that departs from chorale style. If Beethoven knew Bach’s setting, his does not reflect it. Youngren, C. P. E. Bach and the Rebirth of Strophic Song, 216–21, gives all five scores complete, albeit in facsimiles that are nearly illegible. As Doles’s, Rackemann’s, and Marpurg’s settings all came out, like Bach’s, in 1758, it is unclear whether any of them influenced the others. Doles, who had succeeded Harrer as cantor at Leipzig, might have seen Bach’s printed collection before his own came out later in the year. The three Berlin composers could all have heard one another’s works in private performances before they were published.

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notes to pp. 160–166

72 The little-known Rackemann, who served at two of the minor Hohenzollern courts (see Oleskiewicz, “The Court of Brandenburg-Prussia,” 129–30), was evidently another musician-scholar like Agricola. He translated a long article about English opera from the Encyclopaedia Britannica for Marpurg’s HistorischKritische Beyträge (4:17–90) in 1758, the same year in which Marpurg published Rackemann’s Gellert setting within an anthology. For technical reasons, the three-note slide (“inverted turn”) on “mir” in example 8.36b is shown as three small notes in place of Bach’s original graphic notation. 73 Youngren, C. P. E. Bach and the Rebirth of Strophic Song, 213. 74 This is true of Marpurg’s setting as well, although he disguises this feature by giving each verse an asymmetrical three-measure musical phrase and drawing out the last three syllables of lines 2 and 4 in long notes. 75 Youngren, C. P. E. Bach and the Rebirth of Strophic Song, 230 (of Gräfe’s and Bach’s settings of “Das Gebet”) and 220. 76 Ibid., 250. 77 On Karsch’s relationship to Bach, see Berg, “Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach und Anna Louisa Karsch.” Berg (p. 59) holds open the possibility that the character piece “La Louise” (W. 117/36) was named for Karsch, even if the music had been previously composed in another form. 78 Youngren, C. P. E. Bach and the Rebirth of Strophic Song, 256. 79 A sudden diminishing of volume followed by a crescendo, described in the preface to his Nuove musiche (Florence, 1601), pp. 6–7. Possibly the dynamic markings are meant to apply only to the accompaniment, which is clearly for piano or clavichord, as indicated by the left-hand octaves (especially those under a slur in the penultimate measure). 80 Versuch, ii.7.4, 10. Today we might explain the progression in measure 9 as the product of parallel motion in the outer voices against an internal pedal point (tenor d′). 81 This publication is not to be confused with the Neue Melodien zu einigen Liedern des neuen Hamburgischen Gesangbuchs (Hamburg, 1787), a hymnbook to which Bach contributed fourteen chorales (W. 203). 82 Voß published the poem in 1777; presumably Bach composed his setting after that date. 83 See Youngren, C. P. E. Bach and the Rebirth of Strophic Song, 431–33. 84 The sketch is on a sheet in the composite manuscript SA 1690; on the other side is the fair-copy autograph of Bach’s setting of Lessing’s “An eine kleine Schöne” (W. 200/20), also published in the New Songs. 85 Busch, C. Ph. E. Bach und seine Lieder, 362–63 (original emphasis). Busch mentions the song’s “succint [prägnant] declamation and clear melodic writing [Melodieführung].” The little strophic song also called “Selma” (W. 202J) is unrelated. 86 Youngren, C. P. E. Bach and the Rebirth of Strophic Song, 350, groups “Selma” with Der Frühling (Spring, W. 237), which, however, includes recitative and a fully idiomatic orchestral accompaniment. NV, p. 62, describes both works as cantatas. 87 This is the cantata named in the full title of the New Songs: Neue MelodieLiedern nebst eine Kantate zum Singen beym Klavier.

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notes to pp. 166–170 349 88 Bach’s letter to Gerstenberg of July 14, 1774 (no. 62 in Clark, Letters, 58), was accompanied by what he describes as a copy of the “first draft.” 89 Youngren, C. P. E. Bach and the Rebirth of Strophic Song, 365. 90 According to a report in the Allgemeine deutsche Bibliothek (see CPEBCW 6/2:xvi); as Bach is described as music director in Hamburg, presumably he was already in the city at this point. 91 Letter of June 24, 1773 (no. 42 in Clark, Letters, 36; original in Suchalla, 1:306). 92 The drawing, in the Hamburger Kunsthalle, has been widely reproduced, for example, as plate 9 in Ottenberg, Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach. 93 This was presumably Bach’s mezzotint by Christoph Leonhard Bürglen, listed as lost in CPEBCW 8/4.1:67. The juxtaposition is reminscent of David Conrad’s representation of what is thought to be Schütz, together with a statue of David, on the title page of Christoph Bernhard’s Geistreiches Gesangbuch of 1676. 94 These are the settings of the second and the fourth psalms, published in Musikalisches Allerley, for four and for two voices, respectively, with continuo (W. 205 and 206). The full title of W. 196 is Herrn Doctor Cramers übersetzte Psalmen mit Melodien zum Singen bey dem Claviere. 95 As indicated in a letter to Gerstenberg; see CPEBCW 6/2:xv. The song version of Psalm 4 is largely identical to the earlier one, transferring the part for alto voice to the keyboard; only the first four measures of the bass are revised. 96 Letter to Gerstenberg of October 21, 1773 (no. 45 in Clark, Letters, 41). NV lists the songs collectively as compositions of 1773. 97 “sich noch auf unsere jetzigen Zeiten schicken”; exactly what this means is unclear, as Bach has omitted psalms of all types. 98 At measure 11 in the “Neujahrslied” W. 197/19. 99 This version is W. 222, which Bach incorporated into his Easter Music of 1780 (W. 241). 100 Bach uses similar left-hand figuration in the quasi-orchestral third movement of the Sonata W. 62/19 (see $ex. 7.18). 101 These are nos. 3, 9, 13, 14, 19, 22, 28, 34, and 36. 102 Youngren, C. P. E. Bach and the Rebirth of Strophic Song, 283. 103 The aria “Gross ist der Herr,” originally used in the 1772 inaugural piece for Pastor Hornbostel (H. 821e), was subsequently heard in the Christmas Music W. 249/H. 815 (1775). The idea goes back to the slow movement of Sebastian’s D-minor keyboard concerto BWV 1052, echoed in that of Emanuel’s Concerto W. 3. 104 In the song shown in example 8.44a, a rubric indicates the octave doubling of the bass by the right hand beginning in measure 5; in the autograph of example 8.44b (P 76), octave doubling by the upper strings is indicated by the heading “Violini e Viola col Basso. in unison.” 105 As in “Vedrai con tuo periglio,” in act 1 of Hasse’s Cleofide. In the Cramer Psalms the formula occurs in nos. 4 (Ps. 8), 15 (Ps. 46), 16 (Ps. 47), 18 (Ps. 67), 25 (Ps. 97), 30 (Ps. 110), and 39 (Ps. 145), and with a decorated keyboard part in no. 23 (Ps. 93). In no. 4 from the first set of Sturm songs (“Amen! Lob und Preis”), which is in Bar form, the formula concludes both Stollen and Abgesang and thus is heard three times within each stanza.

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notes to pp. 171–175

106 Youngren, C. P. E. Bach and the Rebirth of Strophic Song, 283, counts five of Bach’s nine chorale-style settings in the Cramer Psalms as “laments”; three of these are settings of so-called penitential psalms. But several of the choralestyle songs are on much happier themes, and Bach sets one of the penitentials (Ps. 32) as a “contented” (vergnügt) song in C major (no. 11), reflecting Cramer’s focus on the psalm’s references to blessings and comfort. 107 That Choralmäßig now means very slow is explicit in no. 13 (Ps. 38), one of the penitentials, which is qualified as “sehr langsam und nachdrücklich”; it opens on a dissonance (a diminished seventh). 108 As expressed in contemporary reviews of the Morgengesang published in 1783 and 1784, and in a reference by Georg Benda to Bach’s unification of “the greatest simplicity with the deepest art” in the double-chorus Heilig (cited by Richards, “An Enduring Monument,” 167, from extracts in Suchalla, 2:999 and 1001, and 1:702, respectively). 109 As noted by Busch, C. Ph. E. Bach und seine Lieder, 116. 110 Bach requested a copy of Handel’s Funeral Anthem for Queen Caroline in a letter of July 21, 1769, to Kirnberger (no. 22 in Clark, Letters, 18); he performed it in 1785 if not also earlier (see Miesner, Philipp Emanuel Bach in Hamburg, 20). Bach’s copy of the score is item no. 149 in the catalog reproduced in Leisinger, “Die ‘Bachscher Auction.’” Mary Oleskiewicz has noted the significance of Handel’s music as a model for Quantz and Agricola during Bach’s Berlin period; see “Quantz, Agricola und die Überlieferung von Händels Instrumentalmusik,” esp. 204 and 216. 111 Stöttrup’s double portrait appears only in the second edition of volume 1, incorporated into a newly engraved title-page vignette executed by Johann Christian Gottfried Fritzsch after a drawing by Adam Friedrich Oeser (see CPEBCW 6/2: xxi); at Leipzig, Oeser taught J. S. Bach the Younger (and Goethe). In the first edition of volume 1, the title illustration had included an inferior double portrait by Christian Gottlieb Geyser. Fritzsch also engraved a detail of Stöttrup’s original drawing showing Sturm in profile; this was printed separately by Herold, publisher of the Sturm songs (Bach’s copy is shown as plate 270 in CPEBDW 8/4.2). 112 The review appeared on September 5, 1780, in the Hamburg Neue Zeitung, no. 153 (pp. 30–31; item II/79C in Wiermann, Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach, 254); the reviewer uses the term cantata, presumably meaning music for any regular church service. The arrangements remained parts of Bach’s church pieces, not replacements for them as the reviewer had hoped. Bach’s choral adaptations of songs from the Cramer and Sturm volumes are listed in CPEBCW 6/2:xviii. For the earlier review of the Cramer Psalms and for their adaptations (W. 222–24), see CPEBCW 6/2:xvii. 113 CPEBCW 6/2:xix. On “Bach’s tuition” of reviewers, see Kramer, “The New Modulation,” 580n24. 114 As Mattheson complained in his Musicalischer Patriot (echoing the chief preacher Neumeister) after Sebastian’s Hamburg audition of 1720; see Wolff, Johann Sebastian Bach, 215. Kremer, “Die Organistenstelle an St. Jakobi in Hamburg,” 219, describes sales of various ecclesiastical and municipal positions, not only at the Jakobikirche.

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notes to pp. 175–180 351 115 Sturm, Geistliche Lieder und Gesänge (Hamburg, 1780). The texts for sixteen poems in volume 2 come from other sources (see CPEBCW 6/2:167–69). 116 These are listed in CPEBCW 6/2:xx–xxi. Sturm assigns chorale melodies to two-thirds of the poems set in volume 1 and all but four in the second; the latter are all poems whose sources are unidentified. 117 Foreword to Sturm, Geistliche Lieder und Gesänge, quoted in CPEBCW 6/2:xxi. 118 For example, the “Passionslied,” W. 198/6—or at least its opening lines, which again quote the B–A–C–H motive (transposed, mm. 1–2). 119 Letter of December 6, 1769, to Georg Wilhelm Kottowsky (no. 23 in Clark, Letters, 19); the recipient was a flutist who had been Bach’s colleague at Berlin from 1750 until his departure for London in 1759 during the war (see Oleskiewicz, “The Court of Brandenburg-Prussia,” 88n37 and 107). 120 Naturreligion; see the quotation from his contemporary biographer Jacob Friedrich Feddersen in CPEBCW 6/2:xix. 121 W. 65/49 in C minor; only the first movement was new, the last two having been composed originally in 1766 for what became W. 60, a single sonata published by Breitkopf in 1785. 122 HWV 48 is a setting of a passion libretto by the Hamburg poet and official Barthold Heinrich Brockes. The aria is better known in English-speaking countries in its parody as Mordecai’s aria “Dread not, righteous queen” in Esther. Emanuel probably inherited his father’s manuscript score (D B Mus. ms. 9002/10), copied during the 1740s; see Wollny, “Neue Bach-Funde,” 36–50. He added a second strophe to an aria near the end of the manuscript in his “late script,” perhaps for use in a pasticcio passion, according to Glöckner, “Johann Sebastian Bachs Aufführungen zeitgenössischer Passionsmusiken,” 106.

Chapter Nine 1 The title page of volume 2 is dated 1762, but Bach gave the date as 1761 (CPEBCW 7/1:xxii), and like many publications it probably came out late in the year preceding its imprint date. 2 In addition to the C-Minor Concerto W. 5, which according to NV was “renovated” in 1762, other early concertos are preserved in a group of manuscripts that document revisions carried out around 1760 (see CPEBCW 3/9.2:186–87). 3 See Oleskiewicz, “Like Father, Like Son?” 262, citing Bach’s letter of November 13, 1767, to the Hamburg syndicus Faber (no. 14 in Clark, Letters, 12), and Nicolai’s Anekdoten, 6:158–60. 4 As suggested by Wollny, “C. P. E. Bach, Georg Philipp Telemann und die Osterkantate,” 92–94. 5 Bach alludes to a first meeting with the king in his letter of November 13, 1767, to the Hamburg Senate (no. 13 in Clark, Letters, 11). It is clear from this letter and from another of the same date to Faber (no. 14) that his request had been preceded by some sort of diplomatic overture. 6 Bach, Autobiography, 200. Bach’s mention on the same page of the king’s having raised his salary is likewise not a boast but a defense of the king against Burney’s inaccurate report that he paid Bach poorly (Present State of Music in

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352

7

8 9 10 11 12 13 14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21 22

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notes to pp. 180–184 Germany, 2:268). Bach demonstrates his loyalty to Frederick by observing that he remained in Berlin despite several previous opportunities to leave. According to a conversation recorded by Gottfried van Swieten (letter of July 26, 1774, in BD, 3:276, translated in NBR, 366–67); see Schulenberg, “An Enigmatic Legacy,” 164. According to his letter of December 6, 1767, to Georg Michael Telemann (no. 16 in Clark, Letters, 13). Clark, Letters, xxxvii, citing Ottenberg, “Die Klaviersonaten Wq 55 ‘im Verlage des Autors,’” 34. CPEBCW 3/9.6:xii. Clark, Letters, 19, no. 23. Matthew William Head explores Bach’s “fantasy” style (equivalent to Sulzer’s Fantasie) in his dissertation “Fantasy in the Instrumental Music of C. P. E. Bach.” Paradör is from French paradeur; letter of April 28, 1784, to Johann Heinrich Grave (no. 242 in Clark, Letters, 204). Lists of concerts—by no means complete—are given for Berlin by Henzel, “Das Konzertleben der preußischen Hauptstadt,” and for Hamburg by Gugger, “C. Ph. E. Bachs Konzerttätigkeit,” and Wiermann, Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach. The one concerto composed during the height of the war, W. 35 in E-flat, was for organ and thus possibly written for a private court concert of Princess Amalia; Bach’s last two Berlin concertos, W. 39 and 40 of 1765, were originally for oboe. Most likely for the court harpist Franz Brennesell, who had studied with Bach, the harp sonata is assuredly for harp and continuo and not, as supposed by some modern editors, for harp alone (as established by Mary Oleskiewicz in CPEBCW 2/1:xix–xx). After a marked falling off in 1759–61, the listings of concerts in Henzel, “Das Konzertleben der preußischen Hauptstadt,” become more numerous beginning in 1762; the opening of the “Justinischer Garten in der Scheunengasse” was announced on June 6 of that year. See Röder, “Music, Politics, and the Public Sphere in Late Eighteenth-Century Berlin,” 98, 103–5. Nicolai described both Krause’s concerts (Anekdoten, 6:161–62) and his music room (Beschreibung der Königlichen Residenzstädte Berlin und Potsdam, 2nd ed., Berlin: Nicolai, 1779, 2:632). Rode, son of an engraver of the same name, had studied with the court painter Pesne. Burney, Present State of Music in Germany, 2:255 (mispaginated as 254). Burney has previously mentioned that Ebeling “was so kind as to collect together all the Hamburg performers and lovers of music, he could muster, in order to treat me with a concert.” According to an account published two days later in the Hamburger Correspondent (August 19, 1776), quoted by Sittard, Geschichte des Musik- und Concertwesens in Hamburg, 107. Sittard, Geschichte des Musik- und Concertwesens in Hamburg, 102, based on announcements in local publications. The keyboard versions W. 39 and 40 almost certainly date from after the move to Hamburg (see CPEBCW 3/9.13:xii). Both slightly expand the original oboe

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notes to pp. 184–190 353

23

24

25 26 27

28

29 30

31 32 33

34

35

36 37 38

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versions, W. 39 by a single measure (movement 1, m. 173), W. 40 by two insertions in the last movement (mm. 285–87 and 323–39). Mentioned by Sittard, Geschichte des Musik- und Concertwesens in Hamburg, 107– 8. The concert also included a “new” concerto, presumably one of the two of that year (W. 44 or 45). Westphal was the father of the organist Johann Christoph but no relation to Johann Jakob Heinrich Westphal of Schwerin, who would amass a collection of nearly all Bach’s works in manuscript. On Hamburg’s concert venues during Bach’s tenure, see Gimpel, “Zur Akustik früher Konzertstätten in Hamburg,” 20–34. See, for example, Rifkin, “Blinding Us with Science?” 77n4. The trios by Gottlieb Graun that include flute parts tend to be less ambitious than his violin trios and often have ambiguous or conflicting attributions to his brother. Burney mentioned it in his General History of Music (London, 1789), 2:992 (cited by Helm, “The ‘Hamlet’ Fantasy,” 292), and Bach referred to it in his letter of October 21, 1773, to Gerstenberg (no. 45 in Clark, Letters, 42), in a manner that assumes that the latter knows what he means. Graun’s trio is discussed at the end of chapter 6. In the sonata with flute (W. 87), a few chords in the keyboard part represent a written-out realization of the (unfigured) bass. Oddly, two of these chords clash with appoggiaturas in the flute part (in movement 2, mm. 29 and 33), violating Quantz’s if not Bach’s prescriptions for accompaniment (see Schulenberg, “‘Toward the Most Elegant Taste,’” 160–61). One might omit the top note from the first chord in each measure. Reichardt, “Noch ein Bruchstücke,” col. 29 (discussed in chap. 2). GWV Cv:XII:92, composed by 1764 according to its entry in Henzel’s catalog. Peter Williams describes the “Dorian” toccata BWV 538/1 as a “duologue-toccata” in The Organ Music of J. S. Bach, 2nd ed., 64, having defined the term duologue in the first edition (1980) as “a ‘dramatic piece with two actors’” (vol. 1, p. 89). The first movement in Sebastian’s A-Major Sonata for keyboard and flute, BWV 1032, is another example of this type, but the fragmentary nature of the first movement makes it impossible to know whether the two parts were reconciled in the original version; modern reconstructions differ on this point. Burney heard one of these works at Hamburg; fifteen years later, Bach wrote J. J. H. Westphal that he had “improved and increased the brilliance” of the three sonatinas he had published at Berlin (letter of March 5, 1787, no. 305 in Clark, Letters, 258). Bach’s latest revised versions are preserved only in Hamburg sources. Leisinger, review of CPEBE 2/23, 146, mentions “Viennese divertimenti for keyboard and accompanying instruments.” As pointed out by Spányi, “Performer’s Remarks,” in liner notes to C. P. E. Bach: The Complete Keyboard Concertos, Volume 9, p. 6. An “embellishment” in W. 75 (movement 2, m. 112; see CPEBCW 2/3.1:162) might actually have been a variation for avoiding the note f‴ when playing on another instrument that lacks this note; this is the first f‴ in the piece, although the same note occurs twice in the following movement.

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notes to pp. 191–194

39 The simple version of the work, preserved in SA 4835, appears to be the same one copied in Schwerin, Landesbibliothek, ms. 859/5; the title page of the latter lists two solo instruments (“Piano Forte” and “Cembalo,” respectively), but their parts are virtually identical and one must be a duplicate of the other. 40 According to their title pages, W. 106 and 107 both came out in 1764, but, as Helm points out (entry no. 461), Bach placed the printing of W. 107 in 1765 (Autobiography, 205). W. 108 was published in 1766. 41 Stevens, The Bach Family and the Keyboard Concerto, 224–25. The works will be referred to by their numbering in NV in order to avoid the confusing duplications and unchronological order in the Wotquenne and Helm catalogs. See 9.4 for a concordance. 42 Handel’s opus 4 concertos had come out in 1738; his “printed” works, including concertos, are mentioned in the Comparison of J. S. Bach and Handel published in 1788. Although Emanuel’s authorship of the Comparison is uncertain (see 2.2), he criticized Handel’s writing for organ—or rather Burney’s writing about Handel’s organ playing—in his letter of January 21, 1786, to Eschenburg (no. 287 in Clark, Letters, 243–44). 43 The sources provide no evidence for an earlier, more thinly scored version, although the trumpets and oboes add nothing essential to the texture. 44 The second movement of Sonatina 10 is based on movement 3 of the Sonata W. 62/20; Sonatina 2 incorporated the character pieces “La Gause” and “La Pott”; and “La Bergius” is included in Sonatina 6. 9.5 traces the borrowed material in all the sonatinas. 45 Stevens, The Bach Family and the Keyboard Concerto, 225. 46 The Herr Levi mentioned in Bach’s note (on the score of W. 109 in P 355, p. 35) was presumably Samuel Salomon Levy, husband of Sara Levy; Madame Zernitz of Warschau (first name unknown, born Deeling) was the dedicatee of the first collection for Kenner und Liebhaber. Sara Levy’s copies of F. 46 and W. 47 are in SA 2635 and SA 4, respectively (further discussion of W. 47 below). 47 Henzel, Berliner Klassik, 20–23, provides evidence that Graun was regarded after his death as a “classic author” (Klassiker). The expression does not necessarily imply a specific musical style, but the encomiums quoted by Henzel invoke qualities of Graun’s music that could also be found in Bach’s sonatinas, such as the “purity and clarity of his harmony, precise order in modulating, and pleasing melody” mentioned by E. L. Gerber. 48 See Schulenberg, Music of W. F. Bach, 85–86. 49 QV 5:38 in C minor presumably dates from 1773, the year of Quantz’s death (see liner notes to the CD recording by Mary Oleskiewicz, p. 3). 50 Undated letter of 1768 to Gerstenberg, no. 20 in Claudius, Briefe an Freunde, 43. Claudius is reporting Bach’s response to a question about music by Schobert and “your brother” (more likely Christian than Friedemann or Friedrich, who were little published at this date). 51 Bach, Autobiography, 202. 52 “Eine wesentliche Eigenschaft der komischen Musik ist es, daß sie fast nichts als Allegro’s hat, und die Adagio’s gänzlich verbannt.” Lessing, Kollektaneen, 2:174–75, reporting a conversation probably closely contemporary with the previous one on p. 173, which took place “hier in Hamburg.”

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notes to pp. 194–201 355 53 None are listed in Leisinger, “Die ‘Bachscher Auction.’” 54 As reported by Zelter, “Der 17. August 1809,” 481 (Quantz is not mentioned, even though he taught the king). 55 For this reason it is somewhat misleading to refer to “Bach’s diminishing attention to the genre in the years after 1750” (CPEBCW 3/9.9:xi). 56 Breitkopf included the keyboard versions in his 1763 and 1767 catalogs (see CPEBCW 3/6:xiii). To facilitate comparison with other concertos, these three works will usually be cited by Wotquenne’s numbers for the keyboard versions. 57 For further discussion of Mara and other Berlin cellists, see CPEBCW 3/6:xxii– xxiii. Nothing seems to be known of the concertos that Mara himself reportedly left in manuscript (Gerber, Historisch-Biographisches Lexicon, vol. 1, cols. 865–66). 58 Nevertheless, Bach’s fellow court keyboardist Fasch copied all three works, two of them in manuscripts dated Potsdam, 1764 (SA 2602, 2591, and 2618). 59 At measures 216 and 214, respectively, corresponding with measures 216 and 223 in the versions for cello. 60 A restatement of the opening two measures in the tonic, at measure 81, is best understood as a so-called premature reprise. 61 Imitations of accompanied recitative appear in the outer (Lento) sections of the middle movement in Quantz’s G-major concerto QV 5:173, and in a work for oboe and strings (TWV 51:f2) bearing a doubtful attribution to Telemann in its unique source (Dl 2392-O-26). Zohn, Music for a Mixed Taste, 131 and 138, identifies a number of more reliably attributed works by Telemann that resemble accompanied recitative or arioso, but these (from the oboe concertos TWV 51:c:1 and TWV 51:e:1) do not imitate actual recitative as closely as does W. 31 (or QV 5:173, to judge from Augsbach’s incipit). 62 In his autograph score in P 352, Bach replaced the original second movement with the heavily embellished version drafted in P 711; measure numbers are those of the expanded later version. 63 These are notated enharmonically as C-sharp minor (m. 33) and E (m. 39). 64 W. 37 does incorporate a cadenza into the main text of its slow movement; it is already present in the fair-copy autograph P 356. 65 Concerto per il Cembalo solo; this title in P 713 is exactly the same one used for W. 112/1. Although NV listed the work as item 168, this solo keyboard version of W. 42 was unknown to Wotquenne; it is no. 242 in the Helm catalog. 66 As suggested in CPEBCW 1/10.1:xii. 67 In at least one performance the oratorio was indeed given together with a keyboard concerto, on December 14, 1769, according to the list in Gugger, “C. Ph. E. Bachs Konzerttätigkeit.” 68 Elsewhere the flutes merely double the violins or provide inessential accompaniment, as in the slow movement of W. 32 and in W. 43/5. Israelites employs a larger orchestra, but until the “Symphonie” (no. 9 in the oratorio) only flutes, strings, and continuo accompany the voices. 69 For instance, in movement 3, measures 113–15, the first horn, although not entirely independent of the violins, adds a few essential notes to the harmony while alluding to the movement’s principal motive.

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70 In other Hamburg works with a single viola, the cello occasionally furnishes a low tenor or baritone part, detaching itself from the continuo, as in the concerto W. 45, movement 2, measures 62–63. 71 Also common to the Largo introduction and the main Prestissimo of the first movement is an early move in each to the subdominant. 72 Burney’s account of Bach’s performance, which took place on October 12, 1772, is in his Present State of Music in Germany, 2:271–72; the announcement, published on November 25, is reproduced in CPEBCW 3/8:xiii. 73 For this reason the keyboard parts on their own cannot be accurately described as solo “arrangements” of the fully scored concertos, as in CPEBCW 1/10.1. It was unnecessary to publish them separately, shorn of their bass figuration, and equally regrettable to omit the reduction from the keyboard part included in the edition of the full scores (CPEBCW 3/8). Performing from the original part, a player could use the reduction either to double the violins or as a guide to realizing the figures. 74 Bach had previously restated a slow introduction within the B-flat-major sonata W. 51/2 of 1760. 75 Rosen, The Classical Style, chap. VI/1, argues for the significance of the “popular style” for the Viennese Classical composers, and not only Haydn. 76 The first movement of Christian’s concerto, presumably an Allegro, lacks a tempo mark in the edition seen here (London: Welcker, ca. 1775). 77 For example, in his last flute sonata, W. 133 of 1786 (see $ ex. 9.46b). 78 Rondos first appeared in volume 2 of the series for Kenner und Liebhaber, published in 1780; the three works, W. 56/1, 3, and 5, were all composed in 1778, the same year as W. 44 and 45. 79 The figures (in movement 1, mm. 39–47) are omitted in CPEBCW 3/9.15. 80 The cadenza, the first in Bach’s collection of cadenzas preserved in B Bc 5871, is printed in the appendix of CPEBCW 3/9.15. Most of Bach’s other revised readings for W. 44 and 45 appear in the same volume only in the editorial commentary, as the volume follows the initial draft from Bach’s autograph scores for most of the main text. An exception (not noted in the list of variant readings) occurs in movement 2, measure 50, where the upper staff (only) of the keyboard follows Michel’s copy (in B Bc 5887) for the first two beats. 81 Edited by Erwin Jacobi (Kassel: Bärenreiter, 1958) not from the autograph score (SA 4)—even though it was, at the time, one of the few Sing-Akademie manuscripts on the western side of the Iron Curtain—but from Michel’s copy of the parts in B Bc 5890. 82 This exchange is recapitulated at measure 210. Completely fanciful is Jacobi’s notion of a “fledgling partner” (the piano) which is gradually “emancipated” over the course of the concerto (preface to his edition, iv). In fact, of twentyfour instances in which one solo instrument leads the other in presenting material, fourteen begin with the harpsichord, ten with the piano; in the last movement, the two solo parts are evenly divided in this respect. 83 The autograph scores of the quartets W. 94 and 95 are preserved in SA 3328, from Levy’s collection. The most current and complete discussion of Levy and her relationship to music of the Bach family is Wollny, Ein förmlicher Sebastian und Philipp Emanuel Bach–Kultus, esp. 22–28 and 38–42.

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notes to pp. 209–214 357 84 The possibility that Bach composed additional sinfonias, now lost, is raised by his reference to “several dozen” (ein Paar Duzend) such works in his Autobiography (further discussion in CPEBCW 3/1:xi). Even counting the six string sinfonias, two trio-sinfonias (W. 74 and 156), and five keyboard transcriptions written through that year yields only twenty-one works. 85 The so-called Grosses Konzert; see CPEBCW 3/1:xii. 86 Emanuel’s additions in his Berlin sinfonias to the basic string complement are summarized in a table in CPEBCW 3/1:xiii; most of these works were originally for strings alone. 87 One instance is shown in $example 9.10a. 88 The tremolos heard in the strings during the accompanied recitative “Gott, meiner Väter Gott” in William Christie’s recording of Die Israeliten (Harmonia mundi France, cat. no. 901321, 1990) are not present in the score that Bach published in 1775. 89 As envisioned in old editions of W. 182/1 and 182/4 by Hugo Riemann (Zwei Streichquartette von Philipp Emanuel Bach [Langensalza: Boyer, 1899 and 1903]). 90 Burney, Present State of Music in Germany, 1:349, reports his conversation with Hasse at Vienna on September 11, 1771. Since the E-Minor Sinfonia was composed in 1756, Hasse could not have heard it during his visit to Berlin three years earlier and probably knew it only from its published edition of 1759. 91 According to Zelter, in his essay “Der 17. August 1809” (in Preuß, Friedrich der Große, 3:482), Hasse called Bach the world’s greatest composer and his E-Minor Symphony the most noble and spirited (erhabenes und geistvolles) he had ever heard. Zelter reports that Hasse made this pronouncement at Potsdam in 1753, but that was before the symphony had been composed, and Zelter, born in 1758, could have known about the conversation only indirectly; even Fasch was engaged as court keyboard player only in 1756. Zelter might, however, have known of Hasse’s opinion through Burney’s book (Present State of Music in Germany), presumably in Bode’s translation (see Tagebuch, 2:257). Burney also recounted the king’s habit of commenting on music that “smells of the church” (Tagebuch, 3:59), which Zelter likewise repeated in his biography of Fasch (p. 46). 92 Of ninety-two sinfonias attributed to one of the Graun brothers in GWV, only one, GWV Cv:XII:92, is in a minor key (this is the work in B minor that shares its opening theme with W. 76). 93 Only Bach’s solo sonatas with continuo would not be represented in print during his lifetime, although the unaccompanied flute sonata came out in 1763, as did an unacompanied duet in 1770 (W. 140; NV lists both as “solos”). As published, the E-Minor Sinfonia lacks the flute and horn parts preserved in manuscript copies; Wotquenne listed the original and expanded versions as W. 177 and 178, respectively, although the strings parts are identical. 94 Swieten is identified as the commissioner only in posthumous sources (see CPEBCW 3/2:xii), but the fact seems to have been common knowledge during Bach’s lifetime. 95 “Er hat auch 6 Kammer-Symphonien gemacht, die für eine seiner besten Arbeiten gelten können,” letter of November or December 1774 to Gerstenberg (quoted in CPEBCW 3/2:xiv).

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96 The string sinfonias are the most recent work listed in Bach’s Autobiography of 1773 (p. 207); on the following page he mentions that he has been “restricted” (gebunden) in the majority of his works, which he has had to compose “for certain persons and for the public,” but he cannot have meant this remark to extend to the sinfonias. 97 “Schwerlich ist je eine musikalische Composition von höherm, keckerm, humoristischerm Charakter einer genialen Seelen entströmt,” Reichardt, “Noch ein Bruchstücke,” col. 29 (quoted in CPEBCW 3/2:xiv). 98 “Selbst in keinem seiner eigenen Werke geht dieser große Meister so ganz eignen Gang als her; weshalb sie dann auch von ungemeiner Schwierigkeit in der Ausführung sind,” Allgemeine deutscher Bibliothek 45 (1781): 102, quoted in CPEBCW 3/1:xviii. 99 Bach could not have meant anyone else when he mentioned that he was writing symphonies “on commission” (auf Verlangen) in his letter of May 14, 1776, to Forkel (no. 97 in Clark, Letters, 96–97). 100 The printed score assigns this part to “Flügel und Violon.” Separate parts for cello and bassoon made it possible to advertise the work as comprising twelve “obbligato” parts although there are rarely more than three contrapuntally independent voices. 101 Viennese second horn parts tend to skip around more between notes of the tonic triad (a consequence of the part’s lying lower in the harmonic series), leaving sustained melodic writing in conjunct motion to the first part. Bach’s horns usually play simple percussive motives in rhythmic unison, as in older writing. 102 Allgemeines Bücher Verzeichnis mit kurzen Anmerkungen, vol. 5 (Leipzig, 1780), 615, quoted in CPEBCW 3/3:xv; the anonymous author complains of having to judge the work on the basis of parts, implying that he has not actually heard it or seen a score. 103 For this reason it is somewhat unfair to criticize the work, as Rosen does, for preparing the remote key of the slow movement through a modulating transition at the end of the Allegro (The Classical Style, 111–12). Rosen finds this “timid” by comparison with Haydn’s Sonata in E-flat, Hob. XVI:52, whose entire slow movement is in an unmediated E major.

Chapter Ten 1 A complete edition by Carl Krebs (6 vols., Leipzig: Breitkopf und Härtel, 1895) was followed by Heinrich Schenker’s selection of sonatas and rondos from the first five volumes (2 vols., Vienna: Universal, ca. 1902). 2 “ein mit Discretion gespieltes Violoncell,” anonymous review of W. 91 in the Hamburger unpartheyischer Correspondent (October 10, 1777), in Suchalla, 1:632–33. 3 In the six keyboard trios of J. C. Bach’s opus 2, flute can substitute for the violin; opus 15 contains just two keyboard trios alongside works in other settings. The best discussion of the history of the “accompanied keyboard setting” remains the one in Newman, Sonata in the Classic Era, 98–105.

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notes to pp. 220–228 359 4 Letters of September 20, 1775, to Forkel, and July 11, 1775, to Breitkopf (nos. 84 and 82, respectively, in Clark, Letters, 84 and 81). 5 Six further keyboard trios with clarinet and bassoon (W. 92) are arrangements of one-movement pieces for solo keyboard (discussed in 10.8). 6 The German edition of W. 89 came out in 1778 from the recently opened Berlin office of Johann Julius Hummel, who had also been responsible for the first (Amsterdam) edition of W. 54 (see CPEBCW 1/3:180–81). 7 Bach mentions the “exorbitant price” of Bremner’s edition, and that it is “full of misprints,” in his letter of January 29, 1778, to Breitkopf (no. 131 in Clark, Letters, 121). 8 For W. 43 the title page gave the facts of publication in Italian, “In Hamburgo, alle spese dell’ Autore.” 9 By rounded binary is meant a movement in which the second half lacks a return of the opening music in the tonic, instead picking up the recapitulation at some point after the opening measures. 10 The French term couplet is used in view of the relationship of the form to the French Baroque rondeau. 11 As in Telemann’s “Lilliputsche Chaconne” (in 3/32) and “Brobdingnagische Gigue” (in 24/1), both for two violins without bass, from Der getreue Music-meister. 12 So too does his Saint John Passion for 1788, which appears to contain more original music than any other such work since 1769. 13 Quantz, Versuch, 18.44; see also Oleskiewicz, “Quantz’s Quatuors,” 489. 14 “ist kein anderer Baß, als der der Clavierparthie,” letter of October 7, 1791, Anna Carolina Philippina Bach to Westphal (signed by her mother Johanna Maria); no. 7 in Schmid, “‘Das Geschäft mit dem Nachlaß,” 496. 15 The quartets were first edited by Ernst Fritz Schmid, W. 95 originally in 1930, all three in 1952, each under the title Quartet for Piano, Flute, Viola and Violoncello (Kassel: Nagel). A new edition by Peter Reidemeister (Winterthur: Amadeus, 2008) still includes an “ad libitum” cello part. Schmid mentioned the markings (Klammern) in the autograph scores of W. 94 and 95 (both in SA 3328) in Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach und seine Kammermusik, 139. 16 Westphal’s parts for all three quartets, in the hand of Michel, are in B Bc 6358 MSM. 17 From Schmid’s preface to his edition, repeating a view expressed in his 1931 book. 18 Christopher Hogwood in CPEBCW 1/4.1:xi, pointing out distinctions made before 1720 by the French aestheticians Jean-Pierre Crousaz and Jean-Baptiste Dubos and more recently by German scholars (Winkelmann and Forkel). 19 As Hogwood notes, many subscribers to the series could accurately be described as experts and amateurs simultaneously (CPEBCW 1/4.1:xiii, referring to the subscription lists published in all six volumes). 20 Cramer, Magazin der Musik 1 (1783): 1245–46, quoted in CPEBCW 1/4.1:xix. 21 Hamburgischer Correspondent, no. 193 (1795), cited in CPEBCW 1/4.2:xix. 22 Letter of May 13, 1780 (no. 183 in Clark, Letters, 161; cited in CPEBCW 1/4.1:xvii).

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notes to pp. 228–236

23 Musikalisches Kunstmagazin (1782), p. 87; quoted in CPEBCW 1/4.1:xviii–xix. Forkel’s review appeared in his Musikalischer Almanach für Deutschland auf das Jahr 1784 (Leipzig: Schwickert, n.d.), 22–38; detailed critical disucssion in Kramer, Unfinished Music, 8–13. 24 Anonymous review of W. 57, Hamburgische Correspondent (November 23, 1781), quoted by Kramer, Unfinished Music, 87, from Suchalla, 2:904. 25 Letter of October 15, 1782, to Breitkopf (no. 219 in Clark, Letters, 187). 26 “keinen außerordentlich sanften schmeichelnden Diskant,” letter of October 1768 to Gerstenberg (no. 24 in Briefe an Freunden, 48). 27 The clavichords were by Heinrich Wilhelm Jungcurt and Christian Gottlob Friederici, respectively; it was on the latter instrument that Bach wrote most of his Hamburg compositions, according to NV (p. 92). The maker of the harpsichord, also of five octaves, is not identified, but the “Fortepiano oder Clavecin Roial” was by “alte Friederici,” presumably Christian Ernst, uncle of the clavichord maker. 28 Bach calls this the Anschlag mit dem Puncte (Versuch, i.2.6.7–11). 29 Bach uses the term tempo rubato only for “tuplets” involving unusual divisions of the beat, such as the groups of thirteen sixteenth notes, each occupying the time of a half note, in movement 1 (mm. 42–44); he explained this in two long insertions for the revised edition of the Versuch (i.intro.9 and i.3.28). 30 The first section (“exposition”) ends with the arrival to B-flat on the downbeat of measure 10; there is no clear cadence at the end of this section, but measures 6–10 form a secondary key area, recapitulated in varied form in the final measures 26–30. The brief middle section (“development”) ends with the arrival to F minor in measure 15, and the recapitulation begins with the echo of the opening cadenza in measures 17–18, which composes out the same sequential harmonic progression as measures 1b–3a. 31 The opening movement of the preceding sonata, W. 56/4 in F, has virtually the same design, but there each half comprises ten measures and includes varied reprises; that sonata, composed immediately before the one in A, may also have been a late addition to volume 2. 32 The editorial sharp inserted on c″ in measure 3 in CPEBCW 1/4.1 is surely a mistake; only with the c♯′ that follows in the bass does the sequential theme ascend from A minor to B minor (anticipating the key of the first cadence). 33 Rameau, in the introductory “Méthode” included in his Pièces de clavessin (Paris, ca. 1724), p. 5, used the term batteries to describe all sorts of arpeggiated figures, especially those in which the hands alternate or cross (“les mains passent également l’une sur l’autre”). 34 Letter of March 8, 1781, to Breitkopf (no. 196 in Clark, Letters, 172). 35 As Kramer suggests (Unfinished Music, 87). 36 The original final movement of W. 65/45, an Allegro in 6/8, is edited as the “alternative” third movement of the sonata in CPEBCE 1/23. With the addition of an accompanying violin part, it became the second movement of “C. P. E. Bach’s Empfindungen” (W. 80), although the latter does not include two measures that Bach inserted (in a very late hand) into Michel’s copy of the original Allegro. (These are mm. 15 and 46 in the edition in CPEBCE 1/23.) This early version of the sonata was erroneously described as “later?”

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notes to pp. 236–242 361

37 38 39

40 41 42 43 44

45

46

47

48

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(spätere Fassung?) in Berg, “Carl Philipp Emanuel Bachs Umarbeitungen,” 159; that the version concluding with an Allegretto in 3/8 is the late one is clear from its inclusion in the copy owned by Westphal (B Bc 5883); a note in an unidentified hand attached to the autograph of the Allegretto (in P 771) confirms this. Berg, “The Keyboard Sonatas,” 122. As Kramer notes, Unfinished Music, 34. Mandelbaum, “The Late Keyboard Rondos,” argues that the restatements of the rondo theme in keys other than the tonic are not “true refrains.” But although the restatements of the main theme surely do serve various functions, these pieces are so freely constructed that little purpose is served by attempting to distinguish some of these restatements as genuine refrains and others as parts of the couplets or episodes. Letter of March 8, 1781 (no. 196 in Clark, Letters, 172). In Breitkopf’s original prints, the rondos occupy 7 + 6 + 6 = 19 pages in the second volume, 7 + 4 + 6 = 17 pages in the third, He evidently included the manuscript for volume 3 with his letter of May 1, 1781. Biographical information about Grotthuß, as well as his brother the poet Johann Ulrich, is gathered in Melnikas, C. Ph. E. Bach und das Baltikum. From Bach’s letter to Grotthuß, partially transcribed by the latter in a note dated September 30, 1781, that accompanied Bach’s score (quoted in CPEBCW 1/8.1:131 from Suchalla, 2:891). The documents in question, including Bach’s auograph, are all lost, but their contents were transmitted in editions of the rondo by Otto Vrieslander (Mitau: Steffenhagen, 1914) and Alfred Kreuz (Mainz: Schott, 1958). Both editions also include Grotthuß’s own rondo expressing his joy on possessing the instrument. “Man verlanget . . . daß ein Clavierspieler Fantasien von allerley Art machen soll” (Versuch, i.foreword.1). “Das Fantasiren ohne Tact scheint überhaupt zu Ausdrückung der Affecten besonders geschickt zu seyn, weil jede Tact-Art eine Art von Zwang mit sich führet” (i.3.15). Within a copy of volume 4 now in B Br 7C/715/MUS (source D2 in CPEBCW 1/4.2); reproduced as an autograph in Berg, Collected Works, 1:150ff. On quadruple interpretation of unbarred fantasias, see Versuch, i.3.15. The tempo, however, is Allegro di molto, not the Moderato stipulated in the Versuch (i.3.15) as the proper tempo for a fantasia; even the opening section of the Probestück in C minor (W. 63/6, movement 3) is marked Allegro moderato. The recapitulated portion corresponds to what would be measures 16–37 of the opening section (systems 1f–1i in CPEBCW 1/4.2:31); the initial toccatalike flourish (mm. 1–12) returns at the end. The outer (unbarred) sections of the A-Major Fantasia fall much less consistently into groups of four beats, due to the use of runs comprising varying numbers of quick notes. Notated as sixty-fourth notes, the latter clearly were not meant to have any precise metrical value. Within W. 61/6, the themes of the Andante and Larghetto passages also draw on motives from the opening section. Autograph entries in a manuscript copy recently described by Peter Wollny assign these passages to the “Pianoforte” division of a combination instrument with both piano and harpsichord actions.

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notes to pp. 244–247

51 Bach had occasionally inserted measures of 42 within pieces in common time since the 1740s, as in the First Württemberg Sonata (W. 49/1, movement 1, last measure before the double bar), and more recently in the Harp Sonata of 1762 (W. 139, movement 2, within the recapitulation at m. 74). 52 Bach altered the keyboard figuration in this passage (mm. 76–85), which corresponds to a long unmeasured passage in the original (m. 42 in CPEBCW 1/8.1). That he had an essentially triple meter in mind from the beginning is implicit in the figuration of measures 77 and 79, which falls into groups of three beats. These measures were unchanged in the arrangement, apart from the addition of the violin part. 53 A sketch in the Miscellanea musica for an “ad[agio]” (p. 1) uses the same motivic material to modulate from F-sharp minor to C. 54 By Poos, “Nexus vero est poeticus,” 86. 55 Although the opening passage returns in measures 65–72, the only subsequent block of material to be recapitulated is restated in transposition, initially by a whole step (mm. 88b–90 ~ mm. 11–13a), then—remarkably—by a half step (mm. 91b–92 ~ mm. 13b–14). 56 B Bc 6354 (part of Westphal’s collection) is a composite manuscript; the copies within it of W. 79 and 80 (fascicles 9 and 10) are apparently on different paper, to judge from the description in CPEBCW 2/3.1:154. 57 Schleuning, Die freie Fantasie, 283, relates the work to the seventeenth-century French tombeau and to Froberger’s “Méditation faict sur ma mort future” (the allemande of his Suite 20). 58 Kramer, Unfinished Music, 146, argues that Bach’s title “conjures Yoricks empfindsame Reise durch Frankreiche und Italien,” the rendering of Sterne’s title in Bode’s translation (Hamburg and Bremen: J. H. Cramer, 1769).

Chapter Eleven 1 The Passion Cantata also bears the date 1769 on Bach’s autograph title page (in P 337), but NV places it in 1770. 2 Bach’s complete calendar of regular liturgical performances, identifying works performed on each occasion, is given in Sanders, “Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach and Liturgical Music,” appendix 5.1 (pp. 162–265), supplemented by Harasim, Die Quartalsmusiken, 59–68. Music for the inaugurations of pastors is listed in Enßlin and Wolf, “Die Prediger-Einführungsmusiken”; other performances are documented in Wiermann. Bach generally recorded the years in which he performed his Hamburg church works on their title pages; this information is included in the entries for individual sources listed in Enßlin, Die Bach-Quellen. 3 TWV 3:74; only the recitatives were by Bach (see Enßlin and Wolf, “Die Prediger-Einführungsmusiken,” 158). The passion music is discussed below. 4 Sanders, “Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach and Liturgical Music,” 162–64, identifies the Easter and Visitation pieces as H. 808 and 819, respectively, those for Pentecost and Michaelmas as H. 817 and 809. H. 819 includes the opening chorus of Bach’s Magnificat alongside Telemannesque arias perhaps by

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5 6

7

8 9

10

11 12

13

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the Johann Andreas Hoffmann who sang soprano and later bass at Hamburg (ibid., 105). See Bach’s letter of December 6, 1767, to G. M. Telemann (no. 16 in Clark, Letters, 13–14). Bach probably did not leave Berlin before February 24, 1768, the date given in the title of Karsch’s poem on his departure; the date of his arrival in Hamburg was given as March 5 in the local newspapers. For both, see Wiermann, items I/1–2 (pp. 65–67). Karsch had previously written a passion text for Princess Amalia (see Berg, “Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach und Anna Louisa Karsch,” 52–54), but how this earlier poem related to the libretto of Bach’s 1769 passion music is unknown. Clark, “The Occasional Choral Works,” 43–44. Telemann’s setting of this aria (“Wende dich”), like Bach’s, is for tenor, but it is in D minor, for oboe and strings, and is unrelated musically to Bach’s setting (in B minor, with muted strings only). Sanders, “Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach and Liturgical Music,” provides a detailed account of Bach’s work as a church musician at Hamburg; his estimate of the “total number of annual performances led by Bach” is on p. 27. See, for example, Wollny, “‘Bekennen will ich seinen Namen,’” 134–46. Any early sacred works of his own from Leipzig or Frankfurt that Emanuel still possessed must have seemed too rudimentary in style or too old-fashioned for use at Hamburg. In addition to consulting published volumes in CPEBCW, the author has examined a substantial portion of the original sources available in microform (index in Kast, Die Bach-Handschriften). Michel sang under Bach throughout the latter’s Hamburg tenure and continued to prepare copies for sale by his heirs after the composer’s death. Sanders, “Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach and Liturgical Music,” 105–7, provides a handy table charting the careers of all of Bach’s known singers. On Michel— whose full name was identified only in 1995—as well as other copyists working under Bach, see Corneilson, “C. P. E. Bach’s Evangelist.” In the 1769 Saint Matthew Passion, Mr. Wrede sang not only the tenor arias “Wie ruhig” and “Wende dich” but also the words of Pilate and the high priest, which are in the baritone range. For his Saint Luke passions Bach alternated between gospel settings by Homilius and Telemann (see 11.2). The term is from Clark, “The Occasional Choral Works,” 79–85; he discusses sets of instructions that survive in P 374 and 340 (for the Saint Matthew passions of 1777 and 1781). Bach owned annual cycles (Jahrgänge) by Georg Benda, Telemann, Stölzel, J. F. Fasch, and Förster. These are listed in NV, pp. 85–87, as including “written-out parts” (ausgeschriebene Stimmen), which Bach could have used for his own performances. CPEBCW 4/5.2:xi. Bach had previously opened the 1772 Saint John Passion with a text by Gellert set in the style of a chorale; he would employ eight further Gellert texts in other chorale movements (listed in CPEBCW 6/1:xvii).

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notes to pp. 253–259

21 Bach himself brings up the issue in a letter to Georg Michael Telemann of January 31, 1771 (no. 24 in Clark, Letters, 22). 22 These works are discussed in detail by Rathey, Kommunikation und Diskurs; on the parodied closing chorus, see pp. 144–52. 23 Illustrated by Rathey, “Celebrating Patriotism,” 277. 24 Rathey, Kommunikation und Diskurs, 44–45, describes what looks like the militia’s descent into essentially a social organization, but he argues that the music served a serious patriotic purpose, especially when the 1780 serenade was repeated in a public concert; see his “Celebrating Patriotism,” 282–83. 25 Notably by Kerman, Opera as Drama, 50–55. 26 For instance, Reichardt was apparently unaware that the passion he heard at Hamburg in 1771 was not mainly Bach’s own composition (see CPEBCW 4/7.1:xi). As a violinist and later director of the Berlin opera, he would have been well acquainted with pasticcio practices and had probably played from parts cobbled together from different works. 27 The identification of W. 251 as the inaugural work for Friderici is not entirely assured; see Enßlin and Wolf, “Die Prediger-Einführungsmusiken,” 170–72. 28 Bach’s title on the wrapper for the autograph score (SA 707) includes the phrase “anno 1772 ganz neu gemacht” (entirely newly made), implying that it is completely original. Enßlin and Wolf, “Die Prediger-Einführungsmusiken,” 161n82, list just three other inaugural pieces for which no models by other composers are known. 29 As reported by the Leipzig city clerk in a document dated March 17, 1739, possibly referring to a planned performance of the Saint John Passion; see Wolff, Johann Sebastian Bach, 295. 30 On rehearsals of the Passion Cantata, see Clark, “The Occasional Choral Works,” 47–49; for the Resurrection Cantata, see chapter 12. 31 Helm, in his catalog, made a similar division between “major” and “occasional” vocal works, although the present assignment of individual compositions to one or the other group is somewhat different. 32 These works nevertheless remained unsold when the estate of Bach’s daughter was advertised in a published catalog; see lots 11 and 95–96 in the facsimile and commentary in Kulukundis, “Die Versteigerung,” 156. 33 The contents of others can be reconstructed. The statistics are from Enßlin and Wolf, “Die Prediger-Einführungsmusiken,” 140; their findings are summarized in a table that is repeated in the preface to each volume in series 5 of CPEBCW. Besides scores or parts for fourteen works, librettos for some thirty performances are also extant. 34 Only the recitatives in Der Herr lebet (W. 251) appear to be by Bach; two arias are by Homilius (see Enßlin and Wolf, “Die Prediger-Einführungsmusiken,” 162–63). Wolf lists Bach’s borrowings from Benda in “Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach und der ‘Münter-Jahrgang,’” 220–21. 35 Helm, entry 821 of his catalog (p. 207). 36 For instance, the setting in G would more suitably precede the bass aria in E-flat that opens part 2 of the music for Hornbostel. The key of the Veni might not matter if any spoken words or liturgical action preceded the continuation of the actual inaugural music.

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notes to pp. 259–262 365 37 Bach included the Heilig within the first half of both the Hymn of Thanks (H. 824e) and the Tower Festival Music (H. 823). In the Hymn of Thanks it is prefaced by an appropriately texted aria; this substitutes for the arietta that normally preceded the Heilig (as noted in CPEBCW 5/5.1:xiii). Neither work otherwise employs a double choir or the fugal counterpoint of the Heilig, however. Bach might not have known that Handel reused the “Hallelujah” chorus in the Foundling Hospital Anthem and the Occasional Oratorio. 38 Through examples published by Sulzer, in the article on recitative in the Allgemeine Theorie der schönen Künste, vol. 2 (Berlin, 1774); see Kramer, “Beethoven and Carl Heinrich Graun,” 24–25 (Kramer establishes that the article, like many that Sulzer published on music, was mainly the work of Johann Abraham Peter Schulz). 39 Bach alludes to the poet Klopstock’s subscription system in an announcement published on September 12, 1774, soliciting subscriptions for the Israelites (no. II/42 in Wiermann, 200). Telemann also issued music by subscription. 40 Congregational singing in a polyphonic church piece probably required that members purchase copies of the text for the day that specified which stanzas to sing. Having the printed libretto would have been particularly essential in those chorale movements whose texts were actually parodies by Gellert, but perhaps these were not sung. 41 On the significance of “choral unison” in Bach-circle music, see Melamed, “Choral Unison in J. S. Bach’s Vocal Music,” as well as Schulenberg, Music of W. F. Bach, 231–32. The device occurs in the opening movement of the Michaelmas music for 1775 (Siehe, ich begehre, W. 247), as well as in the choral preface to the fugue in the Passion Cantata; the entries of the Te Deum melody within the Heilig are also sung in octaves. 42 In the final movement of the 1780 oratorio (H. 822a), described by Rathey, Kommunikation und Diskurs, 139, as a Choralpartita. Bach reused portions of the movement in the 1785 Hymn of Thanks (H. 824e). 43 “Er war ohne Widerrede unser größter Kirchenkomponist,” Gerber, Historischbiographisches Lexicon, vol. 1, col. 665. 44 Only Johann Adam Hiller, Lebensbeschreibungen berühmter Musikgelehrten und Tonkünstler, neuerer Zeit, vol. 1 (Leipzig: Dykische Buchhandlung, 1784), 24, cited by Wolf, Gottfried August Homilius, 10, claims that Homilius actually studied with J. S. Bach. 45 As noted in CPEBCW IV/5.2:xi; one of these might have been the passion oratorio whose performance is listed in entries 466 and 468 (both from 1759) in Henzel, “Das Konzertleben der preußischen Hauptstadt.” 46 Bach asked Breitkopf, in a letter of November 22, 1775 (no. 88 in Clark, Letters, 88), to send Homilius a copy of the Israelites as a gift. Possibly this was Bach’s return for music by Homilius previously supplied to him—perhaps the passion oratorio Ein Lämmlein geht, which Breitkopf had published earlier that year and on which Bach commented in a letter of February 24 (no. 78, p. 77). Bach subsequently mentions receiving another oratorio directly from Homilius (letter of June 19, 1777; no. 115 in Clark, Letters, 108). 47 As in CPEBCW 5/5.1:xiii, referring to the final chorus of the Hymn of Thanks. The idea appears to have been introduced to C. P. E. Bach studies by Finscher,

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48

49

50

51

52 53

54

55

56

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notes to pp. 262–266 “Bemerkungen zu den Oratorien Carl Philipp Emanuel Bachs,” 321–22, in a discussion of the final chorus in the Passion Cantata. More recently, Melamed, “Text, Voice, and Genre,” 133–36, has described the penultimate accompanied recitative in Sebastian’s Saint Matthew Passion as a vaudeville, although this is more compact than any in Emanuel’s works. The duet for soprano and alto occurs as the sixth movement of the inaugural piece for Pastor Hornbostel (H. 821e) of 1772, also as no. 5 in the Christmas piece Auf, schicke dich (W. 249) of three years later. It may originally have been part of an earlier work; Bach’s autograph of the duet in H. 821e (in SA 707) looks like a fair or revision copy. These and other examples in the Israelites are discussed in CPEBCW 4/1:xviii– xix; as noted there, a reviewer in 1778 criticized Bach’s alterations of the text (Allgemeine deutsche Bibliothek, cited from Suchalla, Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach im Spiegel seiner Zeit, 167–68). Although at this writing a model has been identified only for the concluding chorale of H. 811 (by Benda), the opening chorus has a simplicity of rhythm, harmony, and melodic shape that is not at all characteristic of Bach. The duet (no. 3), if his, is a fairly unimaginative effort. The aria was first heard in 1772 as part of the inaugural music for Pastor Hornbostel (H. 821e), subsequently in the Michaelmas music of 1775 (W. 247). On Handel’s text painting, see Schulenberg, “‘Musical Allegory’ Reconsidered.” The work could not have been written for Friedrich August Gotthold or a member of the Grotthuß family, as was once supposed; see CPEBCW 6/4:xiii–xiv. Leisinger, “Carl Philipp Emanuel Bachs verschollen geglaubte Trauungskantate,” 15, dates the earliest sources to after Bach’s move to Hamburg (despite their being partly in the hand of the Berlin copyist Johann Friedrich Hering). The cadenza is actually an example of what is called a Fermata in Bach’s collection of cadenzas (Bc 5871); it corresponds exactly to the practice described by Quantz in his Versuch, 15.35. Harasim, Die Quartalsmusiken, 265, notes that Ramler’s poem was written by 1760. Harasim’s comparison of three extant versions of the aria overlooks the possibility that all are independent realizations of a lost original sketch or draft, possibly that of a lost 1763 work that Harasim assumes was identical to H. 824a, but see the discussion in CPEBCW 6/4:xiii–xiv. The aria “Son qual misera colomba” (I am like a poor dove) from Hasse’s opera Cleofide, sung by the title character at the end of act 2, becomes “Auf mit freudigem Getümmel” (With joyful tumult) in a church piece from the choir school at Grimma, near Leipzig (the manuscript is now in Dresden, Landesbibliothek, ms. 2477-E-536). In the B section, the line “Ah! D’Amor destin tiranno!” (Tyrant destiny of love) becomes “Jesus trägt nach Spott und Hohne” (Jesus bears through mockery and scorn), and where Cleofide originally lamented “Giusti dei! chi m’ha pietà?” (Just gods, who will pity me?) the pious male soprano now sings “willig ihm zum dienende” (serving him willingly). This and other parodies are attributed to J. S. Opitz (cantor at

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notes to pp. 267–271 367

57

58

59

60

61

62

63 64

65

66

67 68 69 70

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Grimma 1736–52) by Wolfram Steude, “Grimma,” in Die Musik im Gegenwart und Geschichte, Sachteil, vol. 3 (1995), col. 1715. The only source for their meeting, which allegedly took place at Halle in 1739 or 1740, is Forkel (Ueber Johann Sebastian Bachs Leben, Kunst und Kunstwerke, 83; translated in NBR, 460–61), who must have learned of it from the unreliable Friedemann himself. Kirnberger, as librarian of what became the Amalienbibliothek, oversaw the acquisition of a nearly complete collection of Handel’s major works, yet Henzel, “Das Konzertleben der preußischen Hauptstadt,” lists no performances of Handel’s vocal compositions at Berlin until long after Bach’s departure. Bach’s reference, in a letter of July 21, 1769 (no. 22 in Clark, Letters, 18), is to the “restoration” of Ramler’s original translation of the text of Alexander’s Feast after it had been “revised” by Krause (as Clark explains, 18n8). Thus the work was known in Berlin, and Bach mentions that he plans to perform it, although Gugger, “C. Ph. E. Bachs Konzerttätigkeit,” 183, lists only a performance led by another; Burney mentioned one by Schuback (Sketch of the Life of Handel, 56fn.). George Friedrich Händels Lebensbeschreibung (Hamburg: “Auf Kosten des Übersetzers,” 1761) was a translation of the anonymously published Memoirs of the Life of the Late George Frederic Handel by John Mainwaring (London, 1760); entry 183 in the list of works in Cannon, Johann Mattheson. Burrows, Handel, 346. The concerto, HWV 308 in B-flat (published as op. 7, no. 3), received its popular name through the apparent quote from the chorus in Messiah during the opening ritornello. Schiebeler also wrote the text for Bach’s first Hamburg inaugural piece, for Pastor Palm, although portions of this are parodies (e.g., the duet “Der Oberhirt gebeut” derives from the “Deposuit” in Bach’s Magnificat). Youngren, C. P. E. Bach and the Rebirth of Strophic Song, 263. Thus wrote an anonymous contributor to Forkel’s Musiklascher Almanach für Deutschland auf das Jahr 1783 (Leipzig, 1783), 199–200 (quoted in CPEBCW 4/1:xiii). “Bach die dramatischen Wirkingen nicht kannte,” anonymous review of a Berlin performance of Dittersdorf’s oratorio Hiob, in Chronic vom Berlin oder Berlinsche Merkwürdigkeiten 3 (Berlin, 1789): 1032–8, excerpt in Henzel, Quellentexte, 205. See CPEBCW 6/4:xvii. The opera on which Friedemann supposedly was working in 1778–79 left no trace other than a brief report by its librettist; see Schulenberg, Music of W. F. Bach, 263–64. Edited in CPEBCW 4/1, appendix (facsimile in plate 4). Henzel, “Das Konzertleben der preußischen Hauptstadt,” lists numerous Berlin performances from 1776 to 1784. Henzel (ibid.), identifies a performance at Berlin in two parts divided over March 29 and April 12, 1772 (nos. 773 and 777). Moira Hill establishes in her 2014 Yale dissertation that the work was performed regularly at the Spinnhaus Church until 1785 and only afterward at the Waisenhaus (Orphanage) Church, emending the information in CPEBCW 4/4.1:xvii–xviii.

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notes to pp. 272–274

71 Set by J. S. Bach only in the four-part harmonization BWV 383; the words, resembling a litany, are Luther’s (more or less), the melody attributed to Johann Walter. 72 As Czornyj pointed out (“Georg Philipp Telemann,” 171), the distinction was drawn by Sulzer, or rather Schulz, in his article on oratorios in the Allgemeine Theorie der schönen Künste, 2/1:360. Schulz cites Ramler’s Tod Jesu as an example of an oratorio libretto that is no longer a drama—an enactment of the story— but a lyrical reflection on it. Finscher, “Bemerkungen zu den Oratorien Carl Philipp Emanuel Bachs,” writing at about the same time and on the same subject, evidently had no access to Czornyj’s work. 73 The concluding chorale chorus in the church version, “Christe, du Lamm Gottes,” originated in one of Sebastian’s first Leipzig church works (BWV 23) and was also used in the 1725 version of his Saint John Passion. 74 Leisinger’s suggestion (CPEBCW 4/4.1:xvi). Emanuel may have alluded to his maintenance of a family tradition by describing the performance as “nach Bachscher Musik abgesungen” (sung with Bachisch music) on the title page of the original printed libretto. Although this followed a formula previously used by Telemann, future text books specified “aufzuführen von Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach” (to be performed by C. P. E. Bach), as shown on title pages reproduced in Clark, “The Occasional Choral Works,” figure 2. 75 The changes are mentioned as evidence that Bach had “demanded more than his musicians were truly able to deliver” (CPEBCW 4/4.1:xvi); they concern chiefly the duet “Muster der Geduld” (Bach’s alterations are listed in CPEBCW 4/4.1:219–21). 76 Clark, “The Occasional Choral Works,” 45–46, quotes the notice from the Hamburgische Correspondent, February 26, 1773. What version of the work was performed is unknown. 77 The report, dated February 20, 1789, appears in Clark, “The Occasional Choral Works,” 341–46. Dissatisfaction with some of Bach’s texts may have been an additional issue (Moira Hill, personal communication). 78 These recitatives are from Telemann’s Saint Luke Passion for 1760, not the better-known Saint Matthew Passion of 1746 that explicitly adopted French style. Emanuel reused these recitatives for the gospel in the Saint Luke Passions of 1779 and 1787 (see CPEBCW 4/6.1:xi). 79 Following Telemann, alto parts at Hamburg were normally written in soprano clef, not alto clef as elsewhere; this suggests that they were sung by boys unaccustomed to other clefs. 80 On this Passio secundum Marcum, which has been edited by Hans Bergmann (Stuttgart: Carus, 1997), see Melamed, “Bachs Aufführung der Hamburger Markus-Passion.” 81 Peter Wollny and Andreas Glöckner suggest that this was the work that Emanuel performed on March 6, 1769 (the “passion oratorio by a famous master” listed by Gugger, “C. Ph. E. Bachs Konzerttätigkeit in Hamburg,” 177); see their edition of Carl Heinrich Graun et al., Passionskantate Wer ist der, so von Edom kömmt (Pasticcio) (Leipzig: Friedrich Hofmeister, 1997), xiii. Subsequent research has cast in doubt the hypothesis that Emanuel inherited this work from Sebastian; more likely it came from Emanuel’s step-brother

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notes to pp. 275–278 369

82

83

84

85 86

87

88

89 90

91

92

93

94

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Altnickol, whose presumed pupil Farlau was the chief copyist (see Wollny, “Tennstedt, Leipzig, Naumburg, Halle,” 42). On the other hand, the paper in the autograph (SA 5155) lacks a watermark (see CPEBCW 4/4.1:203) and therefore cannot be placed unequivocally in either Hamburg or Berlin. In a letter of August 31, 1784, to the Berlin cantor and organist Johann Christoph Kühnau (no. 253 in Clark, Letters, 213), Bach counseled him, “In things that are to be printed, and therefore are for everyone, be less artistic and give more sugar.” In the context, this seems to mean to avoid complex counterpoint, as does the Israelites but not the Passion Cantata. Whether Karsch or Ebeling was responsible for the text here—“Du Göttlicher! warum bist du so in des Todes Schmerz versunken?” (Why, divine one, have you fallen so into the pain of death?)—is uncertain. Traditionally translated as “gave up the ghost”; in the Passion Cantata this becomes simply und stirbt (“and died”). Bach wrote the new setting in score on two separate inserts now included with Michel’s copy of the complete work (P 337); it is not heard in the recording directed by Sigiswald Kuijken (Freiburg: Deutsche Harmonia Mundi, 77042-2RG, 1990). Burney, Present State of Music in Germany, 2:253–54. Burney also mentions the listeners’ being moved by “a pathetic air, upon the subject of St. Peter’s weeping, when he heard the cock crow”—that is, the aria “Wende dich zu meinem Schmerze.” The specific movements are identified in a note on page 312 of the translation by Ebeling and Bode. Melamed, “The Double Chorus in J. S. Bach’s Saint Matthew Passion,” suggests that Sebastian’s work might have originally involved vocal concertists and ripienists within a single chorus, but there is no sign that Emanuel knew any but the final version. The same Saint Mark Passion that Emanuel used the following year. Clark, “The Occasional Choral Works,” 99, assumes that all three untraced turbae are Emanuel’s, but the repetitious style of the two others and parallel octaves and other infelicities in “Was gehet uns das an” (no. 19b) point against his having composed these. On this subject, see especially Marissen, Lutheranism, Anti-Judaism, and Bach’s St. John Passion. Marissen does find “theological anti-Judaism,” that is, “marked contempt for the religion of Judaism and its practitioners,” in another work of J. S. Bach; see “The Character and Sources of the Anti-Judaism in Bach’s Cantata 46,” 67n12. The standard text of Matthew 27:29, as set, for example, by J. S. Bach, ends with the phase der Jüden König (Sebastian combines the latter two words into one, Jüdenkönig, changing the syntax but not really the meaning of the sentence). “Es ist kein Geschmack hier, Buntes, wunderliches Zeug, und keine noble Simplicitæt gefällt hier,” letter to his former colleague Kottowsky of December 6, 1769 (no. 23 in Clark, Letters, 19). Burney, Present State of Music in Germany, 2:251. Bode, who might have added a footnote had he found Burney’s remark uncalled for, translates the passage

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370

95 96

97

98

99

100

101

102

103

104 105

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notes to pp. 278–283 without comment (Tagebuch, 3:191). Sanders, “Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach and Liturgical Music,” 185, identifies the work performed that October 10 as the Michaelmas piece Ich will den Namen des Herrn preisen (W. 245). Thus according to an anonymous review published in the Hamburger Correspondent, April 11, 1786 (no. IV/37D in Wiermann, 470). Bach himself quoted one of “ein Paar H. Oberalten” in his letter of January 31, 1771, to G. M. Telemann (no. 24 in Clark, Letters, 22); their objection may have been to the payment of copyists for transcribing borrowed music, not to the use of such music in itself. In CPEBCW 4/6.2, the Saint Luke Passion for 1775 (H. 788) is cautiously described as “based on a setting attributed to Gottfried August Homilius.” Although the sole source—Bach’s own copy, SA 50—is anonymous, the inclusion of chorale settings known to be by Homilius as well as the style of the arias makes his authorship likely. “Was ist Wahrheit?” (John 18:38). In Telemann’s setting, published in 1746 or 1747 by Schmid of Nuremberg as Music vom Leiden und Sterben des Welt-Erlösers, the aria is separated from Pilate’s question by a madrigalesque recitative that Bach omitted. Although the city paid for inaugural music, some pastors made additional payments out of pocket; at least one inauguree early in Bach’s time at Hamburg expressly requested that he reuse a work by Telemann (undated letter to G. M. Telemann, thought by Miesner to refer to the installation of Pastor Brandes on August 25, 1768; see commentary to no. 19 in Clark, Letters, 15). Answering questions put to her after her father’s death, A. C. P. Bach explained to two pastors intent on reforming municipal church music that poetry for the church pieces (Musiken) “theils hat er sie von guten Freunde bekommen und Theils aus Schriften genommen” (the interview is transcribed in Miesner, Philipp Emanuel Bach in Hamburg, 14–18). It is unclear whether Bach’s autograph score in P 346 of the chorus for Häseler was a first draft; the oboes, trumpets, and timpani, and probably also portions of the violin, viola, and bass lines were added after the voices and most of the first violin part had been entered into the score (perhaps copied from a so-called continuity sketch). In the first movement of Wer mich liebet, F. 72 (illustrated in Schulenberg, Music of W. F. Bach, 234). The melodies sung in long notes in both works have not been identified with any known chorale melodies, and the presence of the chromatic B–A–C–H motive within Emanuel’s “Lasset uns aufsehen” (c″–b′–d″–c♯″) would not be expected in a traditional hymn tune. Friedemann’s Wohl dem, der den Herrn fürchtet, F. 76 was performed in September 1752 to honor a Halle pastor (edition by Peter Wollny, Stuttgart: Carus, 2007); see Schulenberg, Music of W. F. Bach, 230. See the discussion of the choral fugue in F. 89 in Schulenberg, Music of W. F. Bach, 249–50. Emanuel’s use of this work is documented by performing parts marked by him (St 358), as well as a score copied by Michel (US CAh bMS Mus 107). These show only minor alterations characteristic of Hamburg practice, such

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notes to pp. 284–287 371 as the notation of the alto part in soprano clef; the tenor aria is reassigned to the soprano, and the alto aria to the bass voice. 106 Clark, “The Occasional Choral Works,” 93–94.

Chapter Twelve 1 Documented by Constantin Christian Dedekind, preface to König Davids göldnes Kleinod, oder 119. Psalm (Dresden, 1674); see Joshua Rifkin, “Schütz, Heinrich,” in Grove Music Online, www.oxfordmusiconline.com (accessed August 1, 2013). Bach did own a copy of Martin Geier’s biographical funeral oration for Schütz (item 367 in Leisinger, “Die ‘Bachsche Auction’”). 2 Letter of September 16, 1778 (no. 137 in Clark, Letters, 125), original emphasis. 3 Clark, Letters, xli, citing Bach’s letter to Breitkopf of January 17, 1776. 4 For example, J. J. H. Westphal (letter of January 2, 1787; no. 301 in Clark, Letters, 255). 5 Clark, Letters, xli, citing Bach’s letter of November 4, 1787, to Johann Hieronymus Schröter (no. 324, p. 274). 6 Indeed, in almost the next sentence he mentions his intention to write a composition treatise (letter of March 8, 1788, no. 330 in Clark, Letters, 279). 7 As when he writes to thank Eschenburg for a copy of the latter’s translation of the Sketch in which Burney described the Handel Commemoration of 1784. Bach makes clear that he has read even the detail that King George III has preserved Handel’s early autographs (which Bach finds pointless). Letter of January 21, 1786, no. 287 in Clark, Letters, 244. 8 Although Bach would self-publish the Heilig, gathering subscriptions and assuming the primary financial burden, Breitkopf would also be committing himself to a complex project that would keep him and his workers busy and his valuable type and printing equipment tied up for an extended period. 9 “Die letzte Arbeit des Verfassers” (NV, p. 61). A copy of the complete score in Michel’s hand, now in Vienna, might have been ordered from Bach’s heirs, perhaps by van Swieten, in response to the claim that it was his last work. 10 Letter to J. J. H. Westphal (no. 338 in Clark, Letters, 284). 11 See Sittard, Geschichte des Musik- und Concertwesens in Hamburg, 108, quoting a report by the poet Claudius that is substantiated by a newspaper announcement of February 25, 1777 (item IV/16 in Wiermann, 450). Bach also contributed a setting of one of Klopstock’s texts to the 1785 Schleswig-Holstein hymnbook (H. 844/2). His two Klopstock lieder are the unpretentious “Vaterlandslied” (W. 202F/1) and “Lyda” (W. 202G/2) of 1774 and 1775, respectively. 12 Source D5 in CPEBCW 6/4:136; on the performance by the Berlin Liebhaberkonzert, directed by Ernst Friedrich Benda (nephew of Franz and Georg) and Karl Ludwig Bachmann, see ibid., 138. 13 W. 194/15 and 195/11, respectively. There is also a “Morgenlied” by Sturm (W. 198/13). Karsch’s poem is more imaginative than those of the two pastors, Bach’s setting of it (in the Gellert Appendix) more original than the others.

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14 It was published with Klopstock’s odes during his lifetime (in Klopstocks Oden: Zweyter Band [Leipzig: Göschen, 1798]), as noted by Fischer, “Morgengesang am Schöpfungsfeste,” 2–3. 15 “Zwey Stimmen” and “Alle” in the earliest edition of the poem seen here, in Klopstocks Oden, 2:96–98. 16 The melody of the modulating coda at the end of no. 4 resembles that of the Sinfonia W. 182/5, movement 2. 17 In the sinfonia the corresponding parts are viola and cello (detached from the continuo). 18 The parody repeats the last sixteen measures and adds trumpets, timpani, oboes, and strings (mostly doubling the voices) but is otherwise musically unchanged. 19 Letter of July 28, 1778 (no. 136 in Clark, Letters, 124). Whether Bach means that it will be his own last large vocal work or the last large work for double choir is unclear (he was wrong in either case), but he means to suggest that the monumental composition marks the end of an epoch. 20 At measures 26 and 49; see the table in 12.2. 21 The soprano line at measure 88 is derived from that of the third entry of the angel choir, at measure 23 of the “prelude.” 22 This Sanctus, from Kerll’s Missa superba, is probably the Sanctus in D listed in NV, p. 73. 23 Lot 164 in the “Bachsche Auction” was a “Te Deum in Partitur” by Handel. Bach requested an unspecified Te Deum by Handel in a letter to Kirnberger of July 21, 1769 (no. 22 in Clark, Letters, 18), and the “Chandos” Te Deum is preserved in AmB 139 with a German text; see illustrations 151–52 in Wutta, Quellen der Bach-Tradition. By 1785, however, the “Utrecht” Te Deum in D, HWV 279, had also been performed at Hamburg by Schuback, “for the benefit of the poor,” as Burney reported (Sketch of the Life of Handel, 56n); it sets the words “Holy, holy” in a manner comparable to that shown in $example 12.6 from the “Chandos” Te Deum. 24 Bach requested 500 printed copies in his letter of November 13, 1778, to Breitkopf. A year later, on November 2, 1779, he reported that together with his sonatas they were “selling like hotcakes,” and by December 5, 1787, there were only a few left (nos. 139, 166, and 326 in Clark, Letters, pp. 127, 146, and 275). 25 Bach’s Israelites and the Heilig were conducted by Ignaz Seyfried on the second half of the program; see Thayer, Thayer’s Life of Beethoven (1969), 691. 26 See Rifkin, “. . . Wobey aber die Singstimmen hinlänglich besetzt seyn müssen,” 168n33–34. 27 The vocal part of the arietta, unlabeled in Bach’s printed score, is in soprano clef, but Bach offers the option of substituting a′ for f″ when the part rises above e″ (the usual upper limit for Bach-circle alto parts). Thus, it is presumably for one of the two altos or second sopranos whose parts in the Heilig proper are notated in soprano clef, following Bach’s usual Hamburg practice. 28 See Wolf, “Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach und der ‘Münter-Jahrgang,’” 221. 29 Benda’s review was attached to an appeal for subscriptions to the Heilig in the Hamburg Correspondent for November 18, 1778 (no. II/60 in Wiermann,

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notes to pp. 293–296 373

30

31 32 33

34

35 36 37

38

39

40 41

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223–24). It mentions no arietta. That year’s music for Michaelmas was Emanuel’s arrangement of Wenn Christus seine Kirche schützet by J. C. F. Bach (see Harasim, Die Quartalsmusiken, 66). Bach’s comments appeared in the posthumously published revised edition of part 2 of the Versuch (at 41.12; these are incorporated into the edition in CPEBCW 7/2 on p. 333). In 1785 Bach inserted the Heilig into the Hymn of Thanks (H. 824e); the aria substituted there for the arietta is likewise in G. Letter of January 30, 1779 (no. 148 in Clark, Letters, 134). Letter to Breitkopf of December 16, 1779 (no. 173 in Clark, Letters, 152). Kirnberger described a Berlin performance in which the fugue lasted eleven minutes, indicating a grotesquely slow tempo of about quarter note = 54; letter to Forkel of 1779 (no. 7 in Bitter, Carl Philipp Emanuel und Wilhelm Friedemann Bach und deren Brüder, 2:323). On what seems to have been the first recording of the work, directed by Herrmann Max (Edition Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach: Vokalwerke I, Capriccio 10 208, 1988), the fugue lasts 3:10; Ludger Rémy takes it in 3:15 (Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach: Hamburger Quartalsmusiken, CPO 777 5942, 2010). With Max the entire Heilig (without the arietta) lasts 5:47, meaning that the “prelude” constitutes nearly half (45 percent) of the total duration; Rémy’s recording has almost identical proportions. As demonstrated for J. S. Bach by Tatlow in “Bach’s Parallel Proportions.” Marpurg’s explanation of the rondeau as a Zirkelstück (“circle piece”), in his Anleitung zum Clavierspielen (Berlin, 1755), 27, is little more than a folk etymology. Bonds, “The Spatial Representation of Musical Form,” 266, finds no “attempt to depict musical form in an essentially spatial manner” before 1825. See the table in 12.2. J. S. Bach’s choral fugues had never been widely known and by the 1770s would have been nearly forgotten. Graun’s Te Deum also includes a second fugal movement (“In te Domini speravi”) in more modern style; perhaps this was in emulation of Handel, whose choral works were admired and collected by Princess Anna Amalia. Nicolai, Anekdoten, 1:85–86 (cited by Henzel, “Zu den Graun-Beständen, 264n7). Nicolai mentions a letter from Quantz to Agricola as his source; the accompaniment was limited to organ. The mass must have been the one in E-flat that was performed publicly in 1762 (GWV A:VI:1, preserved in SA 330); it includes a chromatic double fugue in antique style for the Christe. Although Bach repeated H. 811 at Christmas 1782, it is unclear whether the performances that year still included the fugue; see Blanken, “Zur Werk- und Überlieferungsgeschichte des Magnificat Wq 215,” 250–52. Of the nine movements of the Magnificat, only no. 5 (“Fecit potentiam”) is not known to have been parodied (no. 8, the “Gloria patri,” is already a shortened parody of the opening movement). On March 22; on that occasion Bach also played a “solo” and a concerto on the fortepiano (see no. IV/21 in Wiermann, 457). Letter of March 5, 1783 (no. 225 in Clark, Letters, 192, although I give my own translation; original text in Bitter, Carl Philipp Emanuel und Wilhelm Friedemann Bach und deren Brüder, 2:302). Although Bach admits that the fugue is a parody of an older composition, he provides no suggestion that Amalia might have

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374

42

43

44

45

46 47

48 49 50 51

52 53

54

55 56 57

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notes to pp. 296–299 heard it previously; this casts doubt on a hypothesis that it was she who originally instigated Bach’s composition of the Magnificat. In the original version, the word Amen, used for the second subject, is already sung during the exposition of the first subject as well. The latter set the first clause of the text, “Sicut erat in principio,” accompanied in free counterpoint by the second clause, “et nunc et in saecula saeculorum, amen.” Bach also added new parts for the trumpets and timpani in a passage where these originally had chiefly rests (mm. 179–207 of the original), though they remain inessential to the counterpoint. Clark, “The Occasional Choral Works,” 166, observes that other “major choral fugues” (those of the Heilig, Resurrection Cantata, and Passion Cantata) are “also quite sectionalized.” The passage, notated in four-part score in minuscule script, appears on unused staves at the end of the third trumpet part for H. 811 (in SA 247). Although Blanken, “Zur Werk- und Überlieferungsgeschichte des Magnificat Wq 215,” 263, describes this as a sketch (Vokalsatz-Skizze), it shows no sign of compositional alterations. Measure numbers are counted from the opening of the fugue, which is measure 64 of the chorus (no. 18) as a whole. The second subject is reminiscenct of that used for the phrase “dir sei Lob und Dank bereit’t” in the opening chorus of Ehre sei dir, Gott, gesungen, part 5 from Sebastian’s Christmas Oratorio. In the Magnificat, on the other hand, the “Sicut erat” continues for a further seventy measures after making a grand arrival on the dominant (m. 175). Letter of March 5, 1783 (no. 225 in Clark, Letters, 192). NV lists two other choruses as works of 1783, both of them (W. 226 and W. 228) arrangements of lieder that were inserted into larger church pieces. Like Zeige du, which dates from 1777, Leite mich appears to have been incorporated into several larger works, as shown by Bach’s rubrics in his original parts (in St 180). The parts for Leite mich in St 180 are marked “Choralmässig und die Noten gut ausgehalten” (in chorale style and the notes well sustained). The date is from NV, p. 62; the chorus was used as the opening movement in music for the tenth Sunday after Trinity (in SA 259; facsimile in Enßlin, Die Bach-Quellen, 2:578). Poelchau’s dedication (quoted from the entry for SA 268 in Enßlin, Die BachQuellen, 102) was to Caspar Siegfried Gähler (1747–1825), a pupil of Bach at Hamburg and later Bürgermeister of the neighboring city of Altona. In fact, Kirnberger died in July 1783, not long after he presumably had filed Bach’s scores in what became the Amalienbibliothek. In fact, four-part settings with organ are known from Berlin (1786) and Altona (1803); see Marx-Weber, “Carl Philipp Emanuel Bachs Litaneien,” 189. Letter of November 4, 1787, to Breitkopf (no. 324 in Clark, Letters, 274, where am stärksten gearbeitet is rendered as “most highly contrapuntal”—not a completely misleading translation). Bach had previously mentioned the thick texture of the Resurrection Cantata as a reason for not attempting to

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notes to pp. 300–303 375

58

59

60 61

62 63

64

65

66

67

68

69 70

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print a keyboard reduction of it (letter of July 28, 1786, to Breitkopf, no. 294 in ibid., 249). The phrase quoted is part of the work’s original title: “zum Nutzen und Vergnügen Lehrbegieriger in der Harmonie.” It may well be that with this phrase Bach allied the work with a literary tradition of “Lehrdichtung” (pedagogic poetry), as argued by Ringhandt, “Die Litaneien von Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach,” 199–202. But the phrase also echoed Sebastian’s use of the same word Lehrbegieriger in his extended title for the Inventions (in the autograph, P 610). To judge from an entry made in Beethoven’s diary around 1818: “Bach’s Litaneyen nicht zu vergessen” (not to forget Bach’s Litanies); see Solomon, “Beethoven’s Tagebuch of 1812–1818,” entry 155a (p. 279). Letter of February 28, 1786 (no. 289 in Clark, Letters, 246). Hence the title as given in Bach’s publication of 1786: Zwey Litaneien aus dem Schleswig-Holsteinischen Gesangbuche mit ihrer bekannten Melodie für acht Singstimmen in zwey Chören. Marx-Weber, “Carl Philipp Emanuel Bachs Litaneien,”182–83. As demonstrated by Marx-Weber (ibid., 192–97); the illustrations of early readings in example 12.18 are from p. 196. On Schiørring, see Schiørring, “Niels Schiørring.” “In der neuen Litaney . . . habe ich zuweilen, aber sehr selten, den vielen h das c mit eingemischt.” An instance occurs in measures 393–430 (setting the single long verse 31), in which the soprano, at first rising no higher than the traditional b′, ascends to c″ at Tod (death) in measure 409 and again on Erbarmer (compassionate one) in measure 424. The durations of the two litanies in performances by the Gesualdo Consort Amsterdam, directed by Harry van der Kamp, are 23:54 and 24:42, respectively; these are recorded on The Complete Works of Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach for Vocal Ensemble (Two to Eight Voices) and Basso Continuo (Sony Classical, 82876705432, 2005). Bach must have interrupted work on “Bitten,” completing it only near the end of his life, for the end of the third stanza and all of the final stanza were added in the autograph (P 349) in his last handwriting. Karl Wilhelm Ramlers Auferstehung und Himmelfahrt Jesu, in Musik gesetzt von Karl Philipp Emanuel Bach (Leipzig: Im Breitkopfischen Verlage, 1787). This is one of the earliest sources in which Bach’s first name appears in the modern German spelling with K instead of C. As Gluck himself apparently reported to Bach in a letter now lost, mentioned by the latter in his own letter to Forkel of January 3, 1778 (no. 129 in Clark, Letters, 119); for the advertisement of Israelites, published on September 12, 1774, see item II/42 in Wiermann, 200. Czornyj, “Georg Philipp Telemann,” 174. “Herr Teleman [sic] . . . will seinen Schwangengesang singen, und dazu soll ich ihm die Worte vorsprechen,” Ramler’s letter of February 24, 1760, to Gleim, reproduced in facsimile and the relevant matter transcribed in Hobohm, “Telemann und Ramler.”

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71 Krause, in a letter of May 31, 1760, to Gleim (no. 49 in Berg, Correspondence of Christian Gottfried Krause, 205), writes that Telemann’s “Easter Piece” (OsterStück) has arrived from Hamburg, and that Agricola prefers it to Telemann’s setting of Tod Jesu. This did not prevent Agricola from composing his own setting of Die Auferstehung. 72 Example 12.24 follows the edition by Joshua Rifkin (Messe h-moll BWV 232 [Wiesbaden: Breitkopf und Härtel, 2006]). In measure 138, however, it substitutes the reading entered into the tenor part of St 118 by Emanuel’s copyist Michel, who probably sang it. Rifkin argues persuasively that this was a “simplification for practical use” (praktische Vereinfachung, p. 270) that Emanuel had written into the autograph score P 180, which he inherited; for more on this and other emendations, see Rifkin, “Blinding Us With Science?” esp. 81–85. In his edition (p. 255), Rifkin points to evidence within St 118 for performances at Hamburg prior to the 1786 concert. 73 Letter to Ernst Theodor Johann Bruckner, in Briefe von Johann Heinrich Voß, edited by Abraham Voß, vol. 1 (Halberstadt: Carl Brüggemann, 1829), 161. Harasim, Die Quartalsmusiken, 65, cites Voß’s letter as evidence for a church performance of portions of the work as that year’s Easter Piece (Sanders, “Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach and Liturgical Music,” could identify no work for Easter 1774). 74 The initial review and the call for subscriptions both appeared in the Hamburger Correspondent (March 17, 1778, and April 24, 1784, nos. IV/18 and II/108 in Wiermann, 452–55 and 303–6, respectively). Bach had indeed requested a text for a slow aria in his letter to Ramler of November 20, 1780 (no. 192 in Clark, Letters, 169). 75 See Wiermann, “Werkgeschichte als Gattungsgeschichte,” 126, citing a printed libretto for Easter 1782. 76 Letter of November 20, 1780 (no. 192 in Clark, Letters, 169). Clark, “The Letters From C. P. E. Bach to K. W. Ramler,” 37, describes the result, “Wie bang,” as Bach’s sole aria of its type. 77 Wiermann, “Werkgeschichte als Gattungsgeschichte,” 131, cites the 1784 “review” of the work, which declares “sie ist kein Oratorium.” She admits, however (p. 129), that Bach’s revisions of the recitatives hardly altered their “musical substance” except at the end of the long recitative no. 14, which now ends in E-flat major rather than F minor. 78 The changes are visible in Bach’s autograph score (P 336). Wiermann, “Werkgeschichte als Gattungsgeschichte,” 119, considers these most likely to have originated in 1774 (see pp. 141–43 for illustrations of the changes as they appear in the parts of St 178). 79 See Will, “Reason and Revelation,” 104–6. 80 See Bach’s letter of October 27, 1780 (no. 190 in Clark, Letters, 167). Bach’s proposal appears in a margin. It was, then, an afterthought to more immediate concerns addressed in the letter; these included the Versuch, recently handed over to Breitkopf’s rival Schwickert, and the newly published rondos in volume 2 of the Kenner und Liebhaber series. 81 Letter of September 21, 1787 (no. 320 in Clark, Letters, 270). The dismissive reference to music for “ladies” perhaps refers to compositions such as the six Damensonaten of W. 54.

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notes to pp. 305–309 377 82 Bach wrote to Breitkopf, “The contents of your last letter nearly made me ill,” letter of December 11, 1784, in Clark, Letters, 220. 83 Letter of November 30, 1785 (no. 283 in Clark, Letters, 240). 84 For example, by Wiermann, “Werkgeschichte als Gattunsgeschichte,” 117. 85 The turba chorus “Gegrüßet seist du” in Bach’s Saint Matthew passions, although probably not by Telemann, is somewhat similar in general style and texture (see $ex. 11.15). I have not seen the setting of Ramler’s Resurrection Cantata by Agricola, in which Smither, A History of the Oratorio, 3:462–63, speaks of “chordal-chorale style” in the three “Triumph!” choruses. 86 The drum roll, which Bach apparently added after the first Hamburg performances, was specifically mentioned in the 1784 “review.” 87 The duet was nevertheless admired by Krause for the dotted-overture style of its A section (Berg, Correspondence of Christian Gottfried Krause, 206n360, describes it as “gently rocking,” but this seems a mischaracterization). A twotempo setting, the duet is remarkable for its through-composed da capo form, rare with Telemann. 88 Williams, “Is There an Anxiety of Influence,” applies Bloom’s idea to music, specifically that of J. S. Bach. 89 Letter of September 21, 1787 (no. 320 in Clark, Letters, 270). 90 Will, “Reason and Revelation,” 98, points out commonalities, especially in the first four numbers of Bach’s work. 91 “Solchen ganz gewöhnlichen Modulationen einen besondern Ausdruck zu geben, nimmt man gewiß Mittle zur Hülfe,” from Bach’s revisions for Versuch, ii.41.12 (in CPEBCW 7/2:333). 92 Noted by Will, “Reason and Revelation,” 107. 93 Telemann’s 1722 cantata on the composer’s own libretto continued after his death to be performed, by Bach among others, at Hamburg during Lent. Schwencke, Bach’s pupil and successor, directed a performance as late as 1806 according to Ute Poetzsch, foreword to her edition (Georg Philipp Telemann: Musikalische Werke, vol. 33 [Kassel: Bärenreiter, 2001]), xv. 94 The view of Bach’s music as brilliant but incoherent, at least in comparison with that of the Viennese Classical style, has been argued most persuasively by Rosen, The Classical Style.

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bibliography 393 Serwer, Howard. “C. P. E. Bach, J. C. F. Rellstab, and the Sonatas with Varied Reprises.” In C. P. E. Bach Studies, edited by Stephen L. Clark, 233–43. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1988. Sheldon, David A. “The Transition from Trio to Cembalo-Obbligato Sonata in the Works of J. G. and C. H. Graun.” Journal of the American Musicological Society 24 (1971): 395–413. Siegele, Ulrich. Kompositionsweise und Bearbeitungstechnik in der Instrumentalmusik Johann Sebastian Bachs. Diss., Eberhard-Karls-Universität zu Tübingen, 1957. Reissued with the author’s Habilitationsvortrag (1965). Neuhausen (Stuttgart): Hänssler, 1975. Sittard, Josef. Geschichte des Musik- und Concertwesens in Hamburg vom 14. Jahrhundert bis auf die Gegenwart. Altona and Leipzig: A. C. Reher, 1890. Smither, Howard E. “Arienstruktur und Arienstil in den Oratorien und Kantaten Bachs.” In Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach und die europäische Musikkultur des mittleren 18. Jahrhunderts: Bericht über das Internationale Symposium der Joachim Jungius–Gesellschaft der wissenschaften Hamburg 29. September–2. Oktober 1988, edited by Hans Joachim Marx, 345–68. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1990. ———. A History of the Oratorio. Vol. 3: The Oratorio in the Classical Era. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1987. Solomon, Maynard. “Beethoven’s Tagebuch of 1812–1818.” In Beethoven Studies 3, edited by Alan Tyson, 193–285. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1982. Spányi, Miklós. “Performer’s Remarks.” In liner notes to C. P. E. Bach: The Complete Keyboard Concertos, Volume 9, Miklós Spányi, keyboard, and Concerto Armonico, 6–8. BIS (CD-868), 2000. ———. “Performer’s Remarks.” In liner notes to C. P. E. Bach: The Complete Keyboard Concertos, Volume 15, Miklós Spányi, keyboard, and Concerto Armonico, 8–9. BIS (CD-1422), 2006. ———. “Performer’s Remarks.” In liner notes to C. P. E. Bach: The Complete Keyboard Concertos, Volume 16, Miklós Spányi, keyboard, and Concerto Armonico, 8–9. BIS (CD-1587), 2007. Speerstra, Joel. Bach and the Pedal Clavichord: An Organist’s Guide. Rochester, NY: University of Rochester Press, 2004. Spitta, Philipp. Johann Sebastian Bach: His Work and Influence on the Music of Germany, 1685–1750. Translated by Clara Bell and J. A. Fuller-Maitland. 3 vols. London: Novello, 1889. Stauffer, George B. “The Breitkopf Family and Its Role in Music Publishing.” In Bach Perspectives, vol. 2: J. S. Bach, the Breitkopfs, and Eighteenth-Century Music Trade, edited by George B. Stauffer, 1–8. Lincoln and Omaha: University of Nebraska Press, 1996. Stechow, Wolfgang. “Johann Sebastian Bach the Younger.” In De artibus opuscula XL: Essays in Honor of Erwin Panofsky, edited by Millard Meiss. 2 vols., 1:427–36 (figures in 2:139–43). New York: New York University Press, 1961. Stevens, Jane R. The Bach Family and the Keyboard Concerto: The Evolution of a Genre. Warren, MI: Harmonie Park Press, 2001.

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Index Page numbers in italics refer to the presence of musical examples in the printed text. The symbol  refers to an online text supplement (see p. xvii). Abel, Carl Friedrich, piano trios, 220, 223 academy (Akademie), 37, 62, 132 adagio, performance of, 194, 244, 5.2 aesthetics, musical, 135, 142–48 affects, theory of (Affektenlehre), 99, 144 Agricola, Johann Friedrich, 50, 62, 93, 142, 186, 326n63, 328n25; Anleitung zur Singkunst, 110; lieder, 139; Resurrection Cantata (Auferstehung), 376n71, 377n85 Alers, Christian Wilhelm, 282 Alexandrov, Alexander, Soviet national anthem, 156 Altnickol, Johann Christoph, 14, 109 andantino, 346n47 Anna Amalia, princess of Prussia, 125, 180, 296, 298, 373–74n41, 7.5, 9.7 anti-Judaism (anti-Semitism), 277 appoggiaturas, rhythmic value, 336n36 aria, forms of, 23–24, 50–51, 150, 260– 61, 11.3 Arlen, Harold, “Over the Rainbow,” 346n58 B–A–C–H motive, 52, 84, 159, 174, 206, 223, 351n118, 370n102, 7.9, 9.12 Bach, Anna Carolina Philippina (daughter), 3, 114, 166, 224, 282, 370n100, 7.9 Bach, Anna Magdalena (stepmother), 3, 13, 150; Clavierbüchlein (keyboard books), 14, 15, 19–20

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Bach, Carl Philipp Emanuel (see below for works): as accompanist, 142, 148; arrangements, 94, 177, 193, 245, 254, 10.8; art collection, 16; autobiography, 313n6, 323n26; at Berlin, 58–61, 107–8; biography, 2–4; as church musician, 249–57; and the clavichord, 18–19, 119–20; Clavierwerkeverzeichnis (CV), 1.2; concert activity, 68, 181, 182–85; compositional methods, 22, 50, 70, 115, 252; destruction of early works, 25; at Frankfurt (Oder), 36–38, 55–57, 4.2; free treatment of text, 262; gout, 314n9, 330n8; at Hamburg, 176, 180–82, 219, 246–49, 277–78, 285–87, 300; and Handel, 192, 267–68, 354n42, 2.2; his keyboard instruments, 360n27; left-handedness, 17–18; letters, 251, 336n25; manipulation of press, 175; marriage, 69; as music copyist, 47; Nachlassverzeichnis, 5, 257–58, 1.2; “new” modulation, 136, 172, 195, 290, 307; and Nichelmann, 110, 147–48; as organist, 18; parody and pastiche, 253–55; on performance (see individual topics: figured bass, fingering, keyboard instrument, ornaments); performances of music by J. S. Bach, 48, 309; at Potsdam, 33, 70, 101, 179, 227; as publisher of own works, 114, 125, 128, 221, 251, 259–60, 267, 293, 371n6;

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400

index

Bach, Carl Philipp Emanuel—(cont’d) revisions (“renovations”), 4–5, 25, 26, 38–39, 64, 67, 68, 69–78, 92–93, 179; style, 8–10; sources (of works), 1.2; as teacher, 123, 5.2; and text painting, 144–47, 211, 263–64, 11.7; tonal planning, 255, 256; training, 13–24, 49, 2.1; as vocal composer, 48–52; at Zerbst, 131 Bach, Carl Philipp Emanuel, works of (see below for individual works): catalogs of, 5, 1.2; chorale harmonizations, 153, 260, 300; criticism of, 10–11, 166; overview, 5–6, 1.1; sets and individual works, chiefly by W. number (tonalities in parentheses): keyboard concertos, 51, 87–101, 184, 195–209; instrumentation, 202 keyboard concertos, individual works: W. 1 (a), 48–49, 51, 54, 81, 88–89, 91–93, 321n26, 6.4 W. 2 (E-flat), 72, 88, 93, 328n32, 329n37, 331n24, 6.4 W. 3 (G), 88, 93, 328n32, 6.4 W. 4 (G), 71–72, 88, 9, 321n26, 328n34, 345n40, 5.4 W. 5 (c), 71, 100, 183, 328n27 W. 6 (g), 52, 72, 96, 99 W. 7 (A), 89 W. 9 (G), 72, 87 W. 10 (B-flat), 87 W. 11 (D), 16, 47, 67, 81, 88, 93, 116, 8.3 W. 12 (F), 89, 99, 328n33 W. 13 (D), 65, 66, 94, 95, 331n29, 333n50 W. 14 (E), 94, 179, 332n33, 332n36 W. 15 (e), 65, 66, 89, 96, 99, 328nn25–26

Schulenberg.indd 400

W. 16 (G), 75, 76–77, 95, 333n51 W. 17 (d), 95, 96, 99, 332n37 W. 18 (D), 71, 94–95 W. 19 (A), 103–6 W. 20 (C), 137 W. 21 (a), 100–101 W. 22 (d), 95, 99–100, 331n29, 333n48, 333n51 W. 23 (d), 59, 64, 65, 66, 72, 89, 95, 96–99, 101, 9.7 W. 24 (e), 72, 75, 90, 96 W. 25 (B-flat), 16, 94, 5.4 W. 26 (a), 196, 197, 331n29, 5.4 W. 27 (D), 89, 95, 196, 332n36, 332n39 W. 28 (B-flat), 110, 196, 197, 331n29, 5.4 W. 29 (A), 196, 197, 331n29, 5.4 W. 30 (b), 205, 9.7 W. 31 (c), 59, 182–83, 197–99 W. 32 (g), 115, 9.7 W. 33 (F), 9.7 W. 34 (organ, G), 331n29, 9.7 W. 35 (organ, E-flat), 352n15, 9.7 W. 37 (c), 199, 355n64, 9.7 W. 38 (B-flat), 9.7 W. 39 (B-flat), 352–53n22 (see also W. 164) W. 40 (E-flat), 352–53n22 (see also W. 165) W. 41 (E-flat), 180, 201, 202, 203, 9.8 W. 42 (F), 130, 201, 9.8 W. 43 (Six Concertos), 46, 88, 94, 122, 170, 202–6, 221 W. 43/1 (F), 205, 9.9 W. 43/2 (D), 203

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index W. 43/3 (E-flat), 204, 205, 9.9 W. 43/4 (c), 203, 204–5, 9.9 W. 43/5 (G), 203, 9.9 W. 43/6 (C), 205–6 W. 44 (G), 206–7, 5.4 W. 45 (D), 206, 208, 5.4 W. 46 (Double Concerto, F), 72, 92, 192, 332n36 W. 47 (Double Concerto, E-flat), 193, 201, 208, 224, 9.10, 12.2 sonatas and other larger keyboard works: fantasias, 59, 228, 240–46; modulating rondos, 5, 20, 136, 221, 222, 223, 226–27, 230, 235–36; rondos, 84, 130, 132, 191, 206, 207, 213, 222, 225, 237–40; sonatas, 229–30 sonatas and other larger keyboard works, individual works: Sonata (G), 28 Suite (G), 3.4 H. 370 (Suite, B-flat), 319n9 W. 48 (Prussian Sonatas), 16, 66, 79–80, 95 W. 48/1 (F), 79, 103 W. 48/3 (E), 79 W. 48/5 (C), 45 W. 48/6 (A), 80 W. 49 (Württemberg Sonatas), 66, 84, 95, 336n24 W. 49/1 (a), 80, 332n36, 362n51 W. 49/3 (e), 65, 80 W. 49/6 (b), 8, 9, 80–81, 97, 6.1 W. 50 (Reprise Sonatas), 123, 128, 130–31, 162 W. 50/5 (B-flat), 130 W. 50/6 (c), 130, 329n43 W. 51 (First Continuation), 128, 163 W. 51/1 (C), 78

Schulenberg.indd 401

401

W. 51/2 (B-flat), 356n74 W. 51/5 (F), 128 W. 51/6 (g), 127–28 W. 52 (Second Continuation), 128, 163 W. 52/4 (f-sharp), 6.2 W. 53 (Easy Sonatas), 120, 129–30 W. 53/1 (C), 339n86 W. 53/5 (C), 339n86 W. 53/6 (F), 232, 7.5 W. 54 (Ladies’ Sonatas), 129–30, 220, 233 W. 54/2 (C), 233 W. 54/6 (A), 225, 346n47 W. 55–59 and 61 (pieces for Kenner und Liebhaber), 8, 153, 181, 219, 225–42, 285, 286, 10.4 W. 55/2 (F), 131, 227, 229 W. 55/3 (b), 172, 230–32 W. 55/4 (A), 227, 232 W. 55/5 (F), 172, 230 W. 55/6 (G), 227, 228, 232–33 W. 56/1 (rondo, C), 238 W. 56/3 (rondo, D), 237 W. 56/4 (F), 236, 360n31 W. 56/5 (rondo, a), 233, 237, 238, 10.5 W. 56/6 (A), 228, 233 W. 57/1 (rondo, E), 238 W. 57/2 (a), 234 W. 57/3 (rondo, G), 238 W. 57/5 (rondo, F), 238 W. 57/6 (f), 228, 234, 10.6 W. 58/2 (G), 234, 236, 10.6 W. 58/3 (rondo, E), 227, 10.6 W. 58/4 (e), 228, 10.6 W. 58/5 (rondo, B-flat), 236, 238, 239 W. 58/6 (fantasia, E-flat), 229, 241

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402

index

Bach, Carl Philipp Emanuel, works of—(cont’d) sonatas and other larger keyboard works—(cont’d) W. 58/7 (fantasia, A), 241, 361n49 W. 59/1 (e), 136, 230, 235–36 W. 59/2 (rondo, G), 238, 239 W. 59/3 (B-flat), 236 W. 59/4 (rondo, c), 136, 207, 238–39 W. 59/5 (fantasia, F), 228, 241–42 W. 59/6 (fantasia, C), 100, 127, 228, 238, 241–42, 10.5 W. 60 (c), 351n121 W. 61/2 (D), 236 W. 61/3 (fantasia, B-flat), 242 W. 61/4 (rondo, d), 239 W. 61/5 (e), 236 W. 61/6 (fantasia, C), 242, 361n50 W. 62/1 (B-flat), 19, 81 W. 62/4 (d), 81, 96 W. 62/5 (E), 81, 85, 94 W. 62/6 (f), 129, 6.2 W. 62/7 (C), 81, 84 W. 62/8 (F), 8.4 W. 62/10 (C), 86 W. 62/11 (G), 126, 128, 339n75 W. 62/12 (suite, e), 110, 7.7 W. 62/18 (g), 129 W. 62/19 (G), 339n75 W. 63 (Probestücke), 60, 111, 122–24, 126, 314n22, 329n40 W. 63/4, movement 1 (b), 204; movement 2 (D), 122 W. 63/5, movement 1 (E-flat), 122; movement 3 (F), 75, 318n39

Schulenberg.indd 402

W. 63/6, 122; movement 3 (“Hamlet” fantasia, c), 122–23, 147, 240, 314n20 W. 63/7–12 (New Sonatinas), 123, 130, 191 W. 64 (keyboard sonatinas), 39, 3.4, 4.3 W. 64/2 (G), 39, 44, 191, 322n15 W. 65/1 (F), 19, 30 W. 65/2 (a), 39 W. 65/4 (suite, e), 27–28, 47, 3.3 W. 65/5 (e), 4.3 W. 65/6 (G), 38, 320n12 W. 65/7 (E-flat), 15, 28–29, 30, 39, 4.3, 4.4 W. 65/9 (B-flat), 39, 322n16, 324n35 W. 65/10 (A), 39, 322n16 W. 65/11 (g), 41, 44–45 W. 65/13 (b), 45, 81, 84 W. 65/14 (D), 81–82 W. 65/15 (G), 85–86 W. 65/16 (C), 82 W. 65/17 (g), 66, 82, 84, 126 W. 65/19 (F), 243 W. 65/20 (B-flat), 82 W. 65/22 (G), 84 W. 65/24 (d), 82, 84, 127, 330n12 W. 65/26 (G), 339n75 W. 65/29 (E), 133 W. 65/32 (A) (see W. 70/1) W. 65/33 (a), 9.2 W. 65/35 and 36 (C), 78, 318n38 W. 65/44 (B-flat), 236 W. 65/45 (B-flat), 236, 245, 360–61n36 W. 65/46 (E), 236 W. 65/47 (C), 228, 236–37 W. 65/48 (G), 10.7 W. 65/49 (c), 225, 351n121 W. 65/50 (G), 10.8

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index W. 66 (“Farewell” rondo, e), 131–32, 237, 239–40, 340n89 W. 67 (fantasia, f-sharp), 243–45 W. 68 (Variations and Embellishments), 76, 6.1 W. 69 (d), 84 W. 70/1 (A), 7.5 W. 70/2–7 (organ sonatas), 217, 7.5 W. 70/2 (B-flat), 7.5 W. 70/7 (praeludium, D), 330n12 keyboard trios, 186–88, 219–24; individual works: W. 71–78 (with violin), 32, 102, 181, 183 W. 71 (D), 31, 32, 33–34, 320n21, 3.5, 3.6 W. 72 (d), 31, 3.5, 3.6 W. 73 (C), 31, 333n57 W. 74 (sinfonia, D), 31, 209, 220, 9.2 W. 75 (F), 187, 353n38 W. 76 (b), 59, 65, 187–88, 245, 9.3 W. 77 (B-flat), 187, 9.3 W. 78 (c), 187, 9.3 W. 79 (arioso, A), 245, 10.8 W. 80 (C. P. E. Bachs Empfindungen), 7, 243–45 W. 81 (Twelve Little Pieces), 124, 188–90, 220, 7.4 W. 82 (Twelve Little Pieces), 188–90, 220, 7.4 W. 83–87 (with flute), 31, 186–87 W. 84 (E), 31 W. 87 (C), 353n30, 9.2 W. 88 (with viola, g), 186, 9.2

Schulenberg.indd 403

403

W. 89–91 (with violin, cello), 183 W. 89 (Six Trios), 206, 220–21, 222–34, 359n6, 10.2 W. 89/1 (B-flat), 223–24 W. 89/3 (A), 222 W. 90 (Three Trios), 220–21 W. 90/1 (a), 221, 10.2 W. 90/2 (G), 221, 225 W. 90/3 (C), 221–22 W. 91 (Four Trios), 122, 184, 220–21, 223 W. 91/1 (e), 223 W. 91/2 (D), 223 W. 91/3 (F), 10.2 W. 91/4 (C), 10.2 W. 92 (with clarinet, bassoon), 190, 359n5, 10.8 quartets, 190, 224–25 W. 93 (a), 225, 10.3 W. 94 (D), 225, 10.3 W. 95 (G), 225, 10.3 ensemble sonatinas, 133, 162, 181, 183–84, 188–95, 9.4, 9.5, 9.6 W. 96 (no. 1, D), 192 W. 97 (no. 3, G), 9.6 W. 98 (no. 4, G), 9.6 W. 99 (no. 5, F), 9.6 W. 100 (no. 7, E), 9.6 W. 101 (C) (see W. 106) W. 102 (no. 9, D), 193 W. 103 (no. 10, C), 193, 354n44, 9.6 W. 104 (d) (see W. 107) W. 105 (E-flat) (see W. 108) W. 106 (no. 8, C), 193, 195, 354n40 W. 107 (no. 11, d), 192, 193, 195, 354n40, 9.6 W. 108 (no. 12, E-flat), 193, 195, 354n40, 9.6 W. 109 (no. 2, D), 192, 193 W. 110 (no. 6, B-flat), 191

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404

index

Bach, Carl Philipp Emanuel, works of—(cont’d) miscellaneous keyboard pieces: character pieces, 132, 133–38, 190–91; individual works: H. 1 (two marches, two polonaises), 15, 26–27, 28 H. 242 (concerto, F), 130, 201, 355n65, 9.8 H. 340 (polonaise, g), 3.4 H. 348 (fantasia, E-flat), 126, 240, 330n7, 338n55 W. 111 (minuet, C), 16, 28, 124, 3.4 W. 112 (Keyboard Pieces of Various Types), 130 W. 112/1 (concerto, C), 130, 201 W. 112/13 (sinfonia, G), 130 W. 112/18 (solfeggio, G) (see W. 117/7) W. 112/19 (fugue, g) (see W. 119/5) W. 113–14 (Short and Easy Keyboard Pieces), 123, 130, 163, 233, 339n81 W. 115 (Four Duets), 10.8 W. 116/5, no. 1 (palindromic minuet, C), 171 W. 116/7 (minuets, F), 15, 316n10, 7.8 W. 116/19–20 (allegretto, F; allegro, D), 7.9 W. 116/23–28 (Six Little Pieces), 10.8 W. 116/23 (andantino, C), 10.2 W. 116/25 (allegro, D), 10.8 W. 116/52 (allegro ma non troppo, E-flat), 10.8 W. 116/57 (allegretto grazioso, C), 10.8

Schulenberg.indd 404

W. 117/2 (“Solfeggietto,” c), 7, 7.7 W. 117/7 (solfeggio, G), 7.7 W. 117/13 (fantasia, g), 240 W. 117/14 (fantasia, D), 22, 240 W. 117/18 (“La Pott”), 145, 344n25 W. 117/19 (“La Gleim”), 134, 142, 341n102 W. 117/25 (“La Stahl”), 133–34, 135, 7.9 W. 117/26 (“La Boehmer”), 341n112 W. 117/27 (“L’Aly Rupalich” or “La Bach”), 135–38 W. 117/30 (“Les langueurs tendres”), 7.9 W. 117/34 (“La Philippine”), 7.9 W. 117/36 (“La Louise”), 348n77, 9.2 W. 117/38 (“L’Ernestine” or “La Frédérique”), 133 W. 117/40 (“La Sophie”), 8.6 keyboard variations: W. 118/1 (“Ich schlief”), 44 W. 118/3 (minuet), 42–43 W. 118/4 (arioso), 42–43 W. 118/5 (allegretto), 126 W. 118/7 (Locatelli), 42–44 W. 118/8 (canzonetta), 10.8 W. 118/9 (Follia), 10.8 W. 118/10 (with varied reprises), 10.2 keyboard fugues, 132–33, 340n907.6; individual works: W. 119/3 (F), 7.6 W. 119/5 (g), 7.6

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index W. 119/6 (E-flat), 133, 358n94, 7.6 W. 119/7 (c), 132, 7.5 cadenzas (W. 120), 46 Miscellanea musica (W. 121), 22, 124, 226, 10.4 keyboard transcriptions, 125, 339n74; individual works: W. 122/1 (sinfonia, G), 85 W. 122/2 (sinfonia, F), 129, 339n74, 9.11 W. 122/4 (sinfonia, G), 130 solo sonatas: W. 123 (flute, G), 45, 47 W. 124 (flute, e), 45, 46, 47 W. 125 (flute, B-flat), 323n19, 5.3 W. 127 (flute, G), 317n33, 323n28 W. 130 (flute, B-flat), 5.3 W. 131 (flute, D), 86, 5.3 W. 132 (unaccompanied flute, a), 86, 273, 328n28 W. 133 (flute, G), 9.10 W. 134 (flute, G), 45 W. 135 (oboe), 45–46 W. 136–37 (gamba), 68–69, 86, 5.3 W. 138 (cello), 69 W. 139 (harp), 183, 352n16, 362n51 W. 140 (duo, flute and violin), 328n28 trios (trio sonatas), 21, 31–35, 101–6, 186, 3.5, 3.6, 9.2; scoring of, 101 trios (trio sonatas), individual works: H. 390.5 (G) (see BWV 1038 under Bach, Johann Sebastian) H. 585 (D), 9.2 W. 143 (b), 33, 317n33, 3.5, 3.6 W. 144 (G), 33, 317n33, 3.6

Schulenberg.indd 405

405

W. 145 (d), 32, 33, 34, 3.5, 3.6 W. 146 (A), 3.5 W. 147 (C), 34 W. 148 (a), 32–33 W. 149 (C), 30, 102, 333n57 W. 150 (G), 102, 333– 34n57 W. 155 (e), 96, 102 W. 156 (sinfonia, a), 209, 9.2 W. 158 (B-flat), 333n56, 9.2 W. 159 (B-flat), 9.2 W. 160 (d), 96, 333n56 W. 161 (Two Trios), 16, 31, 333n56 W. 161/1 (Program Trio, c), 103–6, 135, 145, 186, 188, 199, 328n24 W. 161/2 (B-flat), 103 W. 162 (two flutes, E), 31, 102, 186 W. 163 (F), 9.2 wind and string concertos: W. 164 (oboe, B-flat), 87, 184, 194, 266, 6.3 W. 165 (oboe, E-flat), 184, 266 W. 166–69 (flute), 331n29 (see also W. 13, W. 22, and W. 34 above) W. 169 (G), 9.7 W. 170–72 (cello), 196 W. 171 (B-flat), 110 sinfonias (symphonies), 209–18, 357n84, 9.11; individual works: W. 173 (G), 68, 85, 209, 213, 9.11 W. 175 (F), 129, 213, 9.11 W. 176 (D), 9.2 W. 177 (e), 16, 129, 179, 193, 209, 213, 357n91, 357n93, 9.11

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406

index

Bach, Carl Philipp Emanuel, works of—(cont’d) sinfonias (symphonies)—(cont’d) W. 178 (e), 357n93 W. 180 (G), 9.11 W. 181 (F), 183, 9.11 W. 182 (String Sinfonias), 168, 210, 213–15, 218, 316n15, 9.12 W. 182/1 (G), 215 W. 182/2 (B-flat), 212, 215, 9.12 W. 182/3 (C), 215, 9.12 W. 182/5 (b), 92, 213, 9.12 W. 182/6 (E), 9.12 W. 183 (Orchestral Sinfonias), 184, 185, 202, 210–11, 213, 214, 215–18 W. 183/1 (D), 217, 218, 8.4 W. 183/2 (E-flat), 215, 288 W. 183/4 (G), 217 Wq. n.v. 69 (G), 5.2 other instrumental works: March (wind ensemble, E-flat), 27 W. 184 (six sonatas, wind ensemble), 10.8 W. 184/4 (E-flat), 10.8 W. 184/6 (C), 10.8 W. 193 (clock pieces), 10.8 songs (lieder) and hymns, 120, 135, 139–42, 152–78; individual works: H. 842 (Wernigerode hymns), 165 H. 844 (three hymns), 371n11 W. 194 (Gellert Songs), 115, 124, 141, 146, 152– 62, 8.6 W. 194/5 (“Weinachtslied”), 8.6 W. 194/9 (“Bitten”), 302

Schulenberg.indd 406

W. 194/16 (“Gottes Macht”), 154–55 W. 194/21 (“Das Gebet”), 159 W. 194/24–25 (“Trost”), 343n18 W. 194/42 (“Osterlied”), 8.6 W. 194/44 (“Am neuen Jahre”), 159 W. 194/45 (“Bußlied”), 159 W. 194/47 (“Demuth”), 158 W. 195 (Gellert Appendix), 163 W. 195/11 (“Morgenlied”), 371n13 W. 195/12 (“Der 88. Psalm”), 163–65, 298 W. 196 (Cramer Psalms), 167–74, 175 W. 196/2 (“Der 4. Psalm”), 167, 349n95 W. 196/4 (“Der 8. Psalm”), 168–69, 8.7 W. 196/6 (“Der 17. Psalm”), 172 W. 196/7 (“Der 19. Psalm”), 170 W. 196/8 (“Der 23. Psalm”), 172 W. 196/9 (“Der 25. Psalm”), 298 W. 196/12 (“Der 32. Psalm”), 169, 170–71 W. 196/14 (“Der 42. Psalm”), 168 W. 196/15 (“Der 46. Psalm”), 169 W. 196/16 (“Der 47. Psalm”), 172–74 W. 196/18 (“Der 67. Psalm”), 169 W. 196/23 (“Der 93. Psalm”), 169 W. 196/24 (“Der 96. Psalm”), 172

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index W. 196/25 (“Der 97. Psalm”), 288 W. 196/30 (“Der 110. Psalm”), 169, 170 W. 196/35 (“Der 128. Psalm”), 169, 170 W. 196/36 (“Der 130. Psalm”), 8.6 W. 196/41 (“Der 148. Psalm”), 174 W. 196/42 (“Der 150. Psalm”), 170 W. 197–98 (Sturm Songs), 174–78, 343n12; choral arrangements, 175 W. 197/8 (“Die Würde des Christen”), 158 W. 197/12 (“Beschleunigung”), 176–77 W. 197/13 (“Der Tag des Weltgerichts”), 177 W. 197/14 (“Der Frühling”), 178 W. 197/19 (“Neujahrslied”), 178, 221 W. 197/29 (“Über die Finsternis”), 177–78 W. 198/6 (“Passionslied”), 177, 351n118 W. 198/10 (“Fröhliche Erwartung”), 175 W. 198/12 (“Andenken an den Tod”), 244, 8.7 W. 198/17 (“Gott, der Ernährer”), 175 W. 198/21 (“Fürbitte”), 8.7 W. 198/29 (“Jesus in Gethsemane”), 177 W. 199 (Odes), 163, 179 W. 199/2 (“Schäferlied”), 141 W. 199/4 (“Die Küsse”), 148, 156, 8.3 W. 199/20 (“Herausforderungslied”), 157

Schulenberg.indd 407

407

W. 200 (New Songs), 165, 286, 343n12 W. 200/3 (“Nonnelied”), 158, 165–66 W. 200/17 (“Holde Freude”), 158, 347n62 W. 200/20 (“An eine kleine Schöne”), 348n84 W. 200/22 (Die Grazien), 147, 166–67 W. 202C/8 (“Auf die Auferstehung”), 12.5 W. 202C/11 (“Der du wie Duft”), 10.7 W. 202F/1 (“Vaterlandslied”), 156, 165, 371n11 W. 202G/2 (“Lyda”), 371n11 W. 202I/2 (“Selma”), 166 W. 202N (Masonic Songs), 185 W. 203 (fourteen hymns), 300, 348n81 larger vocal works: inaugural pieces (Einführungsmusiken), 5, 250, 258, 262–63, 281–84, 370n99; lost vocal works, 54–56; militia music (Bürgerkapitänsmusiken), 250, 253, 258; oratorios, 266; passions, 147, 249, 252–53, 271–81, 11.2; seasonal pieces (Quartalsmusiken), 250, 252, 258 larger vocal works, individual works: Ich bin vergnügt, 48–49, 52–54 Michaelmas Music (1776), 12.2 “Reißt euch los,” (see BWV 224 under Bach, Johann Sebastian) H. 782 (St. Matthew Passion, 1769), 180, 202, 247, 248, 255, 260, 271–77, 308, 11.3

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408

index

Bach, Carl Philipp Emanuel, works of—(cont’d) larger vocal works—(cont’d) H. 783 (St. Mark Passion, 1770), 252, 277, 279, 12.5 H. 784 (St. Luke Passion, 1771), 274, 279, 280 H. 785 (St. John Passion, 1772), 279, 280, 363n20 H. 786 (St. Matthew Passion, 1773), 279, 280, 11.3 H. 787 (St. Mark Passion, 1774), 253, 279 H. 788 (St. Luke Passion, 1775), 253, 280–81, 370n97 H. 789 (St. John Passion, 1776), 280 H. 795 (St. Mark Passion, 1782), 177 H. 797 (St. John Passion, 1784), 11.3 H. 800 (St. Luke Passion, 1787), 331n15 H. 801 (St. John Passion, 1788), 286–87, 359n12 H. 802 (St. Matthew Passion, 1789) (see W. 235) H. 811 (Christmas Piece, 1772), 263, 296, 366n50, 373n39 H. 817 (Pentecost Piece, 1769), 262, 8.3 H. 819 (Visitation Piece, 1768), 362–63n4 H. 821a (Palm inauguration), 264, 281 H. 821b (Klefeker inauguration), 261 H. 821c (Schuchmacher inauguration), 256 H. 821d (Häseler inauguration), 282–84 H. 821e (Hornbostel inauguration), 256, 258,

Schulenberg.indd 408

263–64, 366n48, 11.4, 11.6, 12.5 H. 822a (militia oratorio, 1780), 10.8, 11.7 H. 823 (Tower Festival Music), 365n37, 11.7 H. 824a (wedding cantata), 264–66 H. 824e (Hymn of Thanks), 365n37, 365n42, 11.7 H. 848 (introduction for BWV 232), 185, 309, 376n72 W. 204 (Two Litanies), 171, 285, 287, 299–302, 12.4 W. 205 (“Der 2te Psalm”), 167 W. 206 (“Der 4te Psalm”), 167 W. 207 (“Veni sancte spiritus”), 258–59 W. 208 (Four Motets), 154, 302, 375n66 W. 211 (three arias), 3.2 W. 215 (Magnificat), 21, 68, 69, 108–14, 276, 281–82, 296–97, 373n39, 12.3 W. 216 (“Spiega, Ammonia”), 258, 11.7 W. 217 (double-chorus Heilig), 9–10, 136, 182, 226, 259, 285–86, 289–94, 365n37, 373n33, 12.2 W. 218 (Heilig), 289 W. 219 (Sanctus), 289, 8.4 W. 220 (“Veni sancte spiritus”), 258–59 W. 223 (“Zeige du”), 298 W. 227 (“Leite mich”), 298–99, 374nn51–52 W. 230 (“Der Tag des Weltgerichts”), 177 W. 232 (Phyllis und Thirsis), 165

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index W. 233 (Passion Cantata), 152, 163, 202, 247, 248, 255, 257, 271–76, 282, 284, 297, 362n1 W. 235 (St. Matthew Passion, 1789), 286, 302, 11.3 W. 236 (“Selma”), 166, 348n86 W. 237 (Der Frühling), 348n86 W. 238 (The Israelites), 180, 201, 202, 213, 255, 259, 262, 267–71, 303, 308 W. 239 (Klopstock’s Morgengesang), 9, 152, 157, 285–90, 12.1, 12.5 W. 240 (Resurrection Cantata), 167, 172–74, 182, 217, 226, 255, 257, 259, 260–61, 266, 285–86, 299, 302–9, 11.4, 11.6, 12.5 W. 243 (Easter Piece, 1784), 266, 296, 11.4, 12.3 W. 244 (Easter Piece, 1756), 148–52, 180, 8.4, 12.5 W. 245 (Michaelmas Piece, 1772), 278 W. 247 (Michaelmas Piece, 1775), 282–83, 365n41 W. 249 (Christmas Piece, 1775), 366n48, 8.6, 11.4 W. 251 (Friderici inauguration), 256, 364n27, 364n34 W. 253 (Schäffer inauguration), 284 writings: Comparison of Bach and Handel, 267, 2.2 Gedanken eines Liebhabers der Tonkunst, 148

Schulenberg.indd 409

409

W. 254–55 (Versuch), 22, 47, 60–61, 63, 69, 72–74, 110–11, 114, 115–24, 134, 141–42, 162, 179, 240, 334n1, 336n27, 6.1, 10.5 Bach, Friedelena Margaretha (aunt), 316n2 Bach, Johann Adam (son), 3 Bach, Johann Christian (half-brother), 2, 7, 109–10; style, 194; concertos, 192, 205–6; lieder, 139–40; Magnificat, 109, 113; piano trios, 220, 223, 358n3; sonatas, 132, 192; symphonies, 210 Bach, Johann Christoph (great-uncle), 103 Bach, Johann Christoph Friedrich (half-brother), 2, 69, 109, 333n56 Bach, Johann Gottfried Bernhard (brother), 2, 313n1, 323n26 Bach, Johann Jacob (uncle), 342n117 Bach, Johann Michael (grandfather), 13 Bach, Johann Nicolaus (cousin), 23 Bach, Johann Sebastian (father), 3, 140; at Berlin, 69; as church musician, 250; estate, 109; keyboard fingering, 17; revisions, 68; as teacher, 14–15, 17, 20–21, 49–50; variation suites, 23; vocal works, 156, 255, 256; individual works by BWV number (including doubtful and misattributed works): vocal works: BWV 54 (Widerstehe doch der Sünde), 48 BWV 51 (Jauchzet Gott), 48 BWV 82 (Ich habe genung), 150, 281 BWV 84 (Ich bin vergnügt), 54, 8.3 BWV 105 (Herr, gehe nicht), 298 BWV 145 (Ich lebe, mein Herze), 4.5 BWV 161 (Komm, du süsse Todesstunde), 49

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410

index

Bach, Johann Sebastian (father)—(cont’d) vocal works—(cont’d) BWV 211 (Coffee Cantata), 48 BWV 224 (“Reißt euch los”), 4.5 BWV 232 (B-Minor Mass), 112, 114, 185, 303, 309 BWV 241 (Sanctus, D), 372n22 BWV 243 (Magnificat), 111–13, 289 BWV 244 (Saint Matthew Passion), 52, 252, 274, 369n88 BWV 245 (Saint John Passion), 279, 368n73 BWV 249 (Easter Oratorio), 55 BWV 253–438 (four-part chorale harmonizations), 15, 153, 164 BWV 439–507 (“Schemelli” songbook), 15, 140m 316n8 keyboard works: BWV 546 (prelude and fugue, c), 132 BWV 594 (concerto, C, after Vivaldi), 47 BWV 772–86 (inventions), 123, 375n58; in F, 81 BWV 826–30 (Clavierübung, part 1), 124 BWV 826 (partita, c), 9.8 BWV 827 (partita, a), 27 BWV 829 (partita, G), 28 BWV 830 (partita, e), 81 BWV 831 (partita, b), 27 BWV 844a (scherzo, e), 28, 3.3 BWV 846–93 (Well-Tempered Clavier), 17, 122 BWV 903 (Chromatic Fantasia and Fugue), 8 BWV 970 (presto, d), 15

Schulenberg.indd 410

BWV 971 (Italian Concerto), 130 BWV 988 (Goldberg Variations), 23, 42 BWV Anh. 122–25, 319n5 BWV Anh. 126 (musette, D), 316n10, 319n9 BWV Anh. 127 (march, E-flat), 316n9, 319n7 BWV Anh. 128 (polonaise, d), 316n10 sonatas: BWV 1014–19 (violin and keyboard), 31 BWV 1018 (f), 187 BWV 1020 (flute and keyboard, g), 15, 23, 65, 2.1 BVW 1021 (violin, G), 23 BWV 1022 (violin and keyboard, F), 34–35 BWV 1030 (flute and keyboard, b), 46, 52, 91 BWV 1031 (flute and keyboard, E-flat), 15, 23, 65, 327n22, 2.1 BWV 1032 (flute and keyboard, A), 31 BWV 1033 (flute, C), 27, 3.6 BWV 1034 (flute, e), 34 BWV 1036 (trio, d), 33, 34, 3.6 BWV 1038 (trio, G), 21, 23, 35 BWV 1039 (trio, G), 55 concertos: BWV 1052 and 1052a (d), 37, 47 orchestral suites: BWV 1067 (b), 27 BWV 1068 (D), 55 Musical Offering: BWV 1079, 32, 69, 101 Art of Fugue: BWV 1080, 60, 110

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index Bach, Johann Sebastian (son), 3, 124, 166 Bach, Johanna Maria (wife), 3, 114 Bach, Maria Barbara (mother), 2 Bach, Wilhelm Friedemann (brother), 1, 7, 8, 109, 125, 180; Clavierbüchlein (Keyboard Book), 14, 17, 20; choral fugues, 112, 150, 256; church works, 282; compared to Emanuel, 26, 37; and Handel, 267; flute duets, 225; opera, 367n66; sinfonias, 214–15; viola duets, 224, 9.2; individual works: F. 25 (minuets, g, d), 15, 28; F. 45 (concerto, a), 6.4; F. 46 (double concerto, E-flat), 193; F. 72 (Wer mich liebet), 283; F. 76 (Wohl dem), 370n103; F. 80 (Lasset uns ablegen), 108, 283; F. 90 (O Himmel, schone), 133 Bach, Wilhelm Friedrich Ernst (nephew), 109 basso continuo. See figured bass batteries, 237, 360n33, 6.4 Bebung, 126, 227, 239, 317n24 Beethoven, Ludwig van, 96, 98, 259, 287, 293, 300, 313n2, 7.6; Gellert Songs, 347n66; Ninth Symphony, 174 Benda, Franz (František), 61–62, 183, 187, 194, 330n4 Benda, Georg (Jiří Antonín), 9, 62, 293; vocal works, 252, 256, 258, 278 Berlin, 37, 60; concerts, 183–86, 10.8; musical life, 58, 62, 63, 139, 159, 162; musical style, 64, 194, 331n20; opera, 61, 63, 183, 5.1; state library (Staatsbibliothek), 1.2 Bertuch, Carl Volckmar, 338n59 Blake, William, 300 Bloom, Harold, 306, 331n22 Bode, Johann Joachim Christoph, 245 Bogenclavier, 10.7 bow vibrato, 298 Brahms, Johannes, 101 Breitkopf, Johann Gottlob Immanuel, 124, 125, 221, 259, 267, 286, 305 Bremner, Robert, 220

Schulenberg.indd 411

411

Brennessell, Franz, 352n16, 5.2 Brühl, Heinrich von, 108 Brussels, Royal Conservatory library, 1.2 Bürgerkapitänsmusik, 250 Büsch, Johann Georg, 185, 214 Burney, Charles, 7, 64, 126, 183, 184, 229, 277, 278 Caccini, Giulio, 165 cadenza, 33, 46–48, 100, 122, 205, 208, 266, 4.4, 9.7 cantata, terminology, 149, 247, 11.1 capriccio, 47 Carl Eugen, duke of Württemberg, 63, 66, 5.2 cembalo, 317n26 character (piece), 340n95 Chopin, Fryderyk Franciszek, 136, 7.5 Christian Ludwig, margrave of Schwedt, 36 Claudius, Matthias, 120, 135, 167, 194, 214, 229 clavichord, 18–19, 84, 119–20, 122, 219, 330n8; music for, 125–32, 227; pedal clavichord, 109, 334n4, 2.2; by Silbermann, 120, 126, 131, 202, 227, 229, 239, 329n44, 2.3 Clavier, 20, 125, 227 Cochius, Leonhard, 149, 151, 345– 46n45 collegium musicum: Leipzig, 16; Frankfurt (Oder), 37, 55, 57 “comic” style, 191, 194–95, 203–4, 220, 223 concerto, as genre, 57; form, 51, 87, 89, 203; scoring, 88–89 concerts, public, 93, 183–85 “continuity draft.” See sketches Corelli, Arcangelo, 46, 130; La Follia, 10.8 counterpoint, 21 Couperin, François, 134; L’Art de toucher, 123; “La Couperin,” 137; “Les Langueurs tendres,” 7.9; on ornaments, 117–18 Cramer, Carl Friedrich, 144, 145

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412

index

Cramer, Johann Andreas, 167–68, 171; Donnerode, 145 da capo (form). See aria Darkbloom, Vivian, 345n41 Ditmar, Jacob, 344n31, 345n34 Doles, Johann Friedrich, 50, 347n71; “Bußlied,” 159–60, 162; Raset und brauset, 49 Dresden, 111 Drillhaus (Hamburg), 185 drum bass, 84–85, 8.3 Dünkelfeind, Caspar (pseudonym), 148, 8.3 Duport, Jean-Pierre (l’ainé), 196 Dvořák, Antonín, Rusalka, 346n58 dynamics, 122, 346n46 Ebeling, Christoph Daniel, 145, 158, 248, 344n27 editions, of Bach’s music, 1.2, 1.3, 5.4 Einbau. See Soloeinbau Einfühurungsmusik, 250 Elisabeth Christine, queen of Prussia, 109, 183, 216, 10.7 Empfindsamkeit (empfindsamer Stil), 7, 8, 1.5 Engel, Johann Jacob, 144–45 Enlightenment, 2.1 Erneuerung. See revisions under Bach, Carl Philipp Emanuel Eschenburg, Johann Joachim, 248, 2.2 expression, musical, 135 fantasia, 240; fantasia (fantasy) style, 66, 182, 214, 227; improvisation of, 122 Fasch, Carl Friedrich Christian, 60, 93, 110, 131, 194, 347n69 Fasch, Johann Friedrich, 179 fermata, 366n54 figured bass, in composition, 22, 240, 242; and harmony, 120–21, 165; performance of, 121–22, 153, 7.3 fingering, in keyboard works: 17, 117, 134

Schulenberg.indd 412

flute, 273, 331n15. See also recorder Forkel, Johann Nicolaus, 12, 18, 220, 228, 234 form, musical, 24 fortepiano (piano), 126; in concertos, 190, 206; in quartets, 225; in rondos, 227 Frankfurt (Oder), 55 Frederick II “the Great,” king of Prussia, 36, 45, 55, 59–60, 62, 180, 195; on church music, 259; as composer, 64; concerts, 70, 179; “first servant of the state,” 5.1; as patron, 79–80, 326n63; as performer, 194; symphony in D, 125; written-out embellishments, 5.2 Freemasonry. See Masonry Friedrich Wilhelm I, king of Prussia, 36–37, 54–55 Friedrich Wilhelm II, king of Prussia, 196, 216 Friedrich Wilhelm, margrave of Schwedt, 36, 56 Fritzsch, Christian Gottfried, 350n111 Froberger, Johann Jacob, 27, 103, 5.2; Suite 19 (c), 319–20n10 fugue, in oratorio, 295 Gähler, Caspar Siegfried, 374n54 galant (musical style), 314n25 Galuppi, Baldassare, 194, 223 Gellert, Christian Fürchtegott, 125, 140, 158, 253, 363n20, 8.6 Gerber, Ernst Ludwig, 20 Gerlach, Carl Gotthelf, 111 Gerstenberg, Heinrich Wilhelm von, 123, 147, 8.2 Gleim, Johann Wilhelm Ludwig, 134, 157 Gluck, Christoph Willibald, 211, 303 Goldberg, Johann Gottlieb, 49–50 Graziani, Carlo, 196 Gotha, 62 Gottorp Agreement, 249, 11.7 Gottsched, Johann Christoph, 140 Gräfe, Johann Friedrich, “Bußlied,” 159, 162

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index Graun, Carl Heinrich, 25, 61, 64, 67, 111, 125, 211; Artaserse, 65; concertos, 91; influence on Bach, 259; Kommt her und schaut, 344n30; lieder, 139, 140–41; musical style, 65; Rodelinda, 65; Te Deum, 125, 186, 291–93, 295; on text setting, 146; trios, 101, 9.2; Tod Jesu, 148, 186, 194, 271, 275, 292, 295 Graun, Johann Gottlieb, 17, 61, 67, 187, 211, 331n19; concertos, 91; lieder, 139, 140–41; Mass (Kyrie and Gloria, E-flat), 111–12, 295, 373n38; La Passione, 112; sacred works, 335nn13–15; sinfonias, 209; trios, 101, 106, 186, 327–28n23, 353n27, 9.2 Greiner, Johann Carl, 10.7 Grotthuß, Ewald von, 239, 340n89 Hamburg, 180, 249, 278; chorales at, 260; church music, 247–48, 249; Church of St. Michael, 11.7; concerts, 181, 183–85; militia, 253 hand-crossing, 28, 122 Handel, George Frideric, 185, 267; Alexander’s Feast, 260, 268, 367n59; Brockes Passion, 176–77, 351n122; “Chandos” Te Deum, 291–92; Esther, 351n122; Funeral Anthem, 174, 350n110; “Hallelujah” Concerto, 268, 367n61; Israel in Egypt, 268; Jephtha, 150; Joshua, 264; Messiah, 114, 259, 268, 297, 303, 309; vocal works, 174, 267–68 Handlungsakademie (Hamburg), 185, 11.7 Harmoniemusik, 10.8 harmony. See figured bass harpsichord, 125, 219; registration, 84, 330n10 Harrer, Gottlob, 49, 108 Hartmann, Christian Carl, 9.10 Hasse, Johann Adolf, 67, 112, 213, 357nn90–91; Cleofide, 366n56, 5.2; concertos, 91; musical style, 65; operas, 146, 261

Schulenberg.indd 413

413

Haydn, Franz Josef, 96; Creation, 152; piano trios, 220; symphonies, 204 Hayne, Gottlieb, 330n4 Heinichen, Johann David, 121 Heinse, Wilhelm, 137; Hildegard von Hohenthal, 341–42n115 Helm, E. Eugene, 1.2 Hertel, Johann Wilhelm, 331n27 Hesse, Ludwig Christian, 9.2 Höckh, Carl, 9.2 Hoffmann (composer), 247 Hoffmann, Johann Andreas, 284, 363n4, 11.7 Hohlfeld, Johann, 10.7 Homilius, Gottfried August, 113; arias, 269, 11.3, 12.5; influence on Bach, 261–62; vocal music, 146–47, 247, 252, 256, 274, 280–81, 336n20, 365n46 Horace (Quintus Horatius Flaccus), 314n19, 341n107 horn, 358n101; in concertos, 201; in sinfonias, 216–17 Hummel, Johann Julius, 359n6 Illert, Friedrich Martin, 274, 11.3 improvisation, of fantasias, 241–42; of variations, 76, 193, 329n44 Itzig, Sara. See Levy, Sara Ives, Charles, 115 Janitsch, Johann Gottlieb, 62, 186 Johanneum, 4, 249 Justinischer Garden, 184 Karsch, Anna Luisa, 163, 248, 363n7 Keiser, Reinhard, 274 Kerll, Johann Caspar, 291 keyboard instrument, choice of, 119, 332n39; compass, 329n40, 330n12 Kirnberger, Johann Philipp, 125, 153, 296, 298, 343n22, 367n58; lieder, 139 Kittel, Johann Christian, 9.7 Klinger, Friedrich Maximilian, 96 Klopstock, Friedrich Gottlieb, 9, 185, 270, 287–88, 300

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414

index

Kluge, Johann Christian, 14 Koch, Heinrich Christoph, 51 Kottowsky, Georg Wilhelm, 181, 351n119 Krause, Christian Gottfried, 9, 63, 134, 142–44, 184, 287, 342n9, 8.1 Kuhnau, Johann, 103, 334n60 Lehr, Leopold Franz Friedrich, 163 Leipzig, 3, 125 Leister, 304 Lessing, Gotthold Ephraim, 142, 145, 185, 194, 344n26 Levi (Samuel Salomon Levy), 193, 354n46, 9.10 Levy, Sara, 102, 193, 208–9, 224 litany, 299, 300 Lobkowitz, Ferdinand, 5.2 Lobkowitz, Philipp Joseph von, 110 Locatelli, Pietro, Arte del violino, 41, 47; flute sonatas, 30, 41–42 Luise, princess of Prussia and queen of Sweden, 65 Lutheranism, 156, 157 Mainwaring, John, 268 manuscript sources, of Bach’s works, 1.2 Mara, Ignaz, 196 Marpurg, Friedrich Wilhelm, 133, 337n48, 8.3; Abhandlung von der Fuge, 21, 110, 132, 171, 295, 296, 340n90; “Bußlied,” 159–60, 162; lieder, 139; Pièces de clavecin, 134 Masonry, 185 Mattheson, Johann, 32, 121, 267, 268 Mendelssohn, Felix, 345n38 Mendelssohn, Moses, 10 Michel, Johann Heinrich, 206, 209, 251, 274, 284, 363n14 Mietke, Michael, 36 Milton, John, 9 modulation, by third, 222. See also “new” modulation under Bach, Carl Philipp Emanuel Monday Club, 134, 142

Schulenberg.indd 414

Mozart, Wolfgang Amadeus, 96, 313n2; “Im Frühlingsanfang,” 178; Magic Flute, 165, 282 murki, 136, 341n112 musical rhetoric, 9, 8.4, 8.6. See also text painting under Bach, Carl Philipp Emanuel Musikalisches Allerley, 124, 130 Musikalisches Mancherley, 124, 130 Musikalisches Vielerley, 106, 186, 7.8 Nabokov, Vladimir, 345n41 Nachlassverzeichnis, 5, 257–58, 1.2 Naumburg, 14 Neumeister, Erdmann, 60, 277 Nichelmann, Christoph, 62, 110, 316n14, 345n40; Die Melodie, 147–48, 8.3 Nicolai, Friedrich, 18, 142, 214, 8.2 Niedt, Friedrich Erhardt, 23, 337n48 Oberdörffer, Fritz, 9.7 oboe, 202 octave, rule of, 10.5 ode, 347n63 Oeser, Adam Friedrich, 350n111 oratorio, in Germany, 303; terminology, 11.1 ornaments, 117–20, 336n34; signs for, 72, 119, 337n40; in songs, 337n46 parody, 253, 11.3 pastiche (pasticcio), 252–53, 274 pedals (keyboard), 18 performance practice, in Bach’s music, 1.2 piano. See fortepiano Picander (Christoph Friedrich Henrici), 48, 49, 54, 140 picturesque, musical, 9 Pisendel, Johann Georg, 61, 210, 211, 322n13 Platti, Giovanni Benedetto, 329n1 Poelchau, Georg, 298 polonaise, 7.7 Possin, Johann Samuel Carl, 93, 9.7 Potsdam, 70, 101, 184

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index Pott, Johann Heinrich, 344n25 printing, of music, 124 Printz, Wolfgang Caspar, 23 programmatic music, 103, 132 Quantz, Johann Joachim, 8, 23, 62, 63, 64, 67, 111, 142, 148, 184; on appoggiaturas, 118; on cadenzas, 46–47; concertos, 100, 194, 197, 210; on figured bass realization, 122; lieder, 139, 140–41; musical style, 65; Solfeggi, 7.7; on technique, 337n48; trios, 101, 186, 187, 318n45; Versuch, 110, 116 Quartalsmusik (Quartalsstück), 250 quartet, 224 Rackemann, Friedrich Christian, 348n72; “Bußlied,” 159–62 Rameau, Jean-Philippe, 118, 120–21, 122, 190, 211, 360n33; “Les Niais de Sologne,” 7.7; “La Rameau,” 137 Ramler, Carl Wilhelm, 135, 184, 287, 303, 304 recapitulation, 30 recitals. See concerts recitative, instrumental, 9, 62, 79, 103, 197, 355n61 recorder, 9.2 Reichardt, Friedrich, 17–18, 187, 213, 214, 228, 364n26 Rellstab, Johann Carl Friedrich, 226 “renovations.” See revisions under Bach, Carl Philipp Emanuel retransition, 51–52 return (in sonata form), 30 Richter, Johann Christoph, 23 Riepel, Joseph, 51 ritornello form. See concerto Rode, Christian Bernhard, 184, 352n18 Rosen, Charles, 10, 30, 64 Rust, Friedrich Wilhelm, 93, 191 Sanssouci (palace), 70 Schaffgotsch, Johann Nepomuk Gotthard, 9.2 Schaffrath, Christoph, 62

Schulenberg.indd 415

415

Scheibe, Johann Adolph, 32, 51 Schenker, Heinrich, 358n1, 10.6 Schering, Arnold, 96 Schiebeler, Daniel, 268, 281, 367n62 Schiørring, Niels, 300 Schleswig-Holstein, 300 Schlichting, 142, 342n8 Schmid, Balthasar, 16 Schuback, Jacob, 256, 367n59, 372n23 Schubert, Franz, 152, 178 Schulz, Johann Abraham Peter, 343n22, 365n38 Schumann, Robert, 152, 159 Schütz, Heinrich, 285 Schwickert, Engelhardt Benjamin, 216, 314n11, 337n53 “second” theme, 89, 217. See also Sonate auf Concertenart Seigle, Shirley, v sequence, 77–78. See also “step” sequence Seven Years’ War, 3, 60, 125, 131, 159 Shudi, Burkart, 125 siciliano, 245, 9.3 Silbermann, Gottfried, 126, 229 sinfonia, 209–10; church sinfonia, 194; instrumentation, 210, 216 Sing-Akademie zu Berlin, 60, 251, 1.2 sketches, compositional, 50, 70, 87, 166, 226, 324n46, 374n45, 11.3 solfeggio, 7.7 Soloeinbau, 94, 97 Sonate auf Concertenart, 34, 65, 187–88 sonata, as cycle, 182; as genre, 38, 57, 219; sonata form, 28–30, 41 Sophia Dorothea, queen of Prussia, 37 Sorge, Georg Andreas, 338n56 Spontini, Gaspare, 293 Stahl, Georg Ernst, 340n99 “step” sequence, 217, 8.4, 9.11 Sterne, Laurence, 245 Stölzel, Gottfried Heinrich, 280 Stöttrup, Andreas, 167, 175 Sturm, Christoph Christian, 157–58, 174–75 Sturm und Drang, 44, 96 sublime, the, in music, 9, 172

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416

index

Sulzer, Johann Georg, 145, 343n22, 365n38 Swieten, Gottfried van, 213, 214 symphonie concertante, 210 symphony. See sinfonia tangent piano (Tangentenflügel), 332n39 Tapray, Jean-François, 9.10 Tartini, Giuseppe, 89, 331n19 Telemann, Georg Michael, 247, 261 Telemann, Georg Philipp, 2, 14, 57, 60, 152, 180, 181, 247, 269, 321n26; Das befreite Israel, 268, 270, 275; Bequemliches Leben, 344n31; concertos, 197; concerts, 188–85; Donnerode, 145, 211, 12.5; flute fantasias, 86; Getreuer Music-Meister, 359n11, 10.5; Harmonischer Gottesdienst, 50; Horche nur, 344n31; Ino, 184; “Oratorical” cycle, 146; passions, 248, 261, 274, 280; Resurrection Cantata (Auferstehung), 275, 303, 305–6; Seliges Erwägen, 275, 307; Tag des Gerichts, 145; trios, 186; “Veni sancte spiritus,” 259; vocal music, 112, 113, 145, 151, 252 tempo rubato, 360n29 tenuto, 75 theme (thema), 65 Thulemeier, Friedrich Wilhelm, 186 Tischler, Johann Nicolaus, 147 tonic preparation, 332n35, 9.11 Töplitz, 330n8 Tragen der Töne, 126 Trajan, 55 tremolo, slurred. See bow vibrato trio, scoring, 3.5; terminology, 31 Türk, Daniel Gottlob, 166 unison, choral, 365n41 Unterhaltungen, 268

Schulenberg.indd 416

variation (Veränderung), 22, 23, 64, 72, 75–77 varied reprise, 22, 130–31, 190, 193, 203, 223, 236, 245 “vaudeville,” 262, 276, 283–84, 306, 366n47, 11.7 Vienna, 195, 311 viola, 224, 9.2 violone, 211 Vivaldi, Antonio, 39; RV 208 (Concerto, C), 47; RV 589 (Gloria, D), 112 Voß, Johann Heinrich, 165, 303 Weldig, Adam Immanuel, 316n3 Wer ist der (pastiche oratorio), 274, 344n30 Westphal, Johann Christian, 185, 353n24 Westphal, Johann Jacob Heinrich, 209, 224, 331n27, 1.2 Whitman, Walt, 300 Wilcke, Johann Caspar, 316n3 Williams, Peter, 11 Windter, Johann Wilhelm, 5.2 Winter, Georg Winter, 159 Winthem, Johanna Elisabeth von, 270 Wolff, Christian, 54 word painting. See text painting work, musical, 131 Wotquenne, Alfred, 1.2 Wrede, Herr, 251, 274, 284, 363n15 Wulff, Zippora, 209 Württemberg, dukes of, 62. See also Carl Eugen Zell, Albrecht Jacob, 146 Zelter, Carl Friedrich, 93, 213, 357n91; Auferstehung, 12.5 Zerbst, 131, 179, 7.5 Zernitz, Mme., 193, 354n46 Zittau, 108, 261

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