The Violin 1580465064, 9781580465069

Citation preview

EDITED BY ROBERT RIGGS

The Violin

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The Violin

Edited by Robert Riggs

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Copyright © 2016 by the Editor and Contributors 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 2016 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: 978-1-58046-506-9 ISSN: 1071-9989 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Riggs, Robert, 1946– editor. Title: The violin / edited by Robert Riggs. Other titles: Eastman studies in music ; v. 135. Description: Rochester : University of Rochester Press, 2016. | Series: Eastman studies in music, 1071-9989 ; v. 135 Identifiers: LCCN 2016024924 | ISBN 9781580465069 (hardcover : alk. paper) Subjects: LCSH: Violin—History. Classification: LCC ML800 .V5 2016 | DDC 787.2—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016024924 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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For Frank Pinkerton, David Cole, Kurt Frederick, Leonard Felberg, Dorothy DeLay, and Emanuel Borok

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CONTENTS

List of Illustrations

ix

Preface

xi

Acknowledgments

xvii

Part One: An Instrument or a Metaphor? 1

Associations with Death and the Devil Robert Riggs

2

Violinists and Violins in Literature Robert Riggs

3

36

Part Two: Across the Centuries 3

The Violin in Italy during the Baroque Period Peter Walls

63

4

Bach and the Violin Peter Wollny

95

5

Mozart, Beethoven, and the Violin Robert Riggs

6

The Violin Concerto and Virtuosity in the Nineteenth Century Robert Riggs

7

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The Violin Concerto in the Twentieth Century Robert Riggs

123

157

186

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viii ❧ Contents

8

The Masters’ Voice: Recordings as Documentation of Performance Practice Eitan Ornoy

214

Part Three: Across the Continents 9

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The Peripatetic Violin Chris Goertzen

241

10 The Devil’s Box No More: Fiddling in America Chris Goertzen

266

List of Contributors

291

Index

293

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ILLUSTRATIONS

Figures

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1.1 Death and the Church Piper from the Basel Dance of Death

7

1.2 Death and the Official from the Knoblochtzer Dance of Death

9

1.3 Hendrik Goltzius, Couple Playing with Death Behind

13

1.4 Simon Renard de Saint-André, Vanitas

14

1.5 Johann Peter Lyser, Paganini caricature (ca. 1828)

19

1.6 Arnold Böcklin, Selbstbildnis mit fiedelndemTod (Self-portrait with death fiddling), 1872

23

1.7 Alfred Rethel, Tod als Erwürger (Death as strangler), 1851

25

4.1 J. S. Bach, Partita in B Minor, BWV 1002, Sarabande, autograph fair copy

107

4.2 J. S. Bach, fragmentary Sinfonia to lost church cantata BWV 1045, mm. 118–32, autograph

119

5.1 Mozart, Sonata for Violin and Piano in G Major/Minor, K. 379, autograph, mvt. 3, last variation

135

5.2 Mozart, Sonata for Violin and Piano in G Major/Minor, K. 379, autograph, mvt. 3, last folio

135

6.1 Quartet of the London Beethoven Quartet Society (ca. 1859)

171

9.1 Two Tarahumara fiddles

246

10.1 “Lord MacDonald’s Reel” in a typical Scottish version

269

10.2 “Fisher’s Hornpipe,” “Lord MacDonald’s Reel,” and “Money Musk” as penned by Arthur MacArthur

275

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PREFACE

I

n late 2012, Ralph Locke approached me about writing, or editing, a book on “the violin,” which he envisioned would become the first volume of a projected series devoted to individual instruments for the Eastman Studies in Music, of which he is the senior editor. Having begun my career as a professional violinist—later I added degrees in musicology to my background—I was immediately attracted by the project. After only two or three days of reflection, I committed to it. We decided that the target audience should be practicing musicians (serious amateurs, advanced students, and professionals) as well as informed concertgoers and collectors of recordings. The content of the book was left to my discretion, although Locke suggested that it might include chapters on, among other things, the violin’s association with the demonic, the violin and violinists in literature, and the violin in world music—all topics that I found compelling. With these ideas as a point of departure, I developed an outline for the book, which has at its core a chronological series of chapters that survey violin repertoire (primarily concertos and sonatas) from the Baroque period up to the present. As revealed in the table of contents, these central chapters, along with one devoted to recordings as documentation of performance practice, are framed by the chapters that Locke proposed. In light of my heavy responsibilities as chair of the Music Department at the University of Mississippi, my desire to remain active as a performer, and the need to complete the work in a timely manner, I decided to edit the book, not write it entirely on my own. I assembled a team of contributing authors who agreed to write five of the ten chapters. I happily assumed responsibility for the remaining five. The contents and scope of this volume differ sharply from those of other general books on the violin.1 Most significantly, it is not encyclopedic in its inclusion of topics or in its treatment of those that are present. For example, there are no chapters on the history,

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xii ❧ Preface

construction, physics, or pedagogy of the violin, though these matters are referred to when appropriate. To prevent the book from expanding to two volumes, chapters on the central role of the violin in orchestral, operatic, and chamber music are also omitted. Moreover, in the solo repertoire chapters, rather than exhaustive listings of composers and works, authors have focused only on those that they considered most important or interesting. Thus, this is emphatically not a reference book. Although this personal, essayistic approach dictated that many important composers and compositions would be left out, it allowed, for those that are included, sufficient space for moderately detailed discussions. The overriding purpose of this book is to broaden the target audience’s knowledge of the musical and cultural contexts of the violin and its repertoire. In the chronological chapters the emphasis is on core repertoire—that is, the limited number of works that violinists actually study, perform, and love. However, many violinists pay very little attention to the context of these works. They are willing to spend a year practicing a concerto in order to play it on a concert, but they devote minimal, if any, attention to the concerto’s place in the composer’s life, in the history and development of the genre, or to what is unique or typical about its style and structure. The goal of these chapters is to address these issues in a concise manner, but with sufficient depth to incorporate perspectives from recent scholarly research. Thus they are designed to be practical and user-friendly for violinists as well as for concertgoers and record collectors. While most violinists listen to recordings for inspiration and to gather ideas on interpretation, few are aware of the great volume of highly sophisticated and detailed research about recordings that has been published in recent years. Chapter 8, “The Masters’ Voice: Recordings as Documentation of Performance Practice,” provides a valuable and stimulating overview of this vast topic, which will enable readers to identify specific studies and recordings relevant to their personal concerns and goals. The four framing chapters (the first two and the final two) address the wider cultural significance of the violin and violinists. The violin’s long association with death and the devil is not widely appreciated. Thus the first chapter, in addition to its innate interest, plants an important theme that reappears in several later chapters, including the second, which treats the violin and violinists in literature. Those

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Preface ❧ xiii

who love the violin and its music will take delight in (and, if they are so inclined, derive many hours of reading pleasure from the novels and stories discussed in) this survey of fiction in which violins and violinists play crucial, often starring, roles. The final two chapters focus on the role of the violin in a variety of world cultures and explore one modern genre that lies outside the concert tradition—fiddling. Again, many violinists have only a limited concept of the stylistic and geographic range of their instrument, though of course many of them have been superficially exposed to bluegrass fiddling and the like. For them, these chapters will be a revelation that increases their appreciation for the violin’s versatility and its contributions to musical life on four continents. ❧ ❧ ❧

In chapter 1, on the violin’s “Associations with Death and the Devil,” I trace this multidisciplinary topic from its origins in the Dance of Death frescoes on medieval church walls, to the violin’s prominence in dance music (which was condemned by early Christian leaders), and to Baroque paintings of the vanitas (vanities), a genre of memento mori (remember your mortality) that depicts objects—musical instruments (often violins), but also wilted flowers, human skulls, and others—as symbols of ephemeral earthly pleasure and the inevitability of death. More recent cultural contexts include: the romantic fascination with the supernatural, especially the legend of Faust; the exploitation and glorification of virtuosity in the nineteenth century; and the appellation of the violin as the “devil’s box” in American fiddling. Since the early nineteenth century, violins and violinists have figured prominently in a sizable body of fiction. Writing “Violinists and Violins in Literature” (chapter 2) gave me the pleasurable opportunity to revisit a number of novels and short stories and to discover many more. These works fall into relatively well-defined categories: novels that focus on the personal and professional lives of violinists; mystery and crime thrillers in which the detective is associated with the violin; novels with a violin as the principal character or unifying object; novels that depend on supernatural or fantasy elements; and short stories that treat a variety of topics generally not found in novels. Peter Walls, a New Zealander who has published widely on the music and performance practice of the seventeenth and eighteenth

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xiv ❧ Preface

centuries and beyond, is also a distinguished violinist and conductor. Walls divides chapter 3, “The Violin in Italy during the Baroque Period,” into sections on Violins and Violin Makers, SeventeenthCentury Composers, Eighteenth-Century Composers, The Italian Diaspora, and Performance Practice. He draws attention to many lesser-known composers whose music would repay greater cultivation, and he traces with admirable clarity the gradual emergence of the late Baroque trio sonata and concerto from the multifarious and less standardized genres of the early Baroque. Peter Wollny, director of the Bach-Archiv in Leipzig, is the prolific author of studies devoted to J. S. Bach, his forefathers, and his sons. In “Bach and the Violin” (chapter 4) he establishes the context for Bach’s violin music by drawing attention to influences from his older contemporaries. Naturally, Bach’s Sonatas and Partitas for Solo Violin and his Six Sonatas for Violin and Obligato Harpsichord are Wollny’s primary focus. In addition to insightful and pithy characterizations of these works, he also provides lucid and detailed descriptions of their eighteenth-century manuscript sources. These descriptions will be of special interest to violinists who wish to pursue their own textual and performance practice research. In “Mozart, Beethoven, and the Violin” (chapter 5), I sketch both composers’ training and ability as violinists, which for Mozart were on par with his talent and skill as a pianist. After a brief discussion of Mozart’s early “accompanied keyboard sonatas,” I place his sixteen mature sonatas for violin and piano into their biographical and genre contexts. Two sonatas, K. 304 in E Minor and K. 379 in G Major, are highlighted, the former in regard to its structure and potent expressive content, and the latter as a case study of his compositional process. Salient aspects of three of Mozart’s violin concertos are also discussed. Beethoven, in his ten sonatas for violin and piano, was inspired by Mozart’s seminal achievements in this genre. I emphasize Beethoven’s further development of the duo sonata regarding the relationship between the instruments, and the new structural and expressive realms that he explores. Beethoven’s great Violin Concerto in D Major, op. 61, which was an influential model for later composers, is reserved for the following chapter. Given the plethora of major composers and works in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, I had to make hard decisions concerning which ones to include in the next two chapters: “The Violin Concerto

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Preface ❧ xv

and Virtuosity in the Nineteenth Century” (chapter 6) and “The Violin Concerto in the Twentieth Century” (chapter 7). Because of word limitations, I realized that it would be impossible to include both sonatas and concertos. I opted for the latter, although in the chapter on the nineteenth century a few shorter virtuoso works (e.g., operatic fantasies and other show pieces by the great violinist/composers) are touched on. My goal in both chapters was to elucidate striking and unique features of the concertos as well as to highlight commonalities and influences between many of them. In “The Masters’ Voice: Recordings as Documentation of Performance Practice” (chapter 8), the Israeli violinist and conductor Eitan Ornoy divides his investigation into three phases or periods according to major developments in recording technology: early (1898–1930); intermediate (1930–70); and recent (1970–present). As determining factors of performance style, he focuses on tempo (including rubato), articulation (choice of bow strokes), fingerings (left-hand positions, harmonics, and open strings), portamento, and vibrato. His discussion of the impact of “historically informed performance” (HIP) and the eventual cross-fertilization between HIP and mainstream performers is particularly stimulating. And his extensive notes point readers to numerous in-depth studies of these issues. Chris Goertzen has published widely on the role of the violin in a variety of world cultures. In chapter 9, “The Peripatetic Violin,” Goertzen wisely limited his discussion to four representative regions and styles: the music of the Tarahumara Indians in Mexico who carve crude violins for use in the accompaniment of their ancient matachines dances; the ensemble art music of South India in which the violin participates in the exploration of ragas; the popular Argentine tango, which has been exported worldwide, with its characteristic timbres of the violin and bandoneón; and the “folk music” of the Norwegian vanlig fele (normal fiddle, i.e., violin), which occupies an integral role in establishing and maintaining regional identity. In chapter 10, the final chapter, “The Devil’s Box No More: Fiddling in America” Goertzen covers the origins, development, and present state of fiddle playing in North America, a tradition that has now shed its former demonic associations. These two chapters—and also the contents of the entire book—substantiate his assertion that “the versatility and consequent geographic and cultural reach of the violin is breathtaking.”

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xvi ❧ Preface

In the early twentieth century, painters Pablo Picasso (1881–1973) and Georges Braque (1882–1963), who were living in Paris, created an innovative and influential style in the visual arts: cubism. Instead of copying reality, they experimented with reducing and fracturing objects into their constituent geometric forms and then reassembling them from multiple and contrasting points of view. Thus, Picasso’s cubist Violin with Grapes (1912) on the dustjacket provides an apt visual metaphor for the great variety of perspectives from which the violin and its repertoire are explored in this book.

Notes 1.

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See, for example, Walter Kolneder, The Amadeus Book of the Violin: Construction, History, and Music, trans. and ed. Reinhard G. Pauly (Pompton Plains, NJ: Amadeus, 1998), originally published as Das Buch der Violine (Zurich: Atlantis, 1972); Robin Stowell, ed., The Cambridge Companion to the Violin (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992); and David Schoenbaum, The Violin: A Social History of the World’s Most Versatile Instrument (New York: Norton, 2013).

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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

M

y greatest debt of gratitude goes to Ralph Locke for entrusting me with the first volume of his projected series of books on individual instruments for the Eastman Studies in Music. Having devoted most of my life to learning, performing, teaching, and researching the violin and its repertoire, creating this book has represented a welcome but demanding “capstone” mission. Along the way, whenever I needed advice, constructive criticism, or energizing, Ralph always came to the rescue with his vast experience, tact, humor, and much appreciated encouragement. It has been a great pleasure to work with him and also with the excellent editorial staff at the University of Rochester Press, including: Sonia Kane, Julia Cook, Ryan Peterson, and Tracey Engel. I am also grateful to Chris Kayler (for accurate preparation of the musical examples), to Therese Malhame (for expert copyediting), and to Sam Bruskin (for meticulous proofreading). Sincere thanks to the contributing authors—Chris Goertzen, Eitan Ornoy, Peter Walls, and Peter Wollny—who wrote chapters enriched by expertise acquired from having devoted much of their careers to their respective topics. Our collaboration has enabled me both to renew old friendships and to initiate new ones, all of which I hope will continue to flourish now that the book is finished. During the writing and editing process, I occasionally was overwhelmed with involuntary reminiscences of past pedagogues and professors. For teaching me to play the violin, but also for instilling in me a passion for music, I thank: Frank Pinkerton (my first teacher); David Cole (a lifelong violin mentor and friend); Kurt Frederick and Leonard Felberg (inspiring professors at the University of New Mexico); Dorothy DeLay (for two wonderful summers at Meadowmount); and Emanuel Borok (for demanding coaching in Boston). Although there were no violin professors on the faculty at Harvard University during my years there as a graduate student in musicology, there were outstanding musicians (pianist Luise Vosgerchian and composer/pianist/

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xviii ❧ Acknowledgments

conductor Leon Kirchner) with whom I was fortunate to study and perform, and distinguished musicologists (Christoph Wolff and Louis Lockwood) to whom I am indebted for their rigorous teaching and invaluable scholarship. I might not have accepted the challenge of this book, had it not been for my wife, Mary. Having lived for many years with my compulsive need for daily violin practice, she immediately realized that it would represent a very meaningful project for me. She was correct, and I am grateful for her patience and support throughout the long process.

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Part One An Instrument or a Metaphor?

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1

ASSOCIATIONS WITH DEATH AND THE DEVIL

Robert Riggs

I

n Igor Stravinsky’s L’histoire du soldat (The soldier’s tale)—a theatrical work, premiered in Switzerland in 1918, which incorporates instrumental music, narration, acting, and dance—a soldier gives his violin to the devil in return for a book that enables him to become a rich man by predicting the future of the economy. Based on a Russian folktale, the text exploits the violin as a symbol of the soldier’s soul as well as the devil’s supernatural cunning and power. Both protagonists mime playing the violin for the dances that are integral to the scenario. In Charlie Daniels’s 1979 hit bluegrass ballad, “The Devil Went Down to Georgia,” the devil plays the fiddle and is looking for souls to steal. He encounters a fiddle-playing young man, Johnny, and lures him into a fiddling contest. If Johnny wins, he receives the devil’s golden violin; otherwise he forfeits his soul. Johnny, confident that he “is the best there ever was,” accepts the “sinful” wager. After both play, the devil admits defeat. The association of the violin with death and the devil in these works (and there are many more), with their temporal and geographic separation and their acutely divergent musical styles, suggests that we are dealing with a deeply entrenched and widely disseminated cultural tradition. It developed over the course of many centuries and resulted from the confluence of multiple factors, including: the early Christian church’s condemnation of dancing and the instrumental music that accompanied it; medieval representations of the Totentanz, danse

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4 ❧ Chapter One

macabre (Dance of death) in the visual arts; and the widespread use of the violin, after its development in the sixteenth century, in dance music. Baroque visual artists produced numerous paintings of the vanitas (vanities), a genre of memento mori (remember your mortality) that depicts objects—including musical instruments, books, wilted flowers, burned-out candles, hourglasses, human skulls—as symbols of ephemeral earthly pleasure and the inevitability of death. More recent cultural contexts include the romantic fascination with the supernatural, especially the legend of Faust; the exploitation and glorification of virtuosity in the nineteenth century; and the appellation of the violin as the “devil’s box” in contemporary American fiddling traditions.1 Although early Christianity welcomed dance and at times even incorporated it in worship, in the fourth century church leaders began condemning it. Saint John Chrysostom (ca. 347–407) wrote: “Where dance is found, there is the devil”; and criticism of dance by Saint Augustine (354–407) was the basis of the pronouncement by Jacques de Vitry (ca. 1160/70–1240) that “Dance is a circle in whose center is found the devil.”2 Throughout the Middle Ages religious writings repeatedly emphasized that the devil created dance in order to confuse man and lead him into sin, death, and damnation. Also, both literary and pictorial representations of the period generally depict the devil, either in hell or on earth, dancing. Sometimes he plays his own music, sometimes it is provided by others. In both cases, the same instruments are most commonly employed: the fistula (Latin for pipe) and the tympanum (Latin for drum), either separately or together. In medieval musical terminology, which is often inconsistent and imprecise, “fistula” includes a variety of related wind instruments, both with and without reeds (flutes, shawms, crumhorns, zinks [cornets], and bagpipes); and “tympanum” encompasses several percussion instruments (drums of various types, tympani, and tambourines).3 Not surprisingly, actual medieval dance music generally employed instruments from the fistula and tympanum groups. Thus, it logically followed that these instruments were used by and for the devil and that they came to share negative metaphorical associations with him. Epidemics of bubonic plague ravaged Europe during the late Middle Ages. The first plague bacteria arrived in Italy in 1347, unknowingly introduced by merchants and soldiers returning home from the Middle East. Within five years the bacteria spread (transmitted by the fleas of rats and humans) throughout Europe, killing an estimated twenty-five

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Associations with Death and the Devil

❧ 5

million people, or one-third of the total population. Although there were periods of respite, plagues erupted intermittently and remained an ever-present threat until after 1600, and thus they were an important factor behind the birth and development of a new genre of visual art, the Dance of Death, during these centuries. The Dance of Death depicts skeletons coming to life and claiming new victims. Initially, during the late-fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, dances of death were executed as frescoes (wall murals painted on wet plaster) depicting a long procession of from twenty to forty couples, each consisting of a skeleton (Death) paired with a living person. The human in each couple is a representative from a different social or professional class, and the couples are ordered according to the person’s status, beginning with the highest (clergy and royalty), proceeding through the professions and trades, and ending with the lowest (servants, beggars, and thieves). The victims’ specific function and station in this hierarchy are indicated by their clothing and accessories. Moreover, many dances of death include accompanying texts in the form of brief poetic dialogues for each couple: four (or eight) lines for Death followed by a four- or eight-line response from the human. The dialogue references the person’s status or profession, which, moreover, is directly stated in the title. Many, though not all, of the skeletons are dancing or playing musical instruments, and their speech frequently includes an invitation to dance together.4 These early depictions of the Dance of Death, most of which are anonymous, were large works painted on the interiors of churches and monasteries or on the walls of covered walkways in courtyards. Years, sometimes even centuries, later, other artists (who generally have been identified) made small woodcut or engraved copies of some of these frescoes. These small-scale reproductions—which divide the original processions into segments, each with one or two couples—were printed and sold in book format, thereby widely disseminating these dances of death and their didactic message, which was always the same: death eventually overtakes everyone regardless of age, worldly status, power, or wealth. Moreover, because it can come quickly and without warning—after its onset, the plague often led to death within two or three days—one must be prepared at all times by leading a virtuous life. Medieval society was rigidly stratified by social and economic distinctions, and thus the lower classes welcomed the equalizing, democratic implications of this message. However, this potentially revolutionary

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6 ❧ Chapter One

aspect was kept in check by a political and religious power structure that emphasized the parity of all souls after death, but not on earth.5 The Dance of Death in Basel, Switzerland, one of the most famous examples of this genre, illustrates all these aspects. It was painted on the church courtyard wall of the Dominican monastery in 1440 as a memorial to the deadly plague outbreak during the previous year. Consisting of thirty-nine nearly life-size skeleton/human pairs, the procession was almost sixty meters long. Although protected by an overhanging roof, the fresco gradually deteriorated because of exposure to the elements and was finally destroyed in 1805, when the building on which it was painted was demolished. Fortunately, the Swiss-born artist, Matthäus Merian (1593–1650), had made engraved copies of all the individual pairs, which were published in 1621. In the Basel Dance of Death, skeletons play (or refer to) instruments in ten of the thirty-nine scenes. The instruments include: trumpet, pipe (flute), lute, lyre, bagpipe, various drums, and one bowed string instrument—the fiddle shown in Death and the Church Piper (see fig. 1.1). An ancestor of the violin, the medieval fiddle first appeared in the twelfth century. Its front and back were made from flat boards, and it had from three to six strings over a flat bridge. Thus, only the highest string could be bowed alone and fingered for the melody, while the other strings functioned as drones. In modern German, the text reads: Tod zum Kirchpfeifer Was für ein Tänzlein wolln wir machen, den Bettler oder den Schwarzen Knaben, mein Kilbehans? Der Spass wär nicht komplett, wärst Du nicht auch an diesem Tanz. Der Kirchweihpfeifer Nie war mir eine Kirchweih zu weit weg, um dort nicht abzusahnen. Das ist jetzt aus, den ich muss weg, die Pfeife fiel mir in den Dreck. Death to the Church Piper What kind of dance shall we do, the beggar or the black boy [devil], my Kilbehans? The fun would not be complete, if you were not part of this dance.

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Figure 1.1. Death and the Church Piper from the Basel Dance of Death. Keiser, Der tanzende Tod, 248.

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8 ❧ Chapter One The Church Fair Piper For me a church fair was never too far away not to skim off the cream there. That is over now, I must go, because my pipe fell in the mud.6

The presence of only one bowed string instrument in the Basel Dance of Death suggests that a preferential association between these instruments and death or the devil was not yet established. This is confirmed by consulting additional dances of death from this period, which are most numerous in Germany, Austria, and Switzerland, but also are found in France, Italy, England, and the Slavic countries. Wind and percussion instruments (pipes, drums, pipe-and-drum combinations, shawms, crumhorns, bagpipes, and trumpets) are predominant. Lutes, lyres, and even an early version of the xylophone are also depicted. Medieval bowed string instruments (rebec, fiddle, viola da braccio) appear only once or twice in each series.7 For example, of all the dances of death, the series of woodcuts printed (ca. 1485) by Heinrich Knoblochtzer (ca. 1445–ca. 1500) contains the most extensive use of music and dance elements. In thirty-five of the thirty-eight couples, Death plays an instrument. However, there is only one bowed string instrument: the medieval fiddle in Death and the Official [or Judge] (see fig. 1.2). Thus, although the precursors of the violin are not prominent in medieval and Renaissance dances of death, this tradition nevertheless established a strong correlation between death, dancing, and dance music. Furthermore, it is clear that the skeletons should be understood as representatives of the devil. They frequently dance joyfully while playing their instruments, many of which are associated with the devil. Moreover, the accompanying dialogue often insinuates that the victims anticipate an afterlife in hell because of their worldly transgressions. The text (shown below in modern German) for Knoblochtzer’s Death and the Official (fig. 1.2) vividly illustrates this: Der Tod An Euch ist nun die Reihe, hochwürdiger Herr Offizial. Ihr habt in all der Zeit viel falsche Urteile gefällt. Hättet Ihr dem Armen Recht gesprochen wie dem Reichen, Ihr könntet frohgemut zu diesem Tanze gehen.

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Figure 1.2. Death and the Official from the Knoblochtzer Dance of Death. Keiser, Der tanzende Tod, 122.

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10 ❧ Chapter One Doch wie auch immer, Ihr müsst sterben, und Aufschub gibt’s nicht mal bis morgen. Der Official Hilf Gott. Ich bin in grossen Sorgen, krieg ich nicht Aufschub nur bis morgen. Ich bin in schlechtem Zustand und hätt’ viel zu bedenken noch. Hätt’ ich für meine Seele vorgesorgt, so käme nun ich nicht in Gottes Acht. Und hätt’ geholfen ich den Armen so könnt’ sich Gott meiner erbarmen. Death It is now your turn Honorable official [judge]. You have always pronounced many false judgments. If you had judged the poor the same as the rich, You could have gone happily to this dance. But nevertheless, you must die, and there is no deferral even until tomorrow. The Official [Judge] God help me. I am very worried, can’t I have a reprieve just until tomorrow? I am in a very bad state and still have much to consider. If I had taken precautions for my soul, I would not come to God’s attention now. And if I had helped the poor God could show me mercy.8

The violin was a new instrument in the sixteenth century. After several decades of experimentation and evolution, by the mid-sixteenth century violin makers working in northern Italy—most notably Andrea Amati (ca. 1505–77), along with his sons and grandsons, and Gasparo da Salò (ca. 1542–1609)—were creating violins with their modern characteristics, including: shape, dimensions, four strings tuned in fifths, and curved bridge enabling each string to be played alone. The violin family (violin, viola, and cello) gradually emerged as a competitor of the older family of fretted, usually six-string viols, which were already fully developed and established by the beginning of the sixteenth century.

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Associations with Death and the Devil

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The violin’s stronger and louder tone soon made it preferable to the viol for use in dance music and for other festive occasions. A sociological distinction between the two families also developed: viol playing was cultivated by upper-class amateurs for pleasure, while violins were played by professionals for hire. This contrast was drawn by the French composer of sacred vocal music, Philibert Jambe de Fer (1515–66), in a theoretical treatise that contains one of the first discussions of the violin: “Viols are played by noblemen, merchants, and other persons of means to while away the time. . . . The other instruments are called violins. They generally are used for dancing, for a good reason: they are easier to tune, for the ear detects a fifth more easily than a fourth. The violin also is easier to carry, which is useful when leading weddings or maskers’ processions.”9 Similar, often deprecating remarks about the violin are common in French sources from the late sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. The important music theorist, mathematician, and philosopher, Marin Mersenne (1588–1648), states that the violin “is the most proper of all [instruments] for playing for dancing as is experienced in the ballet and everywhere else,” and he recommends it for outdoor entertainments of all types.10 And Jean-Laurent Le Cerf (1674–1707), Lord of Freneuse and Keeper of the Seals for the Parliament of Normandy, wrote that there “are few people who perform it [violin] except those who make a living from it.”11 Much of the dance music to which these sources refer was played from memory in taverns and other vernacular settings by musicians who in many cases probably did not read music. Because it was not printed, most of this music has not survived. Gradually, however, increasingly sophisticated dance music was composed and performed for special occasions in elevated society. A royal wedding at the French court in 1581 featured an elaborately choreographed entertainment, Circé ou le balet comique de la royne (Circe or the queen’s comic ballet), which included dances for a five-part string ensemble. The score, which was published in 1582 and is the first printed music to specify the violin, was largely the creation of Baltazarini (ca. 1535–87), an Italian violinist and ballet master who settled in France—where he changed his name to Balthasar de Beaujoyeux—and achieved considerable influence at court. This was the beginning of the French court’s cultivation of string “dance orchestras,” culminating with the establishment in 1626 of the famous “Vingt-quatre Violons du Roi”—not literally “the King’s twenty-four violins,” but rather a five-part

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string orchestra of violins, violas, cellos, and basses. In the latter half of the seventeenth century, the Italian-born French composer, violinist, and dancer, Jean-Baptiste Lully (1632–87), led this organization. Violins also frequently doubled the parts in vocal music, including church music. Moreover, while the French were slow to accept the violin as a participant in formal concert music, the Italians did not discriminate against it. Already in the early seventeenth century they developed advanced violin technique and were the first to compose a demanding repertoire of sonatas and concertos for the violin. Nevertheless, the violin’s early and continued prominence in dance music still colored its reputation. This association, along with the memory of the church’s condemnation of dance and the Dance of Death tradition, made the violin an appropriate instrument for a variety of artistic genres that paired music either with death or the devil, or both. As the vogue of the Dance of Death in the visual arts declined in the sixteenth century, its function was gradually assumed by a new genre of memento mori, paintings and graphic prints of the vanities, which illustrate the passing, ephemeral nature of all earthly experiences and luxuries. Some early examples, such as the engraving attributed to the Dutch artist Hendrik Goltzius (1558–1617) shown in figure 1.3, include human figures as well as a skeleton, which is reminiscent of the Dance of Death tradition. But there are important differences. Goltzius’s couple is engrossed in the enjoyment of sensual pleasure: love, music, food, and drink. Unlike the humans in the dances of death, they are unaware that their time is running out (symbolized here by the hourglass in the background) and that Death, playing the viola da braccio, is hovering over them and could call at any moment, as the text warns: “We are often sitting in joy / Death is much closer than we know.”12 The vanities became a favorite subject for many artists in the seventeenth century, but, unlike the Goltzius engraving, these later works generally do not include humans or skeletons. Rather, these artists preferred still-life arrangements of objects with well-known and easily understood symbolism: burning (or burned-out) candles and hourglasses for the passing of time; wilted flowers and skulls for death; books, dice, and playing cards for pastimes devoid of lasting value; and food, drink, and musical instruments (often the violin) for the ephemeral nature of sensual experience. The vanity by the French painter and engraver, Simon Renard de Saint-André (ca. 1613–77), shown in figure 1.4, contains several of these iconic objects: a human skull,

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Figure 1.3. Hendrik Goltzius (1558–1617), Couple Playing with Death Behind (ca. 1600). Reproduced by permission from Lebrecht Limited.

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Figure 1.4. Simon Renard de Saint-André (1613–77), Vanitas. Still life with skull, sheet music, violin, shells, burnt candle, and hourglass. Musée des Beaux-Arts, Marseille. Reproduced by permission from Scala / White images / Art Resource, New York.

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wilted flowers, an extinguished candle, manuscript music, an hourglass, and a small narrow-bodied violin known as a “kit.” In addition to music, the kit also references dance, because, in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, dance masters frequently played it, thus providing their own music, while teaching their students.13 During the Baroque period, violinists who displayed exceptional skill and virtuosity were sometimes suspected of having acquired it with supernatural assistance from the devil. The German violin virtuoso, Thomas Baltzar (ca. 1631–63), came to England around 1655, where he enjoyed a highly successful career that culminated with his appointment to the Private Music of Charles II. Anthony Wood (1632–95), an antiquary and amateur musician, heard Baltzar perform and was astonished by his virtuosity and mastery of high positions. Wood noted in his diary that Baltzar played to the wonder of all the auditory; and exercising his fingers and instrument several wayes to the utmost of his power, [John] Wilson thereupon the public Professor [at Oxford], (the greatest judge of musick there ever was) did after his humoursome way, stoop downe to Baltzar’s feet to see whether he had a huff [hoof] on, that is to say, to see whether he was a devill or not, because he acted beyond the parts of man.14

One of the most colorful anecdotes concerns the genesis of the “Devil’s Trill” Sonata by of Giuseppe Tartini (1692–1770). The distinguished French astronomer and mathematician, Joseph-Jérôme de Lalande (1732–1807), published an account of his extensive travels in Italy during which he visited Tartini in Padua. According to Lalande, Tartini related that he dreamed one night, in 1713, that he had made a compact with the Devil, who promised him to be at his service on all occasions; and during this vision everything succeeded according to his mind. In short, he imagined he gave the Devil his violin, in order to discover what kind of musician he was; when to his great astonishment, he heard him play a solo so singularly beautiful and executed with such superior taste and precision, that it surpassed all he had ever heard or conceived in his life. So great was his surprise and so exquisite his delight upon this occasion that it deprived him of the power of breathing. He awoke with the violence of his sensation and instantly seized his fiddle in hopes of expressing what he had just heard, but in vain; he, however, then composed a

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16 ❧ Chapter One piece, which is perhaps the best of all his works (he called it the “Devil’s Sonata”) but it was so inferior to what his sleep had produced that he declared he should have broken his instrument and abandoned music forever, if he could have subsisted by any other means.15

Although this dream about a violin-playing devil may only be fantasy (either Tartini’s or Lalande’s), the story nevertheless became legendary, especially in the nineteenth century after the sonata, which is for solo violin and basso continuo, was finally published in L’art du violon (Paris, 1798) by Jean-Baptiste Cartier (1765–1841).16 This sonata, one of Tartini’s greatest works, quickly entered and has remained in the standard repertoire. A modest number of short trills appear in the early movements, but it is undoubtedly the sustained trills in the last movement that are “devilishly” difficult. Example 1.1 shows a trill that extends for eighteen measures; the two-voice texture requires a continuous trill on one string combined with the simultaneous articulation of a moving line on another. In addition to the challenging coordination, the large stretches for the left hand demand extraordinary flexibility. The legend of Tartini’s diabolic dream spawned numerous works in various genres, including the material for two ballets by Arthur SaintLéon (1821–70), a multitalented ballet dancer, virtuoso violinist, choreographer, and composer. For his Tartini il violinista (Venice, 1848) Saint-Léon created the scenario and choreography, composed the violin solos—most of the music was by the prolific composer of ballet scores, Cesare Pugni (1802–70)—and danced the title role, which also involved simultaneously performing on the violin.17 He followed this success with an alternate version of the ballet, titled Le violon du diable (Paris, 1849).18 Saint-Léon’s diabolical reputation was further solidified when he again performed as both ballet dancer and violinist in his own choreography for Le lutin da la vallée (The goblin from the valley, Paris, 1853). Other Tartini-inspired works include: Le songe de Tartini, grande scène vocale avec violon obligé (Tartini’s dream, grand vocal scene with violin obbligato, ca. 1830) by August Panseron (1796–1859), which was a favorite of the great French mezzo-soprano, Pauline Viardot-Garcia (1821–1910); the opera Il trillo del diavolo (Rome, 1899) by Stanislao Falchi (1851–1922); and a painting titled Tartini’s Dream (1868) by James Marshall (1838–1902).19 In the nineteenth century, Italian violinist Niccolò Paganini (1782– 1840) acquired a demonic reputation, not by his own volition, but

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Example 1.1. Giuseppe Tartini, Sonata for Violin and Basso Continuo in G Minor (“Devil’s Trill Sonata”), mvt. 3, mm. 38–55.

rather largely because critics suggested that supernatural assistance was the secret source of his astonishing virtuosity.20 After a childhood and adolescence devoted to practicing the violin as well as studying music theory and composition, Paganini spent several years as a professional orchestral musician in Lucca. In 1810, at age twenty-eight (very late by present standards), he began his solo career and for the next eighteen years concertized with great success throughout Italy. Paganini performed his own compositions almost exclusively, especially his violin concertos and numerous sets of variations on popular opera arias and national songs, all of which were designed to display his strengths: soulful tone production for cantabile melodies, and great agility and speed for sensational effects in bravura passages. The latter incorporated new techniques—double harmonics, left-hand pizzicato, fingered-octaves, ricochet and slurred staccato bowing—that he developed and exploited to a greater extent than any previous composer or violinist. Reviews of Paganini’s concerts in Italy regularly characterized him as a sorcerer, charlatan, or wizard. Although these terms can imply the use of magic and possibly supernatural power, in colloquial usage they are less ominous and may merely refer to a very skillful or clever person. The leading German violinist of the time, Louis Spohr (1784–1859), who met and heard Paganini in Venice, noted in his autobiography that the Italian public favored these terms: If one asks just what it is about his playing that so appeals to the Italians, one hears from the nonmusical the most exaggerated pronouncements: that he is a true magician, that he produces tones never before heard from a violin, etc. The connoisseurs, on the other hand, while granting him a certain skill in the left hand, in double-stops, and in all kinds of figurations, hold that precisely that which so charms his audiences reduces him to the level of a mere charlatan without compensating for

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18 ❧ Chapter One his deficiencies in tone and interpretive style . . . what really captures the Italian public . . . is a bag of tricks: namely, flageolets, variations on a single string (removing the other three, in order to drive the point home), a kind of pizzicato with the left hand . . . and in many sounds not native to the violin, such as bassoon tones, the voice of an old woman, etc., etc.21

Indeed, Paganini was never known for having a big sound or for insightful interpretation of music other than his own. The critics’ appellations for Paganini became more explicitly demonic after he began concertizing outside of Italy. He made his first trip abroad in 1828, at age forty-six, and spent the next six years “conquering” most of Europe. The fame that he had won in Italy preceded him, firing the public’s anticipation, and soon he was playing to sold-out halls at premium prices. He began in Vienna (with excursions to Prague), and then, using Frankfurt as a base, spent two years touring throughout Germany and Poland; he gave 100 concerts in 40 Polish cities. In February 1831, he moved to Paris, where he would remain until returning to Italy in 1834, although he spent eight or nine months of this time performing in England, Ireland, and Scotland. In a letter to a friend, he reported that in a single year (during this period in France and the British Isles) he gave 151 concerts and traveled five thousand miles by coach. In Austria, Germany, France, and England critics employed a number of vivid and unmistakably demonic monikers for Paganini. Already in Vienna he was labeled “Devil’s Spawn,” and the Viennese artist Johann Peter Lyser (1804–70) published a caricature of Paganini playing the violin, which incorporates numerous Satanic references (see fig. 1.5). Paganini, with intense visage and hair flying, seems either to be dancing or indulging in extravagant body language. He is encircled by powerfully symbolic objects: a human skull, a black cat, a snake coiled around a staff, a pyramid, and several items used in alchemy and astrology. In the background there are evocations of the Dance of Death (skeletons dancing in a circle, their leader playing the violin in imitation of Paganini) and Death and the Maiden (a swooning woman holding a skull). As summarized by Maiko Kawabata: “In its detailed references to occult mystery, this caricature provides a visual expression of the famous legend that Paganini had sold his soul to acquire superhuman powers on the violin.”22 In the course of his European concert tours, the fiendish characterizations of Paganini intensified. In Berlin, Zelter called him a Hexensohn

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Figure 1.5. Johann Peter Lyser (1804–70), Paganini caricature (ca. 1828). Reproduced by permission from Lebrecht Limited.

(witch’s son); for Rellstab he was both a Hexenmeister (witch’s master) and Mephisto; and A. B. Marx referred to him as Dr. Faustus. In Weimar, Goethe said he was demonic. In Paris, d’Ortigue called him Mephistopheles, and a review in L’Entracte labeled him Satan. In a London review he received the moniker Zamiel, the name of the satanic character in Weber’s opera, Der Freischütz (1821).23 That Paganini was identified with both Mephistopheles (the personification of the devil) and Faust (who sold his soul to the devil) testifies to the popularity and influence of the play, Faust (1805), by the preeminent German writer and polymath, Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (1749–1832). After its first French translation appeared in 1814, Faust ignited just as much attention in France as in Germany. Romantic culture’s fascination with the supernatural, the macabre, and death, provided an ideal atmosphere for Paganini’s demonic image to flourish. In addition to Paganini’s dazzling performances of his own fiendishly difficult compositions, nonmusical factors also contributed to his persona. The sensational aspects of his private life—embroidered and

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20 ❧ Chapter One

exaggerated in rumors—as well as his striking personal appearance bolstered the public’s perception of him as demonic. Paganini never married but was involved in several tempestuous, usually brief love affairs. His longest liaison was with a young singer, Antonia Bianchi. They lived together from 1823 to 1828 and had a son, for whom Paganini won custody when the couple ended their relationship. Paganini was a compulsive gambler, and one persistent (but unverified) rumor held that once he even lost his violin on a wager. Nevertheless, substantial income from his concerts made him wealthy during most of his life. Anecdotes and rumors could fictionalize Paganini’s private life, exaggerating and even inventing some of its lurid aspects, but his physique was publicly visible and verifiable. He was tall, very slender, and black hair highlighted the pale completion of his gaunt face. Many found his visage to be cadaverous; he did suffer from poor health for much of his life. But the Romantic imagination found more sensational explanations. Heinrich Heine (1797–1856), one of the greatest German writers of the period, heard Paganini in Hamburg in 1830 and fictionalized this experience in the fragmentary novel, Florentine Nights, in which the narrative persona, Maximilian, vividly dramatizes the violinist’s Satanic aura: [Paganini’s] long black hair fell in tangled locks on his shoulders, forming a dark frame for the pale, corpse-like countenance, in which grief, genius, and hell combined had graved their ineffaceable signs. . . . Was that a living man, who knows that he is about to perish and who will delight the public in the area of art, like a dying gladiator with his convulsions or a dead man risen from the grave, a vampire with a violin?24

While listening to the performance, Maximilian fantasizes that he sees a devilish face and hands assisting Paganini: Behind him grimaced a face whose physiognomy indicated a jovial, hegoat nature; and I saw long, hairy hands which seemed to belong to it, moving now and then on the strings of the violin which Paganini played, often guiding his hand, while a floating, applauding laugh accompanied the tones which welled forth more painfully, and as if bleeding, from the violin. . . . Then there came in hurried crowds from the violin sounds of pain, and a terrible sighing and gasping, such as no one ever heard on earth before, and perhaps will never hear again, unless it shall be in the Vale of Jehoshaphat, when the tremendous trumpets of the Last

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Judgment ring out, and the naked corpses creep from their graves to await their doom.25

Later in the concert, Maximilian’s romantic imagination conjures up a cosmic vision of Paganini controlling the threatening forces of nature: I could hardly recognize him in the brown monk’s dress, which rather disguised than clothed him. His wild and wasted face half-hidden by the hood, a rope around his waist, Paganini stood on a cliff overhanging the sea, and played his violin. It seemed to me to be twilight tide; eveningflame flowed over the broad sea, which grew redder and redder, and rustled and roared more gaily and wildly in mysterious and perfect harmony with the violin. . . . [he] commanded the elements, for then there was a mad, delirious howling in the depths of the sea, and the furious waves of blood leaped up so furiously on high that they almost besprinkled the pale heaven and its black stars with their red foam. . . . There was howling, crashing, cracking, as if the whole world was breaking to fragments, while the monk played more madly on his violin. . . . Then in the raging zeal of invocation his hood fell back, and the ringlets flying in the wind curled round his head like black serpents.26

Paganini’s demonic image—created by the press, fueled by exaggerated rumors about his mysterious and dissolute lifestyle, enhanced by his emaciated appearance, and sensationalized in fiction—fused with his unprecedented genuine virtuosity and showmanship to produce one of the most charismatic performers in the history of music. His success with the public was equaled by the influence that he exerted on other musicians. His compositions permanently raised the bar for violin virtuosity and inspired numerous subsequent violinist/composers, including Heinrich Ernst (1814–65), Henri Vieuxtemps (1820– 81), Henryk Wieniawski (1835–80), and Pablo Sarasate (1844–1908). Moreover, musicians who were not violinists also came under his spell. When the twenty-year-old pianist Franz Liszt (1811–86) heard Paganini in Paris in 1832, he was overwhelmed by the violinist’s instrumental mastery and personal aura. In a letter to a piano student, Liszt wrote: “I too am a painter!” cried Michelangelo the first time he beheld a masterpiece. . . . [I] cannot leave off repeating those words of the great man ever since Paganini’s last performance . . . what a man, what a violin, what an artist! Heavens! What sufferings, what misery, what tortures in

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22 ❧ Chapter One those four strings! . . . As to his expression, his manner of phrasing, they are his very soul!27

Even prior to his encounter with Paganini, Liszt already had a strong penchant for virtuosity, but he now began developing this aspect with new focus and intensity. In the same letter Liszt reported that he had begun practicing four to five hours daily just on technical studies (thirds, sixths, octaves, tremolos, note repetitions, and cadenzas) with the goal of becoming an artist of Paganini’s stature. In the coming years, Liszt modeled his career on the violinist’s by pushing his piano technique to extreme limits, by composing works that exploited these abilities, and especially by deploying his personal charisma during extensive international concert tours to kindle—just as Paganini had done—an intensity of fame and frenzied popular following comparable to that of present-day rock or pop music icons. Moreover, beginning with Liszt, numerous composers—including Schumann, Brahms, Rachmaninoff, Lutoslawski, and Rochberg—either made piano transcriptions of Paganini’s violin works or used his themes (especially from the last of his Twenty-Four Caprices for solo violin, op. 1) as the basis of their own original compositions. The romantic fascination with the macabre and death resulted in renewed interest by visual artists in reinterpreting the old genres of memento mori. Rita Steblin proposes that the Self-portrait with Death Fiddling (1872) by the Swiss symbolist painter Arnold Böcklin (1827– 1901) may contain a subtle reference to Paganini (see fig. 1.6).28 The skeleton plays a violin with only one string—the G string. One of Paganini’s most celebrated virtuosic feats was his performing of extended passages on the G string, thereby exploiting its dark, rich sonority and requiring the left hand to make frequent, acrobatic shifts up and down the fingerboard. He even composed several works that are to be played entirely on the G string: Napoléon (Sonata Napoleone) in E-flat Major, 1807; Sonata “Marie Luisa” in E Major, 1813; Introduction and Variations (Sonata à preghiera) on a theme from Rossini’s Mosè in Egitto (Moses in Egypt) 1819; and Sonata militare: Variations on “Non più andrai” from Mozart’s Le nozze di Figaro (The marriage of Figaro), 1825. In support of Steblin’s thesis, I would add that Paganini, when performing his compositions for the G string, sometimes removed the other three strings from his violin (as criticized by Spohr in the quotation above) “in order to drive the point home.” Moreover, another

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Figure 1.6. Arnold Böcklin (1827–1901), Selbstbildnis mit fiedelndemTod (Self-portrait with death fiddling), 1872. Reproduced by permission from bpk, Berlin / Nationalgalerie, Staatliche Museen / Joerg P. Anders / Art Resource, New York.

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24 ❧ Chapter One

factor could also have influenced Böcklin’s decision to provide only one string on the skeleton’s violin: the occasional depiction in dances of death, and other medieval visual genres, of “perverted” (i.e., altered or misshapen) instruments in order to heighten their diabolical effect. The great German painter of historical and biblical subjects, Alfred Rethel (1816–59), created a series of six woodcuts (ca. 1850) titled Auch ein Todtentanz (Also a dance of death), one of which, Der Tod als Erwürger (Death as strangler), references multiple themes: the Dance of Death, death as fiddler, and perhaps Paganini and his diabolical reputation (see fig. 1.7). Rethel’s powerful image was inspired by a report concerning the deadly cholera outbreak in 1832 during the carnival season in Paris. Heinrich Heine, who was living in Paris at the time, published an account of this epidemic in German newspapers, in which he criticized high society for underestimating the disease’s danger and continuing to revel. According to Heine, on the very day that officials announced the presence of the disease and issued a warning, the Parisians swarmed more gaily than ever on the Boulevards, where people in masks were even seen mocking the fear of the cholera and the disease itself in off-color and misshapen caricature. That night, the balls were more crowded than ever; hilarious laughter all but drowned the loudest music; one grew hot by dancing the chahut, a fairly unequivocal dance, and gulped all kinds of ices and other cold drinks—when suddenly the merriest of the harlequins felt a chill in his legs, took off his mask, and to the amazement of all revealed a violet-blue face. It was soon discovered that this was not a joke; the laughter died, and several wagon-loads of people were driven directly from the ball to the Hôtel Dieu, the main hospital, where they arrived in their gaudy fancy dress and promptly died, too.29

In Rethel’s woodcut, three dancers lie dead upon the floor, the personification of the pestilence (scourge in hand) sits on a throne, and the musicians, who flee in panic, are replaced by Death playing a “violin” made of bones. Steblin notes that the fiddler’s clothing and demeanor correspond closely to Heine’s fantastical description (quoted above) of Paganini dressed in a monk’s brown robe, with his face halfhidden by a hood and with a rope around his waist.30 The medieval costumes and setting (apparently a palace hall) link the current plague with entrenched cultural memories of the Black Death.

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Figure 1.7. Alfred Rethel (1816–59), Tod als Erwürger (Death as strangler), 1851. Reproduced by permission from HIP / Art Resource, New York.

The topos of “Death and the Maiden,” prominent in the Dance of Death and vanity traditions, was also revived in the nineteenth century.31 Numerous poems, fairy tales, and stories treat this theme in association with dancing, the devil, and the violin. Again it is Heine, in a poem from Die Heimkehr (The homecoming), who provides a powerful example:

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26 ❧ Chapter One A maiden lies in her chamber Lit by a trembling moon: Outside there rises and echoes A waltz’s giddy tune. “I wonder who breaks my slumber. I’ll go to the window and see—” And lo, a skeleton stands there; It fiddles and sings with glee: “A dance you swore to give me, And you have broken your vow; Tonight there’s a ball in the churchyard; Come out and dance with me now!” The maid, as though moved by magic, Obeys, and she leaves the house; The skeleton, fiddling and singing, Goes on with its wild carouse. It fiddles and leaps and dances And rattles its bones to the tune: Its skull keeps nodding and nodding Crazily under the moon.32

The text of Schubert’s famous song, Der Tod und das Mädchen (Death and the maiden), is a conversation between a girl and a skeleton with four lines for each. It is modeled on the Dance of Death dialogues, although the violin is not involved. However, violins and their metaphorical associations are crucial to the treatment of this theme in Councilor Krespel (1817), a novella by E. T. A. Hoffmann (1776–1822), one of the central figures of German literary romanticism; he was also an insightful music critic and a composer of modest ability. Although a lawyer and diplomat by profession, the eccentric Krespel’s overriding passion is for violins. He is an excellent violinist, and his interest in old instruments takes him to Italy. In Venice he courts one of Italy’s reigning sopranos, Angela, drawn to her equally by her beauty and her exquisite singing. They marry and she becomes pregnant, but, because of her difficult prima donna temperament, he is very unhappy. After she destroys one of his prize violins, they separate, and he returns to his home in Germany. After giving birth to a baby girl, Antonia, Angela writes to Krespel, begs him to come back, and promises to reform her behavior. Although

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tempted to return to his wife, especially so that he can meet his daughter, Krespel stays in Germany, convinced that his wife will not be able to change her ways. As the years pass, Krespel and his wife correspond and he learns that Antonia also possesses an extraordinary voice. In the meantime, his passion for violins has taken on new dimensions; he now makes them himself. However, he plays each violin only once and then stores it away. He also buys valuable old instruments, which, after a single playing, he disassembles in a quest to understand the secrets of their construction and beautiful tone. (It appears that Hoffmann was already well acquainted with the current-day fascination with the “secret” of the old Cremona violins.) Angela and Antonia—accompanied by Antonia’s fiancé, a pianist and composer—travel to Germany and perform together with great success. But on the eve of Antonia’s wedding, her mother dies. On learning this, Krespel finally travels to meet his daughter, who, along with her fiancé, goes home with him. The three of them make glorious music together, but Antonia develops a dangerous flush from the exertion, and a doctor predicts that this condition will kill her if she continues to sing in the future. Afraid that her fiancé will not be able to resist the temptation to hear Antonia’s voice, Krespel drives him away. Antonia decides to remain with her father and assist him in investigating violins. For her protection from the temptation to sing as the result of entreaties from others, he zealously sequesters her in his home. She convinces Krespel not to dismember one old Italian violin, because she loves its tone and believes that she hears her own singing when her father plays it. One night he dreams that he hears Antonia singing. On awakening, he investigates and finds her lying peacefully on the sofa—dead. He also discovers that, in sympathy with her passing, the sound post of her beloved violin has broken and that the violin’s back is shattered. After Antonia and the damaged violin are buried together in the same coffin, Krespel returns home, breaks his violin bow, and mysteriously proclaims with relief that he is finally “free.” In spite of numerous scholarly deconstructions, Councilor Krespel remains enigmatic. Its themes and symbols—art, perfection, the Ideal, creativity, inspiration, beauty, love, disease, and death—are woven together by the violin’s characteristics and associations, both real and imagined. With this and other stories, Hoffmann established his reputation as a master of romantic fantasy and the occult.33

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28 ❧ Chapter One

Although Paganini was the nineteenth-century archetype of the devil as violinist, in his own works he never incorporated any of the compositional markers of musical “diablerie”—for example, prominent diminished-seventh chords, quotation of the medieval funeral chant Dies Irae (Day of wrath), or inventive programmatic orchestration to evoke ghosts, demons, or storms—such as were being introduced during this period by Carl Maria von Weber (1786–1826) in Der Freischütz and Hector Berlioz (1803–69) in Symphonie fantastique.34 Later composers, however, frequently exploited these devices, along with another powerful musical symbol of the diabolical: the interval of the tritone (diminished fifth or augmented fourth, itself a basic building block of the diminished-seventh chord). Medieval and Renaissance theoretical treatises referred to this interval as the diabolus in musica (devil in music), and proscribed its use because of its high dissonance and instability. Its nickname—diabolus in musica—was derived from the phrase: Mi contra fa diabolus est in musica (Mi against fa is the devil in music). Of course, since the seventeenth century the tritone has been used freely, but it nevertheless has retained its former “devil in music” association when featured in programmatic instrumental music (especially in violin solos) or as a text-painting device in vocal music. Nineteenth-century operas, for example, frequently exploit tritones (especially in diminished-seventh chords) to evoke evil or ominous situations and characters. A poem by Henry Cazalis (1840–1909), which is based on the folktale of Death playing his violin at midnight in a cemetery for dancing by the skeletons of the deceased, inspired the symphonic poem, Danse macabre (1875), by Camille Saint-Saëns (1835–1921). The prominent solo violin part highlights the tritone from A to E♭, which is created between the open A string and the open E string by tuning the latter down a half step. The bright resonance of this double stop on open strings intensifies the harshness of the diabolus in musica. Gustav Mahler (1860–1911), according to his confidante Natalie Bauer-Lechner, described the Scherzo of his Symphony No. 4 as being so “mystical, confused and uncanny that it will make your hair stand on end.”35 Crucial to achieving this goal is his specification that the violin solo, the melody of which contains numerous tritone leaps, must be played on an instrument tuned one step above concert pitch, thereby producing a nasal timbre that stands out against the rest of the orchestra.36 Bauer-Lechner also reports that Mahler wanted this scordatura

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tuning “so that the violin would sound screeching and rough, as if Death were fiddling away.”37 According to Mahler’s assistant, conductor Bruno Walter (1876–1962), this movement should sound as if “Freund Hein spielt zum Tanz auf” (friend Hein strikes up a dance).38 “Freund Hein” is the colloquial, familiar German name for the devil. Thus, substantial evidence suggests that Mahler intended this movement to evoke a Totentanz led by a violin-playing devil. In addition, both Donald Mitchell and Raymond Knapp have made the intriguing proposal that, when composing this movement, Mahler may have been inspired by Arnold Böcklin’s self-portrait (fig. 1.6).39 Without resorting to scordatura, in L’histoire du soldat Igor Stravinsky (1882–1971) highlighted grating double-stop tritones (and other harsh dissonances) in sections that feature the devil, such as “The Devil’s Dance” and “The Triumphal March of the Devil” (see exx. 1.2a and 1.2b). In Black Angels, Thirteen Images from the Dark Land (1970) for electric string quartet, George Crumb (b. 1929) exploits the whole arsenal of musical diablerie in order to protest American involvement in the Vietnam War. There are quotations from the funeral chant, Dies Irae, and from Schubert’s song, “Death and the Maiden.” Tartini’s “Devil’s Trill” Sonata is evoked by long continuous trills from the beginning to the end of Image 7. The tritone is embedded in one of the work’s most prominent chords (D♯, A, E), which is conspicuous throughout Image 4: DevilMusic (see ex. 1.3). And melodic tritones are ubiquitous throughout the entire work, especially in Image 5: Danse macabre. Special effects (sul ponticello, playing behind the bridge, percussive tapping on the instruments, and, most important, the electric amplification and distortion of the acoustic string instruments) create an aural nightmare in which the devil and death threaten to overwhelm god and life. In view of the violin’s long and multifaceted metaphorical associations with dancing, the devil, and death, it is not surprising that contemporary media and popular culture continue to exploit this tradition. When the magazine Der Spiegel, the German equivalent of American Time or Newsweek, published a special issue in 1985 on infectious diseases, it reproduced the violin-playing skeleton from Rethel’s Totentanz (fig. 1.7) as the cover image. That same year, Die Welt, one of Germany’s leading newspapers, published a report on the war in the Middle East. The article included a caricature of Arabs fighting with knives, one of

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30 ❧ Chapter One Example 1.2a. Igor Stravinsky, L’histoire du soldat, “The Devil’s Dance,” mm. 43–62.

Example 1.2b. Igor Stravinsky, L’histoire du soldat, “Triumphal March of the Devil,” mm. 1–4.

whom already lies dead on the ground with a knife in his back, while a gigantic skeleton playing the violin hovers in the background.40 In contemporary American culture there is less awareness than in Europe of the traditions discussed in this chapter. Nevertheless, some highly conservative, usually rural, churches still subscribe to negative medieval attitudes about dancing and thus continue to discourage or even strictly prohibit it. This in turn colors their view of the violin, that is, “fiddle,” which is prominent in American folk dance music. Thus, although no longer understood literally, the concept of the fiddle as “the devil’s box” continues to influence popular perception of the violin, a theme that will be addressed in the final chapter of this book.41

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Example 1.3. George Crumb, Black Angels, Thirteen Images from the Dark Land, image 4, Devil-Music. © 1970 by C. F. Peters Corporation. Used by permission. All rights Reserved.

32 ❧ Chapter One

Notes 1.

For her stimulating exploration of this topic, I am indebted to Rita Steblin’s “Death as a Fiddler: The Study of a Convention in European Art, Literature, and Music,” Basler Jahrbuch für Historische Musikpraxis 14 (1990): 271–322. 2. For discussion of these and numerous additional negative references to dance from the Middle Ages, see Reinhold Hammerstein, Diabolus in Musica: Studien zur Ikonographie der Musik im Mittelalter (Bern: Francke, 1974), 38–49; and Harold Kleinschmidt, Perception and Action in Medieval Europe (Woodbridge: Boydell, 2005), 45. 3. See Hammerstein, Diabolus in Musica, 22–37. 4. The voluminous research on the Dance of Death includes the following authoritative studies: Reinhold Hammerstein, Tanz und Musik des Todes: die mittelalterlichen Totentänze und ihr Nachleben (Bern: Francke, 1980); Gert Kaiser, Der tanzende Tod (Frankfurt: Insel, 1983); and Kathi MeyerBaer, Music of the Spheres and the Dance of Death: Studies in Musical Iconology (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1970). 5. For further discussion, see Kaiser, Der tanzende Tod, 36–51. 6. The modern German version of the text is from Kaiser, Der tanzende Tod, 249. The English translation is my own. 7. See Kaiser, Der tanzende Tod, for reproductions of the entire Basel Dance of Death, the Paris Danse Macabre, the Knoblochtzer Dance of Death, and the “Upper-German Four-line” Dance of Death. Extensive reproductions from these and other Dances of Death are found in Hammerstein, Tanz und Musik des Todes, and Uli Wunderlich, Der Tanz in den Tod: Totentänze vom Mittelalter bis zur Gegenwart (Freiburg: Eulen, 2001). 8. The modern German version of the text is from Kaiser, Der tanzende Tod, 123. The English translation is my own. 9. Philibert Jambe de Fer, Epitome musical (Lyon, 1556); reprint in F. Lesure, “L’Epitome musical de Philibert Jambe de Fer (1556),” Annales musicologiques 6 (1958–63): 341–86. See also Gordon J. Kinney, “Viols and Violins in the Epitome Musical of Philibert Jambe de Fer,” Journal of the Viola da Gamba Society of America 4 (1967): 14–20. 10. Marin Mersenne, Harmonie universelle, 2 vols. (Paris, 1636–37), 2:177. English translation from Marin Mersenne, Harmonie universelle: The Books on Instruments, trans. Roger E. Chapman (The Hague: Nijhoff, 1957), 235. 11. Jean-Laurent Lecerf de la Viéville, Comparaison de la musique italienne et de la musique françoise, vols. 2–4 of Histoire de la musique et de ses effets (Amsterdam: Bourdelot and Bonnet, 1725). Reprint Graz, 1966; also Brussels ed. of 1705–6, reprint Geneva, 1972. 12. English translation by Rita Steblin, “Death as Fiddler,” 278.

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13. Because of its diminutive size, the kit was very portable. The dancing master could even slip it into his coat pocket to free his hands when demonstrating. Hence it was known as a pochette (little pocket) in France and as a Taschengeige (pocket violin) in Germany. 14. Jeffrey Pulver, A Biographical Dictionary of Old English Music (London, 1927), 22. See also John D. Shute, “Anthony Wood and His Manuscript Wood D 19 (4) at the Bodleian,” 2 vols. (PhD diss., International Institute of Advanced Studies, Clayton, Missouri, 1979), 1, 59; and Peter Holman, “Thomas Baltzar (?1631–1663), the ‘Incomperable Lubicer [Lübecker] on the Violin,’” Chelys 13 (1984): 3–38. 15. Joseph-Jérôme de Lalande, Voyage d’un Français en Italie (1765–1766), 8 vols. (Paris, 1770), 8:188–90. Translation by Charles Burney. 16. With his L’art du violon Cartier made an important contribution to the history and development of violin repertoire. In addition to the “Devil’s Trill” Sonata, his volume also included (among works by French, Italian, and German composers) the first publication of any movement from Bach’s works for unaccompanied violin, the fugue from the Sonata in C Major, BWV 1005. 17. Although it was common during this period for dance teachers and choreographers to play the violin during their lessons and rehearsals, SaintLéon was probably unique in his ability to perform difficult violin solos during his own dance performances. 18. For a detailed discussion of Saint-Léon’s two Tartini ballets, see Gabriella Asaro, “Tartini il violinista e Le violon du diable di Arthur Saint-Léon,” in Il diavolo all’opera: Aspetti e rappresentazioni del diabolico nella musica e nella cultura del xix secolo, ed. Marco Capra (Venice: Marsilio, 2008), 27–50. 19. For a discussion of editions of the “Devil’s Trill” Sonata and additional works inspired by it, see Marc Pincherle, Tartiniana (Padua: Cedam, 1972). 20. See Maiko Kawabata, “Virtuosity, the Violin, the Devil: What Really Made Paganini ‘Demonic,’” Current Musicology 83 (2007): 85–108. 21. Louis Spohr, The Musical Journeys of Louis Spohr, ed. and trans. Henry Pleasants (Norman: University of Oklahoma, 1961, repr. 1990), 155–56. 22. Kawabata, “Virtuosity, the Violin, the Devil,” 88. 23. For further details and citations of these sources, see ibid., 87. 24. Alfred Werner, ed., The Sword and the Flame: Selections from Heinrich Heine’s Prose, trans. Charles Godfrey Leland (New York: Yoseloff, 1960), 117–18. 25. Ibid., 120–21. 26. Ibid., 121–22. 27. Marie Lipsius La Mara, ed., Franz Liszts Briefe, 8 vols. (Leipzig: Breitkopf und Härtel, 1893–1905), 1:6–8. English translation in Alan Walker, Franz Liszt: The Virtuoso Years 1811–1847 (New York: Knopf, 1983), 174. 28. Steblin, “Death as a Fiddler,” 283.

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34 ❧ Chapter One 29. Heinrich Heine, “The Cholera in Paris!” in Heinrich Heine: Works in Prose, ed. Hermann Kesten, trans. E. B. Ashton (New York: Fischer, 1943), 66. 30. Steblin, “Death as a Fiddler,” 285. 31. For recent discussions of this and related topics, see Maike Christadler, “From Allegory to Anatomy: Femininity and the Danse Macabre,” in Mixed Metaphors: The Danse Macabre in Medieval and Early Modern Europe, ed. Sophie Oosterwijk and Stefanie Knöll (Newcastle: Cambridge Scholars, 2011), 101–32. 32. Heinrich Heine, Sämtliche Werke (Munich, 1969), 1:140. English translation by Louis Untermeyer in Poems of Heinrich Heine (New York: Heritage, 1957), 104–5. For poems by Robert Burns, Robert Browning, Charles Baudelaire, and Henry Cazalis that deal with death or the devil playing the violin, see Steblin, “Death as a Fiddler,” 286–87. 33. The libretto for the third act of Offenbach’s The Tales of Hoffmann (1881) is freely based on Councilor Krespel. In the opera, Antonia promises her father and her fiancé (Hoffmann) that she will never sing, but Dr. Miracle—a character (not present in the novella) who represents the devil in disguise—tempts her with the fame and fortune that could be hers as an opera diva. Miracle also deploys his expertise as a violinist, further increasing Antonia’s desire to sing again. Ultimately surrendering to Miracle’s ploys, she sings, and dies as a consequence. 34. One of Paganini’s signature pieces, Le Streghe (The witches’ dance), consists of virtuoso variations on a tuneful theme for a scene involving witches from Franz Xavier Süssmayr’s ballet, Il noce di Benevento. However, in Le Streghe only the title, nothing in the compositional style, references the supernatural. 35. Natalie Bauer-Lechner, Recollections of Gustav Mahler, trans. Dika Newlin, ed. Peter Franklin (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1980), 152. 36. The harsh profile of the solo violin is also highlighted by Mahler’s indication that, for much of the movement, the tutti strings should be muted, while the solo is always without mute. 37. Bauer-Lechner, Recollections of Gustav Mahler, 162. 38. Bruno Walter, Briefe, 1894–1962 (Frankfurt am Main: S. Fischer, 1969), 52. 39. See Donald Mitchell, Gustav Mahler Volume II: The Wunderhorn Years (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1975), 303; and Raymond Knapp, “Perspectives on Innocence and Vulnerability in Mahler’s Fourth Symphony,” Nineteenth-Century Music 22 (1999): 233–67. 40. The images from Die Welt (June 11, 1985) and Der Spiegel (September 23, 1985), along with many other contemporary examples of the Dance of Death, are reproduced in Friedrich W. Kasten, “Beispiele aus der Gegenwart—Totentanzdarstellungen unserer Zeit,” in Totentanz: Kontinuität und Wandel einer Bildidee vom Mittelalter bis Heute (Mannheim:

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Battert, 1987), 251–70. The images are also reproduced in Steblin, “Death as a Fiddler,” figs. 36 and 37. 41. See Loman D. Cansler, “The Fiddle and Religion,” Missouri Folklore Society 13–14 (1991–92): 31–43. “The devil’s box” has frequently been used in titles of publications about fiddling. The quarterly magazine of The Tennessee Valley Old-Time Fiddlers’ Association is called The Devil’s Box; and Charles Wolfe titled his book, The Devil’s Box: Masters of Southern Fiddling (Nashville: Country Music Foundation Press and Vanderbilt University Press, 1997).

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2

VIOLINISTS AND VIOLINS IN LITERATURE

Robert Riggs

S

ince the early nineteenth century, violinists and violins have been featured in a sizable body of fiction, perhaps due to the new aura of glamour and mystery that became associated with virtuoso performers and their priceless instruments. This chapter presents a representative selection of these works, divided into subgenres, which include: (1) novels that focus on the personal and professional lives of violinists; (2) mystery and crime thrillers in which the detective is associated with the violin; (3) novels with a violin as the principal character or unifying object; (4) novels that depend on supernatural or fantasy elements; and (5) short stories that treat a variety of topics generally not found in novels. The brief comments about the works, most of which I found enjoyable, are intended to entice readers to explore them further. Of course, there are hybrid works, including several that draw on both the first and second subgenres. One particularly complex and philosophical novel, Thomas Mann’s Doctor Faustus, transcends the above categorization and thus serves as a fitting capstone.

Personal and Professional Lives of Violinists Novels in this subgenre invariably incorporate a love story, a universal theme that accommodates infinite variation, with the romance serving

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either as the plot’s central focus or as one of several important themes. The violinist may be either the man or the woman, only one or both partners may be musicians, and sometimes there are two boys (one or both of whom are violinists) who develop an intense fraternal bond. While some relationships endure, others end unhappily. If not the overriding focus, the love theme may be presented in a historical or political context, which functions as an essential element of the plot. Or the romance may represent only one phase in a comprehensive treatment of a character’s education and maturation. Fictional violinists and their romances also appear as members of string quartets and orchestras. We begin with three novels dominated by love stories. The great German author Hermann Hesse (1877–1962) was awarded the Nobel Prize in 1946 for his distinguished body of work, which includes the symbolic, utopian novel The Glass Bead Game. Hesse played the violin in his youth, was a lifelong concert devotee, and maintained friendships with several prominent musicians. He capitalized on his musical background in an early realistic novel, Gertrud (1910), which is populated entirely by musicians. Written in the first person as a poetic and sentimental memoir, the introspective and sensitive Kuhn reviews his life from childhood to maturity. His early musical training is as a violinist—he eventually earns his living as an orchestral violinist in an opera house—and he also becomes a capable piano accompanist. It is, however, as a composer that Kuhn gradually discovers his greatest gift and true calling. A tragic love triangle dominates Kuhn’s life. The impulsive, egotistic, and debauched opera singer, Heinrich Muoth, encourages Kuhn’s compositional talent, and the two men form an unlikely friendship. Later, Kuhn falls in love with the refined and serene singer, Gertrud Imthor. Their feelings for each other are heightened by his Lieder, which they perform together in domestic settings. But Gertrud experiences only sisterly love for Kuhn. She is, however, strongly attracted to Muoth. Disregarding their fundamental incompatibility, Gertrud and Muoth get married, plunging Kuhn into suicidal depression. Kuhn survives this crisis of unrequited love, and it inspires and provides impetus for him to complete an opera, his largest and most successful work. In Gertrud Hesse fictionalizes Friedrich Nietzsche’s thesis (in The Birth of Tragedy, 1872) that great art requires the balanced fusion of Dionysian and Apollonian elements. These qualities, embodied by Muoth and Gertrud, respectively, are united in Kuhn’s opera.

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38 ❧ Chapter Two

The Indian poet and novelist Vikram Seth (b. 1952) received most of his education in England and maintains residences both there and in India. The protagonists in his An Equal Music (1999) are the members of the London-based Maggiore String Quartet and pianist Julia McNichol, the former girlfriend of the quartet’s second violinist, Michael Holme, the book’s narrator. Ten years earlier, Michael and Julia had been students at the Vienna Conservatory, where they had an intense love affair. Their Acadian bliss came to an abrupt end when Michael, after deciding that his violin professor was hindering rather than advancing his development, returned to England. Julia, who remained in Vienna to continue her studies, was devastated. After living in Boston for many years, Julia, now married and the mother of a young boy, moves to London. Julia and Michael meet by accident and secretly renew their relationship. When the Maggiore Quartet is booked to perform Schubert’s “Trout” Quintet in Vienna, with Michael as violinist, Julia is engaged to join them as pianist. Michael learns that she is afflicted by incipient deafness, which she conceals from the others by reading people’s lips in conversation. Thus, there are several concurrent sources of drama. How will Julia cope with her increasing deafness? Will the performance of the “Trout” Quintet be successful in spite of her affliction? Will Michael have to part with his beloved violin, which has been on loan to him for many years by a former teacher? And what will be the fate of their revived romance? The Maggiore Quartet is contracted to record The Art of Fugue, and Bach’s great monument to counterpoint gradually assumes metaphorical significance. In the climactic scene, Julia’s performance of The Art of Fugue on the piano, Michael, who succumbs to depression after Julia’s decision to stop seeing him, finds peace when he experiences John Donne’s transcendent concept of heaven quoted in the epigraph: “And into that gate they shall enter, and in that house they shall dwell, where there shall be . . . no noise nor silence, but one equal music.”1 The lovers in On Chesil Beach (2007) by Ian McEwan (b. 1948)—the prolific and much-celebrated English writer, several of whose novels including Atonement have been adapted as films—face a very different challenge. Set in England in 1962, Edward, a promising historian, and Florence, a violinist who dreams of a career as leader of a string quartet, enjoy a romantic courtship and get married. Both are twenty-one years old, virgins, and nervous about sex because of the strict mores of the period and their family backgrounds—it is subtly implied that, as a

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child, Florence was abused by her father. Mozart’s music, especially the String Quintet in D Major, K. 593, functions as a leitmotiv that recurs at critical junctures in the plot; on their wedding night Florence’s recall of its dialogue between instruments almost enables her to overcome her aversion to sexual intimacy. With concise, brilliantly evocative prose McEwan engenders empathy for his anguished characters and builds a powerful drama around their effort to create a marriage. Other works stir additional themes into the mix. In Tenderwire (2006) the Irish author Claire Kilroy (b. 1973) has created a thriller that includes not only traditional love relationships but also a love “affair” between a violinist and a violin. The young Irish violinist, Eva Tyne, comes to New York City to pursue a career as resident soloist with the recently formed New Amsterdam Chamber Orchestra. Eva, who serves as narrator, conjures vivid images of the frequent and extreme vacillations of her emotional life, which is periodically disturbed by irrational behavior and paranoia. The plot revolves around Eva’s obsession with a violin. When on a late-night drinking binge in a bar, she meets Alexander, a Chechen with shady underworld ties, who entices her to his apartment with the claim that he has a Stradivarius for sale. Although inebriated, she plays the violin, is immediately enamored with it, and is convinced that, in spite of its lack of “papers,” it is genuine and thus worth far more than the $550,000 that she has agreed to pay for it. This rash decision ignites the drama: her quest to raise this amount in cash within one week; her joy in owning and performing on the violin; her visits to violin “experts” to determine its authenticity, which remains dubious; the appearance of an elderly Jewish woman claiming that the violin was stolen from her father by the Nazis, and threatening a lawsuit to recover it; and her betrayal by her lover, Daniel, who attempts to steal the violin. Eva is in a constant state of high anxiety—as are readers. Will she be able to perform well (concertos by Vivaldi, Stravinsky, and Shostakovich) when under such physical and emotional stress? And will she lose the violin, her sanity, and her lover? In Tenderwire the Nazi factor is peripheral, but in the next three novels it assumes great importance. They are set during the period from 1930 to 1950 against the background of the Holocaust and World War II, and the plots are dependent on these horrific events. The Rosendorf Quartet (1987) by Israeli author Nathan Shaham (b. 1925) deals with musicians—the characters are fictional but the setting is historically

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40 ❧ Chapter Two

accurate—who emigrated from Germany in 1936 to join the Palestine Philharmonic, which was founded by Polish violinist Bronislaw Huberman (1882–1947) with the dual goal of rescuing Jewish musicians from the Holocaust and bringing European high culture to the newly established state of Palestine. The orchestra’s first concert, conducted by Toscanini, was performed in December 1936. The novel’s central figure, Kurt Rosendorf, was dismissed from his position as concertmaster of the Berlin Philharmonic because he is a Jew. In Tel Aviv, in addition to playing in the new orchestra, he pursues his greatest passion by founding the Rosendorf Quartet with other refugees. Each of the book’s five chapters is written in the first person by a different character: the four members of the quartet and their friend, a professional writer and also a German refugee, who follows the quartet’s development. Thus, the reader experiences each character from five distinct perspectives, resulting in rich composite portraits as they confront a number of common challenges in acclimating to their new country. The book’s central topic, however, is music: the four players’ reasons for becoming musicians; the challenges of meshing different personalities and interpretations when playing string quartets; their contrasting views about contemporary musical styles; and their divergent stances regarding the value of giving concerts for workers in the kibbutzim. The sober treatment of these themes is leavened by the attraction, tension, and relationships that develop between each of the three male players in the quartet, the writer (also a man), and the one woman in the quartet, the beautiful violist Eva Staubenfeld. Norman Lebrecht (b. 1948), a prolific and polemical commentator on British cultural life, has published several nonfiction books on music, including studies of Mahler. His first novel, The Song of Names (2002), is a suspenseful mystery, but without a crime or detective. It is also a Bildungsroman about two Jewish boys whose fates are determined by World War II, a study of genius, and a satirical critique of the music industry. Nine-year-old pianist Martin Simmonds is the son of a successful London impresario who produces classical concerts, manages performers, and markets sheet music. The same-aged Polish violin prodigy, Dovidl Rapoport, comes to London in 1939 to study with the great Hungarian violinist and pedagogue, Carl Flesch. Dovidl is adopted by the Simmonds family after his parents and siblings perish in the Holocaust. As they mature together, the two boys develop not

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only a close fraternal relationship, but also a symbiotic dependency, with Dovidl’s musical genius and intuitive intellect complemented by Martin’s average ability as a pianist but greater analytic and verbal aptitude. After twelve years as a member of the Simmonds family, Dovidl is ready to make his formal debut as a violin soloist with an orchestra in London’s mammoth Royal Albert Hall. But on the day of the concert that was intended to launch a brilliant career he disappears after the dress rehearsal. The Simmondses and especially Martin, who narrates the novel, are devastated. Extensive efforts by the family and police to find Dovidl are unsuccessful. Was he killed, kidnapped, or stricken by amnesia, or did he choose to vanish? Forty years later, Martin, who inherited and now manages his father’s business, hears a student violinist who possesses the same “time-stopping” mastery of rubato that was characteristic of Dovidl’s playing. Suddenly convinced that Dovidl is still alive, Martin uses this clue to find him. He achieves closure to the unanswered questions, and, after tense plot reversals, ultimately heals his own damaged psyche. A film adaption of The Song of Names, starring Anthony Hopkins and Dustin Hoffman, is under development. The Italian instrument restorer and musician Paolo Maurensig (b. 1943) published the highly acclaimed The Lüneburg Variation (1993), his first book, at age fifty. His second book, Canone inverso (1996), is the saga of two gifted young violin students, Jenö Varga, an impoverished Hungarian whose father abandoned Jenö’s mother while she was still pregnant, and Kuno Blau, who belongs to a wealthy aristocratic Austrian family. They meet as boarding students at a Kafkaesque music conservatory near Vienna, where the prison-like discipline focuses exclusively on developing technique. The boys identify with each other, share a common “religious” passion for mastering the violin, and form a strong bond. Kuno invites Jenö to spend a school vacation with his family at their mansion in Innsbruck, but their relationship begins to deteriorate when it becomes apparent that Jenö possesses the superior technique and musicianship. This is the crucial dramatic turning point foretold by the title: “inversion canon.” Most of the story takes place during the 1930s against the ominous background of Hitler’s annexation of Austria and the deportation of Jews, including the slightly older Sophie Hirschbaum, the successful violin soloist whom Jenö loves. The gripping plot thrives on enigmas. What is the troubled history of Kuno’s mysterious family? Is it possible that the boys are half-brothers?

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42 ❧ Chapter Two

Hints of the Cain and Abel story suggest that they are. The novel gradually unfolds in layers like Russian nested dolls—there are multiple narrators—and the shocking dénouement challenges readers to remember the details of the plot, ferret out the logic of its construction, and interpret its meaning. The film adaption of Canone inverso, titled Making Love (2000), features music by Ennio Morricone. Eine kleine Schachmusik (1999) (A little chess music) by Wolfgang Camphausen (b. 1933) is unique in that it deals with orchestral violinists, rank-and-file players, rather than with soloists or chamber musicians. With a career spanning thirty-one years as a violinist in one of Germany’s major opera and symphony orchestras, plus seventeen summers playing in the Bayreuth Festival Orchestra, Camphausen capitalizes on his inside knowledge of the profession. During rehearsal and performance breaks he enjoyed playing chess with colleagues, and, in this novel, written after his retirement, he develops a clever strategy for merging his professional experiences with his avocation. During the break in a rehearsal of Mozart’s The Marriage of Figaro in a German opera house, the principal narrators, an unnamed German who plays in the first violin section, and Gabor, a Hungarian member of the second violin section, play a game of chess, which is discussed and illustrated with pictographs, move by move, as the novel progresses. Between moves the two protagonists, via stream of consciousness, muse about their past histories and present concerns. The native German and the refugee from socialist Hungary have highly contrasting opinions about music, politics, and modern life. Other characters—their wives and children, colleagues in the orchestra, and conductors—also are introduced and reveal their perspectives. Thus a genuine novelistic cosmos gradually crystallizes. The narrative is further enriched by anthropomorphic treatment of the chess pieces, who discuss their roles and fates in the battle between the white and black forces. Moreover, the violinists occasionally draw parallels between the characters and mores in the Figaro libretto and their own lives, with a love affair between the German violinist and Gabor’s daughter a case in point. Saturated with insights into the joys, frustrations, and challenges of the orchestral violinist’s life, this book assumes several prerequisites: an understanding of chess; familiarity with the librettos of Figaro and other operas; and fluent reading knowledge of German—it has not yet been translated into English.

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Mystery and Crime Thrillers The detectives in this subgenre are associated with the violin either as amateur or professional players, or as luthiers (string instrument makers). Private investigators, such as the suave and intellectual Sherlock Holmes, and the rough, antihero, Augie Boyer, enjoy music as an avocation. The colorful professional violinist and violin teacher, Daniel Jacobus, although he is blind, solves crimes that invariably involve violinists and their instruments. And the professional luthier, Gianni Castiglione, develops a talent for sleuthing when one of his friends, a fellow violin maker, is murdered. This subgenre originated with the creation, by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (1859–1930), of the arch-detective Sherlock Holmes, who applies shrewd observation, logic, and forensics to solve crimes in Victorian London. Holmes is a committed bachelor who leads an ascetic life, although he sometimes indulges in morphine or opium out of boredom when not involved with a challenging case. His eccentricities also include an interest in music. He enjoys attending concerts and playing the violin. Although not mentioned in every one of the four novels and fifty-six short stories featuring Holmes, this aspect of his persona is sporadically introduced with a few deftly placed remarks. In “The Red-Headed League” (1891), for example, Holmes asks his confidant and assistant, Dr. Watson, if he would accompany him to hear a concert by the renowned Spanish violinist Pablo de Sarasate at St. James’s Hall. Holmes notes that the program consists of German music, which he prefers to French or Italian because it is introspective, and he wants to introspect. Watson, who functions as narrator, observes that it is after immersing himself in the enjoyment of music that Holmes’s “brilliant reasoning power would rise to the level of intuition, until those who were unacquainted with his methods would look askance at him as on a man whose knowledge was not that of other mortals.” Thus music, especially violin music, serves as a catalyst for Holmes’s deductive genius.2 The Minneapolis private detective Augie Boyer, in Bart Schneider’s The Man in the Blizzard (2008), is the antithesis of Sherlock Holmes. Augie, a severely flawed but lovable antihero, is fiftyish, overweight, addicted to unhealthful foods and smoking pot, separated from his wife who left him for another man, the father of a daughter who is a successful pop singer, and the lover (but suffering from declining libido) of a

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younger girlfriend. Augie has an unlikely hobby. He plays the cello— I nevertheless take the liberty of including him—and enjoys quartet evenings with his friend, Bobby Sabbatini, a police detective who plays the viola. The two also team up to solve crimes. Bobby is obsessed with poetry. He loves reading it, memorizing it, reciting it, and convincing others to share his passion. Augie is hired by a beautiful young violinist, Elizabeth Odegard, to investigate her husband, a violin dealer. Augie discovers that Elizabeth’s husband works for a wealthy neo-Nazi real estate developer who collects violins, especially those confiscated by Hitler’s “special task force for music” (Sonderstab Musik), which was responsible for plundering the musical treasures of deported and murdered Jewish communities during World War II. The action climaxes on the eve of the Republican National Convention in 2008, with competing rallies by opponents and supporters of a woman’s right to abortion. The improbable but gripping plot includes short poems and excerpts from longer ones by fifteen contemporary poets, including Thomas McGrath’s “The Man in the Blizzard,” which serves as the book’s title. The unique crime-solving hero Daniel Jacobus, a renowned blind violin teacher, made his debut in Devil’s Trill (2010) by Gerald Elias (b. 1952). For many years Elias was the assistant concertmaster of the Utah Symphony. After winning the concertmaster position with the Boston Symphony Orchestra, Jacobus was stricken by a rare eye disease and eventually became blind. Unable to accept the position, he decided to focus on violin teaching. He is a crotchety, unkempt, older bachelor, who cultivates a hard, fractious public persona, which disguises his warm, sensitive character. When a young violinist’s Stradivarius is stolen from the Green Room in Carnegie Hall after her debut concert, Jacobus is asked by an old friend—a former cellist now working for an insurance company—to help solve the crime. All of the characters are involved with the music world—managers, violin dealers, music critics, competition organizers, professional musicians, and violin students—and the book teems with behind-the-scenes vignettes of the sometimes corrupt motives and interactions of these factions. Elias, being a professional violinist, possesses the expertise to make convincing fictional use of this material. Reminiscent of Sherlock Holmes, Jacobus excels in logical reasoning and knowledge of human psychology to solve the mystery, which becomes more complex after a character is murdered and Jacobus

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himself becomes a prime suspect. The plot includes opportunities for Jacobus to coach young violinists who play several works, including Tartini’s “Devil’s Trill” Sonata, and Jacobus provides them with sage advice on violin technique and musicianship.3 In The Rainaldi Quartet (2007)—published as Sleeper in the United Kingdom—by Paul Adam (b. 1958), a luthier in present-day Cremona, Italy, assumes the role of detective. The quartet in question consists of four amateur musicians who regularly enjoy evenings reading through string quartets: Tomaso Rainaldi, a violin maker, first violin; Gianni Castiglione, also a violin maker, second violin; Father Arrighi, a priest, viola; and Antonio Gustafeste, a police detective, cello. After a convivial quartet session, Rainaldi is found murdered in his workshop. Castiglione, his lifelong friend and the book’s narrator, and Gustafeste team up to solve the crime. Other characters include violin dealers, wealthy violin collectors, and Rainaldi’s daughter, an aspiring violin soloist. Solving the mystery involves their search for a “sister” of the famous “Messiah” Stradivarius, and the trail takes them to Venice, Milan, and London.4

The Violin as Character or Unifying Object This category exemplifies the “it-narrative” and “novel of circulation,” a popular genre of eighteenth- and nineteenth-century British literature. The “it-narrative” employs the conceit of personifying an inanimate object (e.g., a coin, an item of clothing, a transportation vehicle) or animal, and empowers it to narrate its experiences as it passes from owner to owner. The object understands the speech of humans but cannot communicate with them, although it can converse with like objects. The “novel of circulation” traces the history of an object but without granting it powers of thought and speech. In Memoirs of a Stradivarius (1988) by W. Thomas Marrocco (1909– 99), a widely published musicologist on medieval music and a professional violinist, the “Lord Nelson” Stradivarius (1690), an actual violin that owes its moniker to having been found on Nelson’s flagship after the Battle of Trafalgar in 1805, is the narrator. The violin recounts its three centuries of adventures with a long series of owners, whom it refers to as “masters.” Endowed with human emotions—including jealousy when masters who own a second violin, often a Guarnerius del

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Gesù, sometimes choose to perform on the latter instrument instead— the Lord Nelson enjoys making music with, and sharing the private lives of, Tartini, Viotti, Paganini, Spohr, Ernst, Ysaÿe, Kreisler, and Seidel. But there also are hard times: solitary confinement and boredom when owned by a collector who leaves it unplayed; artistic privation whenever an amateur violinist becomes its master; embarrassment when being sold at auction; damage caused by natural disasters; exploitation by smugglers as a hiding place for heroin; kidnapping (i.e., theft); and cloning (the great French luthier, J. B. Vuillaume, makes an exact copy). Writing with humor and satirical verve, Marrocco conflates anecdotes about genuine instruments with entirely fictitious violin lore. The prolific Pulitzer Prize–winning author, John Hersey (1914–93), employs the “novel of circulation” approach in Antonietta (1991), in which a Stradivarius influences the personal and creative lives of those who make, play, and hear it. Hersey supports the fiction of the book’s five autonomous and stylistically unique “acts” with well-researched historical detail. Act 1, with Hersey as omniscient narrator, describes the art of violin making as practiced by Stradivari. A widower and fiftyfive years old, the renowned violin maker falls in love with Antonia, an attractive widow, twenty years younger than he. This passion fuels his creation of a new violin, which he christens “Antonietta,” and its physical and tonal beauty helps him win Antonia’s hand in marriage. Act 2 is written as correspondence between Mozart and his father. Set during Mozart’s ill-fated trip to Paris in 1778, Antonietta is now owned by Pierre-Nicolas La Houssaye, concertmaster of the Concert Spiritual. He lends Antonietta to Mozart who is enchanted with its tone and responsiveness. The violin serves as an aphrodisiac during Mozart’s flirtation with his young piano student, Héloïse, with whom he performs his newly composed sonatas for violin and piano, K. 301–6. In act 3, Antonietta belongs to the Parisian violinist, Antoine Baillot, who relates how his playing inspired Hector Berlioz’s composition of Symphonie fantastique and was also crucial in the composer’s successful courtship of Harriet Smithson. In act 4, Stravinsky, living in Switzerland in 1918, is working on L’histoire du soldat with poet C. F. Ramuz and the fictitious Russian violinist and owner of Antonietta, Pavel Federovsky. The three collaborators take turns narrating. Act 5 is written as a twentieth-century movie script with dialogue and descriptions of the camera work and the sound track, which consists of violin music by Schoenberg, Bartók, Hindemith, Berg, Webern, and

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Babbitt. Spencer Ham, a millionaire Wall Street investor, lives in luxury on Martha’s Vineyard. When a woman friend tells him that he has “no music,” he attempts to remedy this by purchasing Antonietta at an auction in London. Ham’s insider trading is discovered, he is arrested, and Antonietta is sold at auction yet again. In an epilogue, the author, Hersey, using his advance from the publisher for writing this book, buys the violin and promises the reader: “that whopper is the very last lie I will ever tell (in this book, anyway).” Donald P. Ladew’s Stradivarius (2007) employs the history of a violin’s circulation as the framework around a touching love story between two violin prodigies. The narrative moves between two widely disparate time periods: the first begins in 1685 with Stradivari completing one of his greatest violins, which he dubs “The Hercules” because of its large and powerful tone; and the second begins in 1951 when Martin Luther Cole, a severely wounded American soldier fighting in the Korean War, finds the violin in the ruins of a bombed-out farmhouse. This double track continues in alternating chapters until the plots eventually converge. In the early narrative Hercules passes from violinist to violinist, including, Tartini, La Houssaye, Vieuxtemps, and Ysaÿe, from whom it is stolen in 1908 by a second-rate Russian violinist who dies trying to escape from Russia with it. The greater part of the novel is devoted to the second narrative. After the war, Martin Luther Cole returns to his roots in rural West Virginia, where he lives alone in an isolated mountain cabin. For him the violin has become a symbol of all that is beautiful and sacred, and he keeps it hidden. After a long convalescence recovering from severe posttraumatic stress syndrome, Cole learns that a local boy, Ailey Barkwood, whose parents are deceased, is his nephew. Ailey possesses a natural gift for music and, inspired by weekly radio broadcasts of New York Philharmonic concerts, has been teaching himself to play the violin, a cheap flea-market instrument, by ear. Cole and a spinster school teacher encourage Ailey’s musical development and eventually send him to Bronxville, New York, to study with a famous teacher who, like the actual pedagogue Ivan Galamian, has his own boarding school for young prodigies. Ailey thrives there and falls in love with an equally talented young French violinist, Lucienne Ysaÿe, whose father, also a violinist, is Eugène Ysaÿe’s grandson. Shortly before Ailey is to compete in the Queen Elizabeth Competition in Belgium, his uncle, Cole, finally presents the Stradivarius to him. Considerable drama erupts when

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Lucienne’s father, who for years has lamented the disappearance of his grandfather’s violin, decides to reclaim it. But virtue and young love ultimately triumph.

Supernatural and Fantasy Novels Works in this subgenre often involve ghosts, some of whom play the violin, and time travel, which allows characters to interact with famous composers and violinists from past centuries. The Lost Stradivarius (1895) by John Meade Falkner (1858–1932) is a ghost story written in high Victorian style. Sir Edward Maltravers, a wealthy young heir studying at Oxford, is a skilled amateur violinist. He and a fellow student, a pianist, have a favorite composition: the Gagliarda from the “Areopagita” Suite by Graziani. They frequently play the Gagliarda in Maltravers’s rooms, and, whenever they play it, they hear sounds as if someone is in the room with them. Alone in his rooms one evening, Maltravers plays the Gagliarda (without keyboard) and sees the apparition of a man who fades into the wall. This leads to his discovery of a Stradivarius hidden in a secret vault in the wall behind a bookcase. As the possessor of such a fine instrument, he becomes increasingly fanatical about violin playing. He learns that the apparition was the ghost of the violin’s previous owner, a dissolute English aristocrat, who lived much of the time in Italy, became an occultist, and attempted to conjure the visio malefica (vision of absolute evil). Maltravers develops an obsession with the violin and the fate of its former owner, which eventually undermines his marriage and his health, and ultimately destroys him. The narrative incorporates musings on Neoplatonist mystical philosophy and speculations about the relationship between beauty and morality. Music is viewed as a means of opening channels between visible reality and the supernatural, and reference is made to Praetorius’s assertion in the Syntagma musicum that the galliard dance is considered an invention of the devil because of its overtly sensual motions. The title, “Areopagita,” probably refers to the Christian theologian and philosopher known as Pseudo-Dionysius the Areopagite who lived in the late fifth to the early sixth centuries.5 Although there were several actual composers named Graziani, the only candidate whose dates fit the description, Bonifazio Graziani (1604/5–64), did not compose any instrumental music.

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Triana Becker, the central figure in Violin (1997) by Anne Rice (b. 1941), the prolific author of best-selling gothic fiction, lives in presentday New Orleans. (Rice may have borrowed her character’s first name from a movement in Albéniz’s piano suite Iberia.) Triana is fifty-four years old and addicted to ruminating about problems in her life. She loves classical music and in her youth had attempted to learn the violin, but, lacking aptitude, soon gave it up. Since the recent passing of her second husband, she has been haunted by a violin-playing ghost, Stefan, who looks like a young rock musician. Although attracted by his expressive and virtuosic playing, Triana is disturbed by their conversations in which he stimulates her tendency to feel guilty about the deaths of her loved ones. Via time travel, Stefan takes Triana back to his youth in Europe during the early nineteenth century. They meet Paganini and Beethoven, and Triana steals Stefan’s violin, a Stradivarius of course. After many adventures, Triana “wakes up,” not in New Orleans, but in Vienna, and discovers that now she can “play” the violin. Although not able to read music, she improvises brilliantly, inspired by her vivid emotional life. She becomes a celebrity and performs concerts throughout Europe. Although Triana fears that her musical gift might disappear without the Stradivarius, she nevertheless returns it to Stefan, thereby experiencing an epiphany of love. The novel strives, without success, to be an allegory packed with psychological symbolism: that is, Triana overcomes the inner demons that have prevented her from attaining happiness and self-fulfillment.6

Short Stories Many distinguished writers of short fiction have employed violinists and violins in order to explore serious topics. Stories by E. T. A. Hoffmann, Thomas Hardy, and Ivan Turgenev involve the mystical, supernatural, and demonic. The relationship between the artist and bourgeois society is a prominent theme for Franz Grillparzer, Leo Tolstoy, and Herman Melville. Anton Chekhov and Damon Runyon address religious and racial prejudice. E. T. A. Hoffmann’s Councilor Krespel (1817), in which violins and music are brought into association with the supernatural elements of German romanticism, was discussed in the previous chapter. The

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tradition of the violinist as devil, a supernatural theme that fascinated nineteenth-century artists, is at the core of “The Fiddler of the Reels” (1893) by the English poet and novelist Thomas Hardy (1840–1928). The story is set in a rural English village in the 1850s, where Mop Ollamoor is a virtuoso dance fiddler, who cannot play religious music and never enters a church. With his brilliantly embellished dance tunes, he enchants and captivates listeners, especially young women who often fall in love with and are seduced by him. The young Car’line Aspent is courted by Ned Hipcroft, a respectable mechanic and suitable husband. However, after Car’line experiences Ollamoor’s intoxicating fiddling and charisma, she turns down Hipcroft’s marriage proposal. Resigned to his rejection, Hipcroft moves to London, finds work there, and starts a new life. Several years later Hipcroft receives a letter from Car’line expressing regret about her behavior and inquiring if he could forgive her. She is now prepared to become a good wife for him. He agrees and asks her to join him in London. When she arrives, he is surprised to find that she is accompanied by a little girl, fathered by Ollamoor. Hipcroft soon accepts the situation, marries Car’line, and becomes a devoted father to the girl. Years pass happily and the family decide to move back to their former region. Briefly separated because Hipcroft has gone ahead to find lodgings and work, Car’line and her daughter stop to rest at a country inn. Unfortunately, Ollamoor is there, fiddling reels for dancing. Car’line—irresistibly drawn by the fiddling, which still has “all the witchery that she had so well known of yore”—joins in the dancing. Powerless to stop, she eventually faints from exhaustion. Hipcroft arrives and Car’line regains consciousness. However, after the commotion dies down, they discover that Ollamoor has disappeared with the daughter. All attempts to find them are unsuccessful, although there is a rumor that a man was once seen fiddling while his partner, a young girl, danced. The Russian writer Ivan Turgenev (1818–83) is known for the social realism, in the manner of Flaubert and Dostoevsky, of his stories, plays, and novels, most notably Fathers and Sons. Thus, the symbolism of Turgenev’s “The Song of Triumphant Love” (1881) contrasts strongly with the style of his other works. In it, two wealthy young men in Renaissance Ferrara, Fabio (a painter) and Muzzio (a musician) who are best friends, fall in love with and court the same woman, Valeria. They agree that once one of their proposals is accepted, the other will

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gracefully abide by the decision. Valeria chooses Fabio, and Muzzio, rather than having to witness their happiness, decides to leave Italy. After traveling for years in Asia, Muzzio returns, accompanied by a mute Ceylonese manservant. He is warmly welcomed by Fabio and Valeria, who invite him to stay in their guest house. Muzzio honors his hosts with exotic gifts: Shiraz wine that induces a strange drowsiness; a pearl necklace for Valeria; and music, which he performs on an Indian violin covered with snake skin. Fabio and Valeria are mesmerized by his playing of a Ceylonese melody called the “song of happiness and fulfilled passion.” In the following days, there are further performances of the violin melody (now referred to as “the song of triumphant love”). Valeria and Muzzio experience similar dreams, and, while in a trancelike state, they meet in the garden at night. Fabio learns about this tryst, and when he observes that they are about to have another encounter, he accosts Muzzio and stabs him. Thanks to the shaman-like ministrations of his manservant, Muzzio barely escapes death and departs the next day, disappearing forever. As if nothing untoward had happened, husband and wife resume their former life, which had always been content except for their not having any children. Months pass and on the day that Fabio finally completes a painting of his wife as Saint Cecelia, patron saint of music, “Valeria was sitting in front of the organ and her fingers were wandering over the keys . . . Suddenly, against her will, from under her fingers rang out the same song of triumphant love which Muzzio once had played—and at the same moment, for the first time since her marriage, she felt within her the stirring of a new growing life. . . . What could it mean? Surely not . . .”7 Franz Grillparzer (1791–1872), one of Austria’s greatest dramatists, consulted with Beethoven about collaborating on an opera, Melusine, but their project never materialized. Grillparzer did, however, write an eloquent oration that was read at Beethoven’s funeral. In “The Poor Fiddler” (1848), Grillparzer deals, on one level, with the challenges that artists must overcome in order to function within bourgeois society. But the central character, Jacob, also represents the persecuted common man who is Christlike in his love of humanity, his humility, his ability to withstand suffering and repeated rejection, and his ascetic devotion to an ideal. As a child Jacob suffers from what today might be diagnosed as a learning disability, and when he does not excel at school, his cruel father demeans him and refuses to let him continue.

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Jacob is also forced to abandon his childhood violin lessons when his father forbids home practice because of the “noise.” Jacob is placed in a nonpaid menial position as a copy clerk in his father’s chancery, but his dreary life changes when he overhears a girl singing a song of such beauty that it reignites his love for music. He begins playing the violin again, and his unsuccessful attempts to re-create the song by ear prompt him to find the girl, Barbara, in the hope of acquiring sheet music for the melody. He falls in love with Barbara, and she is gradually won over by his gentle and kind spirit. Her father, however, insists that she should marry a prosperous country butcher instead of the hopelessly unworldly and impractical Jacob. Jacob is crushed, but finds solace by dedicating his life to music. He devotes mornings to practice: self-taught attempts to develop technique and learn classical pieces, which meet with little success. During the afternoons, despite his unrecognizably distorted and scratchy renditions of this repertoire, he ekes out a meager existence as a street musician. He refuses to play popular dance tunes even though they would increase his income. Evenings at home are devoted to his greatest passion—improvising with fundamental musical materials, that is, individual tones and intervals. Jacob calls his improvising “playing God” because of “the eternal boon and grace of sound and tone, their miraculous consort with the thirsting, parched ear.” Having lived away for many years, Barbara returns to town with her husband and their two children, and Jacob agrees to give their older son, who is named after him, violin lessons. After several peaceful years brightened by this development, Jacob dies as a result of saving the lives of neighboring children in a flood. The novella ends with one of its many religious motifs: Barbara hangs Jacob’s violin on the wall of her living room “beside the mirror, in symmetry with a crucifix on the other side.” Leo Tolstoy (1828–1910), famous for his massive novels War and Peace and Anna Karenina, which explore grand historical and social themes, was also a master of the short story. In his youth, Tolstoy studied piano, and he harbored a lifelong reverence for music. The eponymous violinist in Tolstoy’s “Albert” (1858) is an archetypal alienated artist, incapable of integrating with society because of his eccentric personality and his tendency to excess. Albert is unable to hold down a regular job, not even in the theater orchestra, in spite of widespread recognition of his talent and even genius, of which he also is convinced. Albert performs

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a violin solo at an elegant society party, and his expressive playing transports everyone “to a world whose existence they had forgotten.” Delesof, a wealthy bachelor, is vividly reminded of his early youth and first love, and he feels like a teenager again. Because of Albert’s shabby clothes and neglected personal grooming, it is apparent that he is impoverished. Overwhelmed by Albert’s artistry, Delesof decides to become his benefactor and invites Albert to live in his home. But Delesof’s attempts to curb Albert’s excessive drinking are met with rebellion. Albert runs away one night to indulge again at another party in the mansion where they first met. On orders from their mistress, the servants do not admit Albert, and he remains outside in the bitter winter cold. The final pages are a virtuoso prose evocation of the jumbled reminiscences, delusions of greatness, and visions of bliss that Albert experiences while he gradually loses consciousness and almost freezes to death. As guests start leaving the party, Albert is discovered lying on the porch and is carried inside. In “The Kreutzer Sonata” (1889), Tolstoy employs the first movement of Beethoven’s Sonata for Violin and Piano in A Major, op. 47, with its explosive energy and ardent dialogue between instruments, to dramatize his thesis that music can unleash sensual passion and, thus, that music and musicians represent dangerous, destabilizing forces in society. The narrator is an unhappily married man whose wife, a very advanced amateur pianist, develops a friendship with a handsome professional violinist with whom she performs the “Kreutzer” Sonata at a concert in her home. The husband becomes suspicious, increasingly jealous, and eventually convinced that his wife and the violinist— because of “the bond of music, the most refined lust of the senses”—are having an affair.8 When he returns home earlier than expected from a business trip and finds the two enjoying a late-night dinner together, he confronts them and kills his wife, although the violinist escapes. The husband is arrested for murder but acquitted at the trial because, in the court’s opinion, his wife’s infidelity was not in doubt. The narrator recounts these events to a fellow passenger during a train journey within the context of his extended, misogynistic disquisition on the relationship between men and women (based on Tolstoy’s radical and ascetic ideas about courtship, marriage, and child rearing) in late nineteenth-century Russia. The short novel, Kreutzersonate (2002), by Dutch author Margriet de Moor (b. 1941), is a beautifully updated variation on the plot and

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themes of Tolstoy’s story. Instead of taking place on a train, most of the action is revealed during flashbacks and conversations in airports or during flights. The husband is a blind music critic, and his wife is the first violinist in a professional string quartet. The husband’s jealousy is directed at the (innocent) violist in the quartet, and, instead of Beethoven’s Opus 47, it is Janáðek’s String Quartet no. 1, “Kreutzer Sonata”—which was inspired by Tolstoy’s story—that detonates explosive passion. Herman Melville (1819–91), best known for his novel Moby-Dick, enjoyed great success publishing short stories. In “The Fiddler” (1854) he created a miniature parable about artists’ quest for fame and happiness. Helmstone, an ambitious but unsuccessful writer, is upset that his recent poem has received a poor review. He is depressed and fears that he will never enjoy fame. On the street in New York City, he meets a friend, Standard, who introduces him to Hautboy (a name that has musical associations, but pointedly puzzling ones, being an old-fashioned spelling for “oboe”). On Hautboy’s suggestion the three middleaged men go to the circus to see a clown who is creating a sensation. Helmstone is fascinated by Hautboy’s untroubled and complete abandonment to the moment: “Such genuine enjoyment as his struck me to the soul with a sense of the reality of the thing called happiness.” After the performance, the three men dine together, and Helmstone admires Hautboy’s cheerful character. After Hautboy departs, Helmstone expresses his conviction that Hautboy’s contentment must result from a lack of genius and his never having experienced ambition, lavish praise, or the pain of criticism. The three men meet again, and Hautboy invites them to his humble apartment, where Standard asks Hautboy to entertain them with his violin playing. Although Hautboy plays “Yankee Doodle” and other popular tunes, Helmstone is enchanted: “All my moody discontent, every vestige of peevishness fled. My whole splenetic soul capitulated to the magical fiddle.” After they leave Hautboy, Standard finally tells Helmstone that Hautboy had been a celebrated child prodigy, playing the violin for high fees before immense cheering audiences. Now he travels from house to house teaching fiddling for a living. “Crammed once with fame, he is now hilarious without it. With genius and without fame, he is happier than a king. More a prodigy now than ever.” On inquiring about Hautboy’s real name, which is not revealed in the story,

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Helmstone is astonished to discover that, as a child, he had heard and wildly applauded Hautboy. The next day Helmstone destroys his manuscripts, buys a violin, and begins lessons with Hautboy. Diminutive short stories are capable of delivering powerful condemnations of religious and racial prejudice. In his masterful stories and plays, Russian author Anton Chekhov (1860–1904) explores the psychology of his characters and exposes societal problems. Religious prejudice is the focus of his story, “Rothschild’s Fiddle” (1894), in which Jacob Ivanoff, an impoverished coffin builder, lives with his wife in a one-room hut in a tiny village. Jacob is always in bad humor and continually laments the many losses he has suffered throughout his life, especially lost opportunities to earn money on Sundays and holidays when work is forbidden. He supplements his income by playing the violin for weddings with an ensemble of Jewish musicians, for whom he harbors an openly anti-Semitic dislike, especially for Rothschild, the flutist. When his wife dies, Jacob realizes that he was never kind to her in all their years of marriage. After her burial he returns home and ruminates about all the things that he could have done with his life, which has been barren of both profit and pleasure. He realizes that people, because of envy and anger, do not show compassion or love for one another. Jacob becomes ill and knows that death is near, and he is sad that he will not be able to take his beloved violin with him. It will be orphaned and lost. In this despondent state, Jacob plays his violin with great emotion, and tears are streaming down his face when Rothschild reluctantly visits him to arrange another wedding job. Rothschild is surprised by Jacob’s warm welcome and is moved by the grief and suffering expressed in his playing. On his deathbed, Jacob bequeaths his violin to Rothschild, who then abandons the flute in favor of the violin. He learns to play Jacob’s plaintive song, which, although it brings tears to all who hear it, becomes a favorite with everyone in town. Shostakovich’s student, Veniamin Fleischmann (1913–41), composed a one-act opera to his own libretto based on this story. Fleischmann died in the siege of Leningrad, and his unfinished score was completed by Shostakovich. Works by Damon Runyon (1880–1946), newspaperman, sportswriter, and author, are characterized by his mastery of American vernacular and slang. His story, “100 Percent Man” (1923), is a tale of racial prejudice and the power of music. Señor José Rodriquez, a Mexican in a small western town, plays the violin. The citizens at first consider

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running him out of town, but he does odd jobs and plays for dances and church socials. People become used to him and call him Fiddlin’ Joe. The men do not like him, but the women appreciate his good looks. “Fiddlin’ Joe is what you might call a real artist at his racket.” One winter Joe comes down with pneumonia, is put in the hospital near the smelters, and everybody forgets about him. The mine workers, many of whom are recent immigrants from Europe, threaten to strike, and the sheriff forms a posse of citizens to keep the peace during this tense situation. Just as violence is about to begin, “a tall, slim, dark-complected guy, with nothing much but a blanket around him, and a fiddle under his arm, bobs up among them, climbs on a barrel, and starts fiddling.” The strikers are calmed by Fiddlin’ Joe’s music and finally go home without making any trouble. The citizens want to thank Joe, but learn from his doctor that he has died from pneumonia and the exposure while fiddling. “That is why you see that little marble statue of a guy playing a fiddle down by the Union Depot . . . and if you will read what it says on the statue you will find it says: ‘Señor José Rodriguez, 100 percent man.’”

Doctor Faustus, Twentieth-Century Composer Doctor Faustus: The Life of the German Composer Adrian Leverkühn as Told by a Friend (1947), a novel by Thomas Mann (1875–1955), is the biography of a fictitious composer who figuratively sells his soul—his sanity in this case—to the devil in return for twenty-four years as a musical genius. Set in Germany before and during the rise of Hitler, the novel draws parallels between Leverkühn’s career and the German nation’s self-abandonment to Nazi rule. The twentieth-century aesthetic crisis ignited by modernism in the arts is a major theme. The demonic element is most overt when Adrian strikes the Faustian bargain with the personified devil, who most plausibly exists only in Adrian’s psyche. During their conversation, the apparition of the devil stipulates that Adrian will remain cold and unable to experience human warmth or love. In return, Adrian will receive the genius with which he can “breakthrough” the inhibitions of intellect, thereby enabling him to compose truly original and new works that adequately express the human condition in the twentieth century. However, traditional characters also assume demonic significance, including, ironically, Adrian’s

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theology professor, Eberhardt Schleppfuss; the latter’s family name (“dragging foot”) evokes the devil, who is sometimes described as having a limp. Schleppfuss delivers a long and involved lecture on the sexual nature of the devil, a powerful theme that resonates throughout the book. In my view Adrian’s friend, the professional violinist Rudi Schwerdtfeger, is also a demonic character.9 He is a handsome bon vivant, outgoing, likable, and flirtatious—both with women and with men. His greatest asset, however, is his captivating violin playing. According to Serenus Zeitblom, the book’s narrator and Adrian’s alter ego, “Rudolf had on his side the advantage of art—which nourishes passion and transfigures all things human. The person of one’s beloved is only enhanced, of course, and one’s feelings for him understandably find ever new nourishment, when the perception one has of him is almost constantly bound up with intoxicating impressions of his art.”10 Exploiting the attraction of his seductive violin playing, Rudi enters into an ill-advised affair with a married woman, Inez Rodde. Rudi’s sexual (i.e, demonic) nature is also prominent in his relationship with Adrian, whom he effectively pursues and courts. Rudi is the only character who succeeds in becoming “per du” with Adrian (that is, addressing him with the familiar form of “you”), rather against Adrian’s will. Rudi also convinces Adrian to compose a violin concerto for him and maintains that the concerto will be their “platonic child.” It is implied, however, that, for a brief period, Rudi seduces Adrian into a relationship that is not platonic. Thus, by casting Rudi as a violinist, Mann builds on the long tradition of associations between the violin and the devil. Moreover, Rudi exerts negative influence on Adrian by pressuring him to write the violin concerto. In preparation for composing it, Adrian studies works by de Bériot, Vieuxtemps, and Wieniawski, whose styles he incorporates in his own work, half in tribute and half in parody. He also includes a quotation from Tartini’s “Devil’s Trill” Sonata. Because of these concessions to tradition and virtuosity, the concerto stands apart from, and at a lower artistic level than, his other works, which are uncompromising and radical. Ironically, as a result of his experiences with Rudi, Adrian—disregarding the fact that it would mean breaking his “contract” with the devil—attempts for the first time in his life to establish a loving relationship with a woman, the French designer, Marie Godeau. He hopes

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thereby to “humanize” his compositions, but he is too insecure to propose marriage himself. Instead, in a conversation that takes place with, according to Mann, “diabolic elements lurking in the background,” Adrian asks Rudi to speak with Marie on his behalf.11 But Rudi, partly out of jealousy, betrays Adrian’s trust and successfully woos Marie for himself. This initiates a series of events that culminates in the final catastrophe, Adrian’s mental breakdown. Thus, Rudi’s artistic and personal interactions with Adrian—and also with others—are ultimately demonic and destructive.12 In Doctor Faustus, Mann deploys his characteristically ambiguous and ironic manner to explore a panorama of culturally significant themes. In the process, he draws on the deeply embedded historical image of the violinist’s powers, often considered to be supernatural or diabolical, to persuade, overwhelm, and seduce (see chapter 1). By exploiting these associations Mann convincingly fuses music with central elements of the Faust legend.

Notes 1. 2.

3. 4. 5.

6.

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From John Donne’s sermon preached at Whitehall in 1627. Playing the violin also functions in a personality-enhancing manner in the twenty-one novels of the Aubrey/Maturin series by Patrick O’Brian (1914– 2000). Set during the Napoleonic wars, the novels deal with the exploits of the British sea captain, Jack Aubrey, and the ship’s doctor, Stephen Maturin. Their common interest in music is an important element of their friendship. Both frequent classical concerts and have an amateur’s passion for playing chamber music, Aubrey as a violinist and Maturin as a cellist. Opportunities for Aubrey and Maturin to hear or play music, although infrequent, enrich their characters, especially Aubrey’s, with a crucial artistic dimension. (Special thanks to Mark Jasinski for bringing these books to my attention.) Elias has created a Daniel Jacobus mystery series, which includes Dance Macabre, Death and the Maiden, and Death and Transfiguration. Adam has also published a second Castiglione and Gustafeste mystery, Paganini’s Ghost. It may also resonate with the title, Areopagitica, of a famous 1644 political tract by John Milton, arguing for freedom of the press, especially with regard to religion. Lestat de Lioncourt, a major character in the eleven novels of Anne Rice’s The Vampire Chronicles, also plays the violin.

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7.

Ivan Turgenev, The Song of Triumphant Love, trans. Jessica Morelle, intro. Peter Cook (London: S.P.A., 1989), 52–53. This story has strong autobiographical overtones. Turgenev spent much of his life in Western Europe, where he met, fell in love with, and maintained a lifelong platonic (perhaps) relationship with the renowned opera singer and composer, Pauline Viardot. For many years he lived near, sometimes even with, her and her husband in Baden-Baden and Paris. When approached by Eugène Ysaÿe in 1896 to compose a violin concerto, Ernest Chausson responded with the one-movement Poème for violin and orchestra. Chausson originally titled the work Poème “Song of Triumphant Love,” but he ultimately omitted the subtitle, perhaps because the correlation between the music and Turgenev’s story is vague and impressionistic rather than specific and programmatic. Cast in a free A, B, Aʹ, Bʹ, Aʹʹ plan, the principal theme of the A section (42, Lento e misterioso) is the most plausible candidate to represent the story’s crucial violin melody. This winding theme is introduced by the unaccompanied solo violin at its first entry and later given a cadenza-like setting with the violin providing its own accompaniment in double stops and chords in the virtuosic manner of Ysaÿe’s solo sonatas. Turgenev’s story has many thematic elements in common with the librettos of both Wagner’s Tristan und Isolde and Debussy’s Pelléas et Mélisande, and Chausson’s musical style is indebted to both of these composers. With its subtle orchestration, late-romantic harmonic language, veiled tonal centers, and thematic transformations, Poème effectively captures the symbolic essence of the “The Song of Triumphant Love,” which may best be understood, not as realistic action, but rather as a metaphor suggestive of the protagonists’ psychological journey and maturation. 8. Leo Tolstoy, “The Kreutzer Sonata,” in The Kreutzer Sonata Variations, trans. and ed. Michael R. Katz (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2014), 57. 9. In Doctor Faustus Mann employs a montage technique, modeling many characters on his friends and family members. Rudi Schwerdtfeger is modeled on Paul Ehrenberg (1876–1949). As young men, both Mann and Ehrenberg played the violin. Mann’s early story, “Tonio Kröger,” and his novel, Buddenbrooks, also have characters who play the violin. 10. Thomas Mann, Doctor Faustus: The Life of the German Composer Adrian Leverkühn As told by a Friend, trans. John Woods (New York: Knopf, 1997), 314. 11. Thomas Mann, The Story of a Novel (New York: Knopf, 1961), 210. 12. For discussion of additional stories and novels, which, because of space limitations, could not be included in this volume, see David Schoenbaum, The Violin: A Social History of the World’s Most Versatile Instrument (New York: Norton, 2013), 539–71.

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Part Two Across the Centuries

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3

THE VIOLIN IN ITALY DURING THE BAROQUE PERIOD

Peter Walls Violins and Violin Makers Ask the man on the street who was the greatest violin maker of all time and the answer is sure to be “Stradivarius” (1644–1737), the formal Latin version being generally favored over the Italian “Stradivari.”1 Ask a musician who the next greatest maker was and “Giuseppe Guarneri del Gesù” (1698–1744) or “Nicolò Amati” (1596–1684) will be the reply. The setting for this chapter is the time and place of the greatest violins ever made. Italian composers and performers in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries were surely stimulated by the wonderful instruments being produced around them. These instruments emanated principally from northern Italy. Gasparo da Salò (1540–1609), inaccurately described as “the inventor of the violin,” worked in Brescia, and his pupil, Giovanni Paolo Maggini (1580–1642), worked in Milan. Giovanni Grancino (1637–1709) and his pupil Carlo Giuseppe Testore (ca. 1665–1716) had their workshops in Milan. There were a number of highly esteemed luthiers in Venice. But Cremona was the epicenter of fine violin making for over two hundred years. At the dawn of the seventeenth century, Antonio (ca. 1535– 1607) and Girolamo Amati (1561–1630)—“the brothers Amati”2—were producing violins of a quality that would be surpassed only by those of Girolamo’s son, Nicolò. Nicolò alone survived the plague outbreak of 1630, and in 1641 he was to apprentice Andrea Guarneri (1623–98), the grandfather of Guarneri del Gesù (Bartolomeo Giuseppe Guarneri).

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Cremona was a byword for quality instrument making in the seventeenth century. English court records, for example, consistently distinguished between “Cremona violins” and other types (never specified). Here, though, we need to pause, first to reexamine this account of historical preferences by viewing it through an eighteenth-century lens, and second to consider the paradox that instruments recognized as the best ever made have simultaneously been thought in need of improvement. Both perspectives complicate any attempt to establish what kind of sound composers and performers of the Baroque era thought ideal. The hierarchy of perfection reflected in present-day auction catalogs was not established until the late eighteenth century.3 Some eminent musicians preferred the violins of Jacob Stainer (ca. 1617–83), who, though from the Tyrol, had learned his craft in Cremona.4 Francesco Maria Veracini (1690–1768) lost two Stainer instruments (“thought to have been the best in the world” according to Burney) when he was shipwrecked in the English Channel in about 1745.5 Veracini’s preferences seem to have been typical. It is impossible to know, however, whether this reflects a (temporary) change in taste in the eighteenth century or whether it held true for the entire period. Giuseppe Tartini (1692–1770) owned a 1715 Stradivari. Stainer-type instruments were thought to produce a comparatively small sound, but one that had real clarity. Instruments by Stradivari and his compatriots were regarded as having a bigger, more mellow tone. Given that there are nearly 650 surviving Stradivari instruments and about 200 Stainers, it may seem odd to rely on such descriptions— but we have no choice. Virtually all of these violins have been altered in ways that mask their original tonal quality. There are two aspects to this: first (on many instruments), the adjustment of core features, such as the thickness of the plates (the top and back of the violin); and second, the universal upgrading of aspects of the instruments that, at a stretch, we might describe as accessories. Included in this second category are the neck, fingerboard, bridge, bass bar, sound post, tail piece, and strings. Items in the second category are arguably reversible (though getting that right is no easy matter). There is no way, however, to reconstruct a before-and-after scenario for the first category. Plates once thinned or instruments cut down from their original size are not capable of restoration to their original condition. From the 1770s, Count Ignazio Cozio di Salabue (1755–1840) acquired as many quality Cremonese instruments as he could and, despite his sense of their

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value, had no compunction about sending them off to Francesco and Pietro Giovanni Mantegazza in Milan to have thicknesses adjusted. Some of the less drastic alterations that we now see as defining differences between “Baroque” and “Modern” violins must have happened almost imperceptibly as part of normal maintenance (such as adjusting the bridge and sound post). Such innocent interventions can nevertheless obscure evidence about the original setup of these instruments. There are a few features about which we can safely generalize. Violins were strung in gut with, from the 1660s, some having G strings in which the gut core is covered with a fine silver or copper winding. Bridge design was more open in the Baroque period than later. Necks were attached to the body of the violin with a nail through the end block— though, as Stewart Pollens has argued, not necessarily at an angle that was materially different from modern setups.6 Fingerboards were shorter and violinists played without the aid of chin rests (invented in the early nineteenth century) or shoulder rests (a twentieth-century innovation). Bows at the beginning of the period were shorter (24 inches [60 cm] or less) and had a stick that curved away from the hair. The curve (particularly in the upper half) became more complex over time—eventually adopting the concave profile perfected by François Tourte (ca. 1747–1835) and John Dodd (1752–1839) in the 1780s. There may have been quite pronounced regional differences in setup. François Raguenet (1660–1722) noted on his return to France from Italy that “Their Violins are mounted with Strings much larger than ours; their Bows are longer, and they can make their Instruments sound as loud again as we do ours.”7 Trying to verify or add precision to such a statement is fraught with difficulty. Tartini (credited in his own lifetime with lengthening the bow) owned a bow that, at 28 inches (71.5 cm), was as long as standard Tourte models. Corelli, on the other hand, was associated with a short bow (20 inches [51 cm]), if we are to believe the thirdhand account of Robert Bremner).8

Seventeenth-Century Composers Claudio Monteverdi (1567–1643) grew up in Cremona (and must surely have known the brothers Amati), leaving in 1590 or 1591 to take up a position as a string player at the ducal court in Mantua. For Monteverdi, the violin was an ensemble instrument whose natural milieu was dance.

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His sacred music—notably many of the “concertato” works in the Selva morale e spirituale (Moral and spiritual forest, 1640)9—frequently gives a prominent and lyrical role to violins (almost always as an equal pair). The orchestras for his surviving operas and many of the Madrigali guerrieri, et amorosi (Madrigals of war and love, Venice, 1638) feature the violin in a similar vein. “Possente spirto” (Mighty spirit) in his first opera, La favola d’Orfeo (The story of Orpheus, 1607), sets a benchmark for violin virtuosity at the beginning of the seicento (see ex. 3.1).10 We might note that the rapid figuration for two violins never leaves first position and there is little idiomatic differentiation between what they play and the parts assigned to two cornetti in the next strophe. The amount of violin music published in the period is staggering. The works of over 150 composers came from presses, first in Venice (the center of music publication until the 1660s), then in Bologna and, to a lesser extent, in Modena.11 Beyond the intertextual prompting that such publication must have stimulated, patterns of employment (both ecclesiastical and courtly) facilitated considerable cross fertilization among these musicians. Monteverdi knew Tarquinio Merula (1594–1665) as a fellow Cremonese musician. Salamone Rossi (1570– ca. 1630) was a colleague at the court of Mantua, as later, Biagio Marini (1594–1663) and Dario Castello (fl. 1620s) were to be at Saint Mark’s in Venice. Giovanni Legrenzi (1626–90) took up a position at Saint Mark’s the year before Marini’s death. He and Maurizio Cazzati (1616–78) had been fellow members of the Accademia degli Eccitati in Bergamo. The castrato and violinist Carlo Mannelli (1640–97), known now by only one surviving solo violin piece, performed as first concertino violinist at San Giovanni dei Fiorentini in Rome when a young Arcangelo Corelli (1653–1713) was part of the ripieno group. Merula exemplifies a number of significant trends. He was attached to ecclesiastical establishments in Cremona and Bergamo, and his music includes the violin in both concertato vocal works and in purely instrumental compositions. His first book of Motetti e sonate concertati (Concertato motets and sonatas),12 op. 6 (1624), for example, has two pieces for “canto e violino” (voice and violin) followed by two sonatas for “violino over cornetto” (violin or cornetto). His second book (1628) contains several canzonas for two violins and violone.13 Such single-movement sonatas and canzonas (virtually interchangeable terms at this stage) were in several sections, sometimes with a change of meter. Published alongside motets and concerti spirituali (essentially a synonym for

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Example 3.1. Claudio Monteverdi, L’Orfeo, act 3, “Possente spirto,” mm. 14–19.

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“concertato motets”) they had a liturgical function, as substitutes for the repeated plainchant antiphon following each psalm setting at Vespers or for performing during the Gradual or Communion at Mass.14 The presence of compositions for one violin with bass in Merula’s 1624 first book and for two violins with bass in its 1628 sequel lay out the ground for what were to become two important genres—the sonata for violin with basso continuo accompaniment and the trio sonata. The full picture is both more fluid and more complex, however. At first, no clear preference is given to any combination (with ensembles ranging up to eight separate parts). In other words, it is difficult to detect the emergence of genres that were to become dominant. One of the joys of early seventeenth-century violin repertoire is, in fact, this fluidity in relation to genre definition. The interchange between instruments and the delightful fusion of lyricism and dance are typical. Programmatic titles abound. Others identify to ground bass patterns that underpin the composition (passacaglia or ciaccona), others to popular songs, and some to people honored by the composition.15 The listing of alternative instruments (violin or cornetto, etc.) was common. For centuries to come publishers would offer such choices in an effort to address as wide a market as possible; but many seventeenthcentury musicians seem to have been able to cross between one instrument and another. Monteverdi, recruiting for the Duke of Mantua in 1611, reported from Cremona that “there is a young man here . . . who can play on the afore-mentioned instruments [recorder, cornetto, trombone, flute, and bassoon] very readily at least, and with assurance, because I have heard him play both recorder and cornetto; moreover he says that he can also play the gamba and the viola.”16 A truly violinistic idiom emerges in Biagio Marini’s compositions. While his title pages continue to claim that these pieces are “able to be played on violins, cornetti and all sorts of musical instruments,” passages abound that are clearly conceived for the violin. In opus 8 (1629), Marini makes extensive use of double, and even triple, stops. The Sonata no. 4 for violin and continuo “per sonar con due corde” not only has quite ambitious double stopping but contains the interesting directions: “tardo” (slow), canceled by “presto”; and the ornament indications “groppo” (a bowed-out, measured trill like that in the violin parts at the end of ex. 3.1) and “affetti” (literally “affect,” but used in this period to indicate a wide range of ornamental/expressive possibilities) (see ex. 3.2).

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Example 3.2. Biagio Marini, Sonate, Symphoniae, Canzoni, Pass’e mezzi, Baletti, Corenti, Gagliarde, & Retornelli (Venice, 1728), Sonata no. 4, mm. 31–71.

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Three trends emerge in the later seventeenth century: first, the appearance of sonatas in distinct movements; second, the dominance of particular instrumental combinations (eventually, to crystallize as solo sonatas and trio sonatas); and third, the development of an idiomatic violin style that embraced virtuosity of a kind that is not transferrable to other instruments. The composer most clearly associated with the development of multimovement sonatas is Maurizio Cazzati (1616–78) who is sometimes regarded as the founder of a Bolognese violin school that culminates in the work of “Il Bolognese” himself— Arcangelo Corelli. Discrete movements, each with their own tempo indication, arrive on the scene properly with Cazzati’s opus 18, Sonate a due violini (Sonatas for two violins, Venice, 1656). These sonatas are mostly in four movements, though not yet in the slow-fast-slow-fast pattern that was to become standard for the sonata da chiesa later in the century.17 In 1670 Cazzati published twelve Sonate a due instromenti cioè violino, è violone (Sonatas for two instruments, namely violin and violone), op. 55, an important antecedent for Corelli’s Sonate a violino e violone o cimbalo (Sonatas for violin and violone or harpsichord), op. 5 (Rome, 1700).18 The most remarkable idiomatic, virtuoso violin writing belongs to Marco Uccellini (1603–80). His opus 5 sonatas for violin and basso continuo (Venice, 1649) are full of violinistic flourishes (under long slurs) and they utilize upper positions. Ozio regio (Courtly entertainments), op. 7 (Venice, 1660) concludes with five correnti and a contrapuntal toccata described as being for “two violins, with both parts to be played by one solo violin on two strings”—the convoluted wording here reminding us that double stopping was an emerging concept without, yet, a standard description. The only composer to rival Uccellini in this sort of virtuosity was Carlo Ambrogio Lonati (ca. 1645–ca. 1715), known as “il gobbo della regina” (the queen’s hunchback) thanks to his position as leader of Queen Christina of Sweden’s court orchestra in Rome. Veracini described him as “primo lume dei Violinisti” (the first light of violinists).19 Like Mannelli, Lonati was also in demand as an opera singer, often playing comic roles (including hunchback roles created for him). Twelve sonatas published as a set in 1701 give us an idea of his prodigious technique. They utilize seventh position, complex contrapuntal double stopping, wide leaps, and virtuoso flourishes.20

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Eighteenth-Century Composers Uccellini’s representation of double stopping on two separate staves may have been dictated by the limitations of movable type (with each note on a separate piece of type as in letterpress printing of text).21 Engraved publications and manuscript sources are better able to accommodate the notation of double stops and of passages that utilize multiple ledger lines and complex slurring. Manuscript sources are relatively rare for seventeenth-century Italian violin music, and the publishing houses in Venice, Bologna, and Modena were late adopters of engraving technique. It is thus possible that the published record underreports the actual virtuosity of Italian violinists in the period. The breakthrough came with Pietra Santa’s engraved edition of Corelli’s Sonate a violino e violone o cimbalo, op. 5 (Rome, 1700), which followed four sets of sonatas for two violins. Of these, opera 1 and 3 (1681 and 1689, respectively) are described as Sonate a tre, due violini, e violone, o arciliuto, col basso per l’organo. Constructed (primarily) from abstract movements, they might be described as sonate da chiesa—though that term is not used by Corelli.22 He did, however, invoke the concept of sonate da camera for both opus 2 (1685) and opus 4 (1694). These trio sonatas all have a Prelude followed by a sequence of dances. Opus 5 is divided into two parts, reflecting the same da chiesa/camera division (see table 3.1). (The twelfth sonata is the set of variations on La folia, a tune that had already been used for two centuries but was to become known as “a theme of Corelli.”) The Concerti grossi op. 6, published in Amsterdam in 1714, a year after the composer’s death, retain the two-part division, though the “Parte seconda per camera” begins only with the ninth concerto. Corelli’s contemporary reputation was enormous and has scarcely diminished over time. The opus 5 sonatas have never been out of print and are still core repertoire for violinists. Yet, this reputation is based on a restricted output—essentially the six publications mentioned above (seventy-two works in all). Sir John Hawkins, reflecting on Corelli’s fame, struggled to find justification for it: The proficiency of Corelli on his favorite instrument, the violin, was so great, that the fame of it reached throughout Europe; and Mattheson has not scrupled to say that he was the first performer on it in the world; and Gasparini styles him “Virtuosissimo di violino, e vero Orfeo de nostri

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Adagio (G minor→) Allegro Vivace (fugue) 3/4 VIII (E minor) Preludio

Adagio (B minor→)

Allegro (fugue) 6/8

VII (D minor)

Preludio

Sarabanda

Giga

Sarabanda

Giga

Allemanda

Vivace

Allegro

Corrente

Allegro (fugue)

Allegro (fugue)

Allegro (fugue)

Adagio

IV (F major)

Tempo di Gavotta

[Adagio]

Giga

Preludio

Giga

Gavotta

Sarabanda

Allemanda

Preludio

X (F major)

Allegro [Giga] 12/8 Allegro (fugue) IX (A major)

Adagio (E♭à)

Allegro (fugue)

Adagio

V (G minor)

Gavotta

[Vivace]

[Adagio]

[Allegro]

Preludio

XI (E major)

Allegro - Giga 12/8

Adagio (D minor→) Vivace

Adagio (A minor→) Vivace

Allegro (fugue)

Adagio

Grave

Allegro/Grave

III (C major)

II (B♭ major)

I (D major)

Table 3.1. Arcangelo Corelli, Sonate a violino e violone o cimbalo (Rome, 1700) structure

Follia

XII (D minor)

Allegro [fugue/giga] 6/8

Adagio (F♯ minor →)

Allegro

Allegro (fugue)

Grave

VI (A major)

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tempi” [virtuoso violinist and true Orpheus of our times]. . . . It does not, however, appear that he had attained to a power of execution in any degree comparable to that of later professors.23

Corelli’s stature seems to reside in his musical judgment, his learning (though that was challenged in a vituperative correspondence with members of the Accademia Filarmonica in Bologna), and a kind of classicizing influence.24 (Later in his General History, Hawkins writes, “Men remembered, and would refer to passages as to a classic author.”25) Corelli established a kind of orthodoxy. The multiplicity of genres and instrumental combinations of the seventeenth century reduce to the more or less regular structures of da chiesa and da camera works. Three instrumental combinations become dominant: the duo sonata, the trio sonata (with either a thematically integrated bass line or a more functional basso continuo), and the concerto grosso. The latter involves a concertino grouping identical to a trio sonata configuration with one player per part plus a larger ripieno group consisting of first and second violins, viola, cello, and, sometimes at least, double bass. Each of the ripieno parts may (though not necessarily) be performed by more than one player (“che si potranno radoppiare” [that may be doubled], as the opus 6 title page has it).26 Seventeenth-century Italian composers had been converging on these formats for some time. But the effect of Corelli’s prestige in defining them as important, standardized genres is evident in Handel’s acceptance of them as models for emulation. His opus 1 (duo sonatas), opera 2 and 5 (trio sonatas), and opus 6 (concerti grossi)—the numbering here surely not coincidence—might all be seen as homage to Corelli. Corelli’s genius as a violinist is best seen in Sonatas nos. 1–6 of opus 5. These are all five-movement works. An Adagio first movement serves as a prelude to a well-structured fugal Allegro. As with the fugues in the Bach Solo Violin Sonatas, Corelli’s have contrapuntal entries that demand facility in double and triple stopping, relieved by episodes that display other kinds of virtuosity (see ex. 3.3). These second-movement fugues are followed by a virtuosic but essentially noncontrapuntal Allegro. A second Adagio in the relative minor but ending on the dominant of the sonata’s home key leads into a final Allegro that, in most cases, is primarily contrapuntal and with a gigue-like character. There are only minor departures from this overall structure. The da camera

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sonatas (nos. 7–12) of part 2 display much more variety, suggesting that Corelli was determined to defeat the predictability of binary dance movements. No two sonatas have the same sequence of dance types. Corelli clearly wanted us to view opus 5 as what Elaine Sisman describes as a “multi-work opus,” in which individual sonatas contribute to an overall plan.27 The tonal connections, moving from sonata to sonata, are always smooth. The entire set is tonally framed by Sonata no. 1 in D Major and La folia in D Minor (see table 3.1). The D-major Example 3.3. Arcangelo Corelli, Sonate a violino e violone o cimbalo (Rome, 1700), Sonata no. 3, mvt. 2, mm. 1–10.

Example 3.4. Arcangelo Corelli, Sonate a violino e violone o cimbalo (Rome, 1700; and Amsterdam, 1710), Sonata no. 1, mvt. 1, mm. 1–10.

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Sonata has a sense of scale about it befitting its position at the head of the set. Unlike the other first movements, the Adagio that opens this Sonata is interrupted by virtuosic arpeggiation over expectation-generating pedals, the first on the tonic and the second on the dominant (see ex. 3.4). The ornamented version shown in the top system of this example is discussed below. The major violin genre that is not defined through Corelli’s oeuvre is the solo concerto. For that we must turn to Antonio Vivaldi (1678– 1741). Of the nearly eight hundred works attributed to him, about half are concertos and of these over two hundred are for solo violin. Many were written for the young women (orphans or foundlings) at the Ospedale della Pietà in Venice where Vivaldi was first maestro di violino and then, from 1716, maestro de concerti (director of music). Vivaldi himself (the son of a violinist at Saint Mark’s) had a phenomenal technique. Johann Friedrich von Uffenbach described him in 1715 as playing a cadenza “which really frightened me, for such playing has never been nor can be: he brought his fingers up to only a straw’s distance from the bridge, leaving no room for the bow—and that on all four strings with imitations and incredible speed.”28 There is an extraordinary range of instruments and concertino groupings among Vivaldi’s concertos. A few correspond to the Corelli opus 6 model, but only by way of honoring a different organizational scheme. L’estro armonico (The harmonic fantasy)—published by Etienne Roger in Amsterdam in 1711, several years before Corelli’s opus 6— has twelve concertos that fall into four groups of three—one for solo violin, another for two solo violins, and a third for four solo violins (see table 3.2). These concertos were enormously influential. Johann Joachim Quantz praised them as models. Johann Sebastian Bach went further, arranging five of them as keyboard works and converting the Concerto for Four Violins in B Minor into a splendid (albeit impractical) Concerto for Four Harpsichords in A Minor, BWV 2065. Other virtuosi expanded violin technique. Francesco Maria Veracini (1690–1768) utilizes seventh position, has complex double and triple stopping, complex string crossing, and mixed bowings that include rapid up-bow staccato (see ex. 3.5). Veracini seems to have been obsessed with Corelli. His (manuscript) Dissertazioni sopra l’opera quinta del Corelli (Dissertation on Corelli’s op. 5) is a reworking of the opus 5 Sonatas. The Sonate accademiche (Academic sonatas, 1744) are divided into two parts concluding with a sonata built on a chaconne-like

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recurring bass line. Most remarkably, this collection follows exactly the same tonal sequence as Corelli’s (see table 3.1). Thereafter, however, Veracini strikes out in different directions. The two parts of the Sonate accademiche do not follow the da chiesa/camera division of the Corelli set. In fact, these sonatas go off in directions that are very un-Corellilike. Their movement structure is quite idiosyncratic, with a series of capriccio (caprice) movements that are embedded within the sonatas yet numbered sequentially through the volume. These capricci are proudly contrapuntal with titles such as Capriccio quarto, con tre soggetti (Caprice no. 4 with three subjects). Table 3.2. Antonio Vivaldi, L’estro armonico (Amsterdam, 1711) contents 4 violins

2 violins

solo violin

1

D major

2

G minor

3

G major

4

E minor

5

A major

6

A minor

7

F major*

8

A minor

9

D major

10

B minor*

11

D minor*

12

E major

*Plus solo cello part.

Legend has it that Tartini, after hearing Veracini play in Venice in 1716, went into seclusion to work on his bowing technique. But Veracini’s virtuosity seems modest alongside that of Pietro Locatelli (1695–1764) who, according to one account, studied with him. Locatelli’s technical wizardry is captured in L’arte del violino (The art of the violin, Amsterdam, 1733).29 The twenty-four caprices for unaccompanied violin interleaved into this collection of twelve solo violin concertos are astounding showpieces. They involve extended stringcrossing (bariolage) patterns, taxing double stops and chordal passages, forward and backward extensions, and they rise to stratospheric heights. The final movement in the XII sonate a violino solo e basso op. 6 (Amsterdam, 1737) incorporates a capriccio with the subtitle “Prova del intonatione” (Intonation test). Étude-like, it has one extended passage in ascending and descending sixths that reaches beyond the fingerboard (see ex. 3.6). Despite his feelings of inadequacy when he heard Veracini, Tartini was ultimately a figure of greater importance. In 1721 he became primo violino e capo di concerto (Concertmaster) at the Basilica of Saint Anthony

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Example 3.5. Francesco Maria Veracini, Sonate accademiche (1744), Sonata no. 6, mvt. 5, mm. 185–221.

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78 ❧ Chapter Three Example 3.6. Pietro Locatelli, XII Sonate a violino solo è basso da camera op. 6 (Amsterdam, [1737]), Sonata no. 12, mvt. 4 “Capriccio: prova del intonatione,” mm. 49–69.

(“Il Santo”) in Padua. A few years later, he founded what became known as “The School of Nations,” attracting students from all over Europe, including Pietro Nardini (1722–93). Tartini’s “Devil’s Trill” Sonata (op. 1, no. 4) was, by his own account, an attempt to recapture something of what the devil had played to him in a dream. It reveals a prodigious technique. His L’arte dell’arco (The art of bowing, 1758) is a set of thirtyeight variations on the Gavotte from Corelli’s Sonata in F Major, op. 5, no. 10. Thus we see Tartini identifying himself as part of a mainstream Italian violin tradition—a tradition that was highly exportable.

The Italian Diaspora As noted earlier, Jacob Stainer came to Italy to refine his skill as a violin maker. Similarly, Heinrich Schütz (1585–1672) traveled to Venice in 1609 for three years’ study with Giovanni Gabrieli (ca. 1555–1612). Twenty years later, he was to return, this time to absorb what he could from Monteverdi. Johann Walther (ca. 1650–1717) spent three years in Florence (1670–73) before returning to his native Germany, where he was to produce violin music of great virtuosity. Later in the century, there would be a steady stream of European musicians heading for Italy. Georg Muffat (1653–1704) spent time in Rome in the 1680s, having formal lessons with Pasquini and listening to Corelli concerti grossi. His own works in this genre, published in Armonico tributo (Harmonic tribute, Salzburg, 1682) and Auserlesene Instrumental-Music (Select instrumental music, Passau, 1701) were, he claimed, given their first performances at Corelli’s residence. The preface to the later volume is invaluable for information about the performance of Corelli-style concerti grossi.30 Johann Georg Pisendel (1687–1755), who had studied with Torelli in Ansbach in the late 1690s, spent nine months in Venice in 1716, where he formed a close friendship with Vivaldi.

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These musicians were drawn to Italy because of the excitement of the musical developments there. By the same token, Italian violinists were sought after north of the Alps. Merula spent five years in Warsaw (1621– 26) early in his career. Giovanni Battista Buonamente (d. 1642) served at the imperial court in Vienna between 1626 and 1629. Marini was Kapellmeister in Düsseldorf for five years (1623–28) and returned there for a second stint in 1644. The Mantuan violinist Carlo Farina (1604– 39) worked under Schütz at the Dresden court for three years from 1625. Toward the end of his life, Farina held positions in the Municipal Orchestra in Danzig (now Gdańsk in Poland) and at the Imperial court in Vienna. His delight in eccentricity, most amusingly demonstrated in Capriccio stravagante (Eccentric capriccio), resurfaces in the compositions of Johann Walther and Heinrich Biber (1644–1704). There are numerous other examples of Italians who held positions in Germany and Austria. Giovanni Buonaventura Viviani (1638–ca. 1692) and Giovanni Antonio Pandolfi (1630–ca. 1670), composer of brilliant improvisatory sonatas, both served at the Innsbruck court. The Veronese violinist Antonio Bertali (1605–99) spent his career at the court in Vienna. Giuseppe Torelli (1658–1709) took an extended sojourn in Germany and Austria after an economic downturn caused the professional music establishment at San Petronio in Bologna to go into recess. He was appointed maestro di concerto by the Margrave of Brandenburg. He returned to Bologna in 1701, but not before he had made a considerable impact in Germany and Austria. His Concerti musicali op. 6 (Ansbach, 1698) was dedicated to the Electress of Brandenburg, Sophia Charlotte, who, two years later, was honored by Corelli with the dedication of his opus 5. The playing of Nicola Matteis (fl. ca. 1670–ca. 1698) fired English imaginations. The diarist John Evelyn wrote after attending a private concert in 1674: “I heard that stupendious Violin Signor Nicholao . . . whom certainly never mortal man Exceeded on that Instrument: he had a stroak so sweete, & made it speake like the Voice of a man; & when he pleased, like a Consort of severall Instruments.”31 Matteis’s four published volumes of Ayres for the violin,32 indeed, demand a technique well in advance of any contemporary English music and disclose in extended slurred flourishes a sweep and spontaneity that seems very Italianate (see ex. 3.7).33 Henry Purcell, in his preface to Sonatas of III Parts (1683), claimed that he had “faithfully endeavour’d a just imitation of the most fam’d Italian Masters.” Elsewhere he recommended the fugues of

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Example 3.7. Nicola Matteis, Other Ayrs . . . The Second Part, “Passagio rotto– Fantasia,” mm. 1–35.

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Lelio Colista as compositional models.34 Roger North described the way “divers young gentlemen [traveled] into Italy, and after having learnt of the best violin masters, particularly Corelli, returned with flourishing hands.”35 Gasparo Visconti (1683–1713) grew up in Stradivari’s Cremona and was, by his own account, “five years Corelli’s scholar” in Rome before heading for London in 1702. His opus 1 sonatas were published in 1703 by Etienne Roger in Amsterdam and by John Walsh in London (as Gasperini’s Solos for a Violin). Giovanni Stefano Carbonelli (ca. 1700– 1773) arrived in London in 1719 and remained there for the rest of his life, eventually giving up music in favor of a wine-importing venture. His Sonate da camera a violino e violone o cembalo (London, 1729) claim an allegiance to Corelli who was also reportedly his teacher. Interestingly, these are not, despite the title, da camera sonatas, though they do include a few dance movements. They demand a technique able to cope with extended arpeggiated passages (a favorite Carbonelli stratagem) and contrapuntal multiple stopping. In 1715 Pietro Castrucci (1679–1752), another Corelli pupil, arrived in London and led Handel’s opera orchestra for the next two decades. Francesco Geminiani (1687–1762) had landed the year before. His Sonate a violino, violone, e cembalo op. 1 (London, 1716) has an opening A-major sonata in which the first movement, with its alternating Adagio and Presto sections, is strongly and deliberately reminiscent of Sonata no. 1 in the Corelli collection (see ex. 3.8). In the Preface to A Treatise of Good Taste in the Art of Musick (London, 1749), Geminiani indulges in name dropping. Talking about the kind of variation technique exhibited in Corelli’s La folia, he writes: “I have had the Pleasure of discoursing with him myself upon this Subject.” The French were as eager as the English to absorb something of the Corelli idiom. In 1704 Lecerf de la Viéville (1674–1707) expressed amusement at the cachet that attached to a familiarity with the style: “what joy, what pride is felt by anyone who knows Corelli’s Op. 5!”36 Michele Mascitti (ca. 1664–1760), newly arrived in Paris, found a receptive market for his Sonate a violino solo col violone ò cembalo (Paris, 1704). Everything about this publication, right down to a beautifully engraved frontispiece that is closely modeled on that for opus 5, proclaims an allegiance to Corelli. More important, there are instances where Mascitti seems to be working from a Corelli template.37 As time went on, Mascitti (like Geminiani in England) adapted his style to

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Example 3.8. Francesco Geminiani, Sonate a violino, violone e cembalo (London, 1716), Sonata no. 1, mm. 1–19.

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accommodate local taste. Meanwhile, François Duval (ca. 1673–1728), Jean-Féry Rebel (1666–1747), Louis Francoeur (ca. 1692–1745), JeanBaptiste Senaillé (ca. 1688–1730), and the brothers Leclair produced sonata volumes that show familiarity with the Italian style.

Performance Practice Flair and spontaneity seem to have been regarded as the hallmarks of Italian violin playing throughout the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. More often than not, this was expressed in the form of a comparison with the more circumscribed approach of French violinist/composers. Although the debate about the relative merits of these national styles embraced genre and compositional style, performance practice was very much to the fore. The most notorious phase of this particular debate was the so-called guerre (or querelle) des bouffons (War of the comic actors), initiated by the 1752 performance in Paris of Pergolesi’s La serva padrona (The maid as mistress), which was composed nearly two decades earlier in 1733. But the terms of engagement in this “war” were familiar. Mersenne had pronounced on the different orientation of Italian and French violinists as early as 1636, writing of the Italians that they “represent as much as they can the passions and the affects of the soul and the spirit . . . with a violence so strange that one judges them as if they were touched with the same affects they represent in singing.”38 The idea of a performing style that made the violinist seem like a person possessed is a recurring topos in the period. François Raguenet, writing in 1702, characterized Italian composition as “so impetuous and affecting, that the Imagination, the Senses, the Soul and the Body itself are all betray’d into a general Transport” and then added that “the Artist himself, whilst he is performing it, is seiz’d with an unavoidable Agony; he tortures his Violin; he racks his Body; he is no longer Master of himself, but is agitated like one possesst with an irresistible Motion.” At this point, the English translator (Nicola Haym) added a footnote: “I never met with any Man that suffer’d his Passions to hurry him away so much, whilst he was playing on the Violin, as the famous Arcangelo Corelli; whose Eyes will sometimes turn as red as Fire; his Countenance will be distorted, his Eye-Balls roll as in Agony, and he gives in so much to what he is doing that he doth not look like the same Man.”39

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For 150 years, the French musical world appears to have been divided between loyalists and Italophile revolutionaries. Musicians in Germany, Britain, and other parts of Europe felt it incumbent on themselves to come to terms with the Italian style on the one hand and the French on the other. But the most remarkable aspect of this ongoing discourse was that the Italians themselves showed comparatively little interest. We are consequently reliant on foreign commentators for much of what we know about Italian approaches to performance. Direct instruction from Italian violinists is limited. Francesco Rognoni (d. ca. 1626) who described himself as a “player of the violin, of the viola bastarda, and other instruments,” published his Aggiunta del scolare di violino et altri strumenti col basso continuo per l’organo (Companion for students of the violin and other instruments with a basso continuo for the organ) in Milan in 1614. This first-ever violin treatise disappeared—though perhaps not without trace. It is possible that it was subsumed into Rognoni’s diminution manual, Selva de varii passaggi (Copious varied passages, Milan, 1620). While the first part of Selva deals with vocal and instrumental ornamentation, the second part is specifically about instrumental matters, including bow management. Gasparo Zanetti’s Il scolaro per imparar a suonare di violino et altri stromenti (The student learning violin and other instruments, Milan, 1645) is (pace David Boyden) a fairly primitive set of dances notated in play-bynumbers tablature.40 As an instruction manual, its value is very limited. Frustratingly, Carlo Mannelli’s Studio del violino (a volume that might have illuminated violin playing in the age of Corelli and Vivaldi) is lost.41 Geminiani’s Art of Playing on the Violin (London, 1751) has long been treasured as an advanced treatise written by an Italian virtuoso who had known Corelli. But, by the time he wrote this, Geminiani’s style had shifted away from the Corelli-like opus 1 Sonate or the opera 2 and 3 Concerti Grossi (1725). The greatest Italian violinist to provide advice about performance is Giuseppe Tartini. The letter that he wrote in 1760 to the fourteenyear-old Maddelena Lombardini lets us see something of his approach to teaching the violin. The letter was published in Venice in 1770, in an English translation by Charles Burney in 1771 (described as “an important lesson to performers on the violin”), in a French translation in 1773, and finally in a German version in 1784. A more extended Tartini treatise (“Rules for Learning to Play the Violin Well”) circulated in manuscripts compiled by pupils. This must have been making

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the rounds by the early 1750s, since Leopold Mozart cites it (as the work of “a great Italian master”) in his 1756 Violinschule.42 It was not published until 1771, however, in an incomplete French translation, as the Traité des agréments de la musique (Treatise on ornamentation in music).43 The most significant omission from the published version is a preliminary chapter titled (in one of two surviving manuscripts) “Rules for Bowing.”44 How was that sense of flamboyance that was so consistently associated with Italian violinists communicated? It is striking how many depictions of violinists in the period project freedom of movement, often associated with holding the instrument below the collar bone. The Neapolitan virtuoso, Nicola Matteis, astonished English musicians in the late seventeenth century by holding his violin low on his chest. Geminiani still advocated holding the violin beneath the collar bone, though, to judge from illustrations such as the engraving of Veracini that appeared as the frontispiece to the Sonate accademiche in 1744, this was a method that by the mid-century may not have found much favor with his compatriots. We are on surer ground in claiming that the Italians were known for a particular bow grip. Michel Corrette, in L’école d’Orphée (The school of Orpheus, Paris, 1738), identifies placing the thumb on the stick as Italian, as distinct from the French practice of placing it under the frog.45 Roger North credits Matteis with persuading the English “out of that awkwardness” of holding the bow with the thumb on the hair.46 Muffat, too, describes this as a specifically Italian practice.47 The earliest Italian advice on bowing establishes the principles behind what became known as “the rule of down-bow,” which basically prescribes that strong beats should fall on down-bows. These principles are first laid out by Riccardo Rognoni (ca. 1550–ca. 1620) and then developed by Francesco (his son) in Selva de varii passaggi. As time went on, scrupulous attention to aligning stressed points with down bows came to be seen as characteristically French. Raguenet saw this precision as something that differentiated French violinists from their Italian colleagues: “our Masters touch the Violin much finer, and with a greater Nicety than they do in Italy.”48 Geminiani admonished violinists to take care “not to follow that wretched Rule of drawing the Bow down at the first Note of every Bar,” reinforcing this advice with exercises that persistently place stressed notes on up bows (see ex. 3.9). Tartini provides interesting corroboration. He writes that “there are no definite rules for determining whether

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one should begin with a down-bow or up-bow. On the contrary, all passages should be practised in both ways.”49 Maddelena Lombardini is told to practice a Corelli Allegro for an hour a day making sure that she begins “sometimes with an up-bow, and sometimes with a down-bow.”50 The Italians were, it seems, less constrained in their use of separate bows than the French. Geminiani expects his students to practice every possible configuration of slurs from two to six notes (see ex. 16 in The Art of Playing on the Violin). But this kind of variety is evident from the beginning of our period. Rognoni has expressive slurring with up to fifteen notes within a single bow stroke. Markings like il lireggiare affetusoso (expressively joined) or con affetti associated with slurs suggest separated and probably off-the-string notes in a single bow. Marini’s direction “tremolo con l’arco” in “La Foscarina” from Affetti musicali (Musical affects) op. 1 (1617) suggests a gentle pulsation within a slurred bow since the continuo (organ) part is marked “metti il tremolo” (engage the tremulant) (see ex. 3.10).51 Farina explicitly imitates an organ’s tremulant stop in Capriccio stravagante where the parts are marked “il tremulo” and “Der Tremulant.” This extended programmatic piece introduces an array of other special effects including col legno where the detailed instruction makes it clear that this was not yet a standard technique for violinists: Qui si batte con il legno del archetto sopra le corde (Here you beat on the strings with the wood of the bow). A fundamental aspect of violin bowing in the Italian style seems to have been the use of what is called messa di voce, though this is a term not found in specifically violin sources. The swelling and diminishing on a single note Example 3.9. Francesco Geminiani, The Art of Playing on the Violin (London, 1751), example 8, §20, mm. 237–53.

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Example 3.10. Biagio Marini, Affetti musicali (Venice, 1617), “La Foscarina: Sonata a 3 con il tremolo,” mm. 71–80.

has its origin in vocal practice. Giulio Caccini (1551–1618), in the preface to Le nuove musiche (New musical compositions, 1602), places great store by the expressive potential of what he calls an “esclamazione” (and its subcategories “esclamazione affettuosa,” “esclamazione rinforzata,” etc.). This terminology is picked up by Rognoni when addressing both singers and instrumentalists. Roger North (doubtless thinking first and foremost of Nicola Matteis) noted that “the Italians have brought the bow to an high perfection, so that nothing of their playing is so difficult as the arcata or long bow, with which they will begin a long note, clear, without rubb, and draw it forth swelling lowder and lowder, and at the ackme take a slow waiver.”52 And Geminiani declared that one of the principal Beauties of the Violin is the swelling or encreasing and softening the Sound; which is done by pressing the Bow upon the

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88 ❧ Chapter Three Strings with the Fore-finger more or less. In playing all long Notes the Sound should be begun soft, and gradually swelled till the Middle, and from thence gradually softened till the End. And lastly, particular Care must be taken to draw the Bow smooth from one End to the other without any Interruption or stopping in the Middle.53

We cannot be sure, of course, that this approach to the expressive playing of long notes is an exclusively Italianate trait. Michel Corrette recommends it in L’école d’Orphée (Paris, 1738)—but he does this in a section headed “Leçons de violon pour apprendre a joüer dans le goût Italien” (violin studies for learning to play in the Italian style), not in the corresponding section on playing in the French style.54 There are prefaces to both Giovanni Antonio Piani’s Sonate (Paris, 1712) and Veracini’s Sonate accademiche (London and Florence, 1744), explaining the use of signs for a swell, a diminuendo, and a combination of the two. Tartini elaborates on the production and affect of the swell in the Regole (Rules for bowing) and, at even more length, in the letter to Maddelena Lombardini: My advice is that you first exercise yourself in a swell upon an open string . . . that you begin pianissimo, and increase the tone by slow degrees to its fortissimo; and this study should be equally made, with the motion of the bow up, and down. . . . When you are a perfect mistress of this part of a good performer, a swell will be very easy to you; beginning with the most minute softness, encreasing the tone to its loudest degree, and diminishing it to the same point of softness with which you began, and all this in the same stroke of the bow.55

What, more than anything else, seems to have attracted the attention of musicians in other parts of Europe to Italian playing was the approach to free ornamentation or spontaneous embellishment. This can be seen in late sixteenth-century diminution practices, which are the primary focus of the Rognonis’ manuals. Once again, vocal practice is carried over into instrumental music. Here, the most important early exemplar is Monteverdi’s written-out elaboration (printed immediately beneath the unadorned line) for Orfeo’s aria “Possente spirto” (see ex. 3.1, which documents a tiny excerpt from Monteverdi’s own written-out embellishments for the tenor soloist). The virtuosity has a point—the demonstration of Orfeo’s persuasive rhetorical power as the archetypal musician.

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The locus classicus for the free embellishment of Adagio movements is Corelli’s opus 5, or, rather, the 1710 Etienne Roger edition of Corelli’s opus 5, which includes “the ornaments for the Adagios of this work as Mr. A. Corelli plays them.” The Roger edition (pirated by Walsh the following year) seems to have prompted a plethora of additional written-out embellishments for these sonatas—including the da camera sonatas of part 2, which are unadorned in the Roger volume.56 The fact that virtually all of these sources emanate from the British Isles prompts questions about why musicians in other parts of Europe—and particularly in Italy—seem not to have recorded their flourishes for these or, for that matter, other composers’ adagios. Italian musicians seem to have thought it condescending to spell out matters that might be seen as basic competencies. Roger North sums up this attitude succinctly and colorfully, writing that the Italians “In their finest cantatas have exprest no graces, as much as to say, Whoever is fitt to sing this, knows the common decorums.”57 The various sets of Corelli embellishments exhibit a variety of approaches. The Roger embellishments always have a linear orientation and never include links from one phrase to the next. At the other end of the spectrum, those by the Swedish composer Johan Roman (1694–1758) are built primarily on harmonic arpeggiation and frequently include connecting links to the next phrase. The most systematic instruction on how to embellish Italianate slow movements comes from Johann Joachim Quantz (1697–1773). Chapter 13 of his Versuch einer Anweisung die Flöte traversière zu spielen (Treatise on playing the transverse flute, Berlin, 1752) is devoted to “Extempore Variations on Simple Intervals.” He begins by noting that “the melodies of those who compose in the Italian style, as opposed to those of French composers, are not written out with all the graces.”58 That chapter is followed by another on “The Manner of Playing the Adagio.” Once again, Quantz stresses that this is applicable to Italian repertoire.59 Quantz’s next chapter deals with cadenzas—another practice with Italian origins: “It was perhaps less than half a century ago that these cadenzas became fashionable among the Italians, and were subsequently imitated by the Germans and others who devoted themselves to singing and playing in the Italian style. The French, however, have always abstained from using them.”60 The second part of Tartini’s Traité is given over to a very methodical treatment of cadenzas, starting with

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the most common bass line progressions and their harmonic implications and working through to very elaborate “artificial cadences.”

Conclusion The usefulness of identifying the middle of the eighteenth century as the end of a musical era, the Baroque period, is increasingly being called into question. When considering the history of the violin and its music in an Italian context, however, it is difficult not to feel some sense of nostalgia for an era that began with the brothers Amati and Monteverdi and attracted admiration and excitement all over Europe for close to a century and a half. Stradivari died in 1737 and Guarneri in 1744, three years after Vivaldi. Tartini lived until 1770 but was not heard much as a violinist after a stroke in about 1740, and he devoted the final decades of his life to theory rather than composition. Violin repertoire from the age of Monteverdi and Merula through to Vivaldi, Locatelli, Veracini, Geminiani, and Tartini communicates a sense of adventure, freedom, and lyricism—of breaking new ground musically. Writing in 1735, the enlightenment philosopher and author, JeanBaptiste de Boyer (1704–71), noted the universal appeal of Italian music in this era: “Corelli wasn’t French. He has succeeded in Paris as much as in Rome. Bononcini delighted London. Mascitti found the secret for consoling connoisseurs mourning the loss of Corelli. . . . Bononcini, Mascitti, harmonically great, gracious in their melody, knowledgeable in their composition, have tried to please universally.”61

Notes 1.

2. 3.

4.

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The names “Stradivarius” and “Strad” have become part of the English language as synonyms for violin perfection. Both are included in the Oxford English Dictionary (along with “Guarnerius” and “Amati”). Microsoft Word’s spellcheck recognizes them (while rejecting “Guarnerius” and “Amati”). They are the sons of Andrea Amati (ca. 1511–80). The most reliable guide for sale prices of string instruments is Donald M. Cohen, ed., The Red Book: Auction Price Guide of Authentic Stringed Instruments and Bows (Alexandria, VA: Donald Cohen, 2012). On Stainer’s training, see Walter Senn and Karl Roy, Jakob Stainer (Frankfurt: Bochinsky, 1986), 472–73.

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The Violin in Italy during the Baroque Period 5.

6. 7. 8. 9.

10.

11.

12.

13.

14.

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Charles Burney, A General History of Music (London, 1789), 569. On the preference for Stainer violins in the second half of the eighteenth century, see Peter Walls, “Mozart and the Violin,” Early Music 20 (1992): 8–9; and Gino Cattani, Roger L. M. Dunbar, and Shapira Zur, “Value Creation and Knowledge Loss: The Case of Cremonese Stringed Instruments,” Organization Science 24 (2013): 818–19. Stewart Pollens, Stradivari (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010), 104–35. François Raguenet, Comparison between the French and Italian Musick and Operas (London, 1709), 49. See Robert Seletsky, “New Light on the Old Bow,” Early Music 32, no. 2 (2004): 291; and 32, no. 3 (2004): 417. The word “Selva” is also used metaphorically to suggest a plethora or abundance, and this is how it has been translated below when the word occurs in the title of Francesco Rognoni’s ornamentation treatise. Example 3.1 after Monterverdi, L’Orfeo, ed. Clifford Bartlett (Huntingdon, UK: King’s Music, 1993). Music examples in this chapter are taken directly from primary sources, unless (as here) there is a footnote identifying a modern edition. In Monteverdi’s 1610 Vespers (the Vespro della Beata Virgine) Monteverdi takes the violin up to a notated d3. It seems, however, that— taking account of standard transposition down a fourth implied by the use of particular clefs—such passages never leave first position. See Andrew Parrott, “Transposition in Monteverdi’s Vespers of 1610,” in Composer’s Intentions? Lost Traditions of Musical Performance (Woodbridge, Suffolk: Boydell, 2015), 146–93. In his edition of Willi Apel’s Italian Violin Music of the Seventeenth Century (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1990), Thomas Binkley augments Apel’s discussion of sixty-one composers with a list of eighty-four additional names, noting that “there are sure to be many more,” 293. The term concertato (plural concertati) is frequently used in the first half of the seventeenth century to describe works that utilize diverse resources. Here, the fact that the motets are for various groupings of solo voices, often mixed with instruments, and always accompanied by basso continuo, make them typical of the concertato style. On the meaning of “violone” in such contexts, see Stephen Bonta, “From Violone to Violoncello: A Question of Strings?” Journal of the American Musical Instrument Society 3 (1977): 64–99; and “Terminology for the Bass Violin in Seventeenth-Century Italy,” Journal of the American Musical Instrument Society 4 (1978): 5–23. See Stephen Bonta, “The Uses of the ‘Sonata da Chiesa,’” Journal of the American Musicological Society 22 (1969): 54–84.

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92 ❧ Chapter Three 15. For a study of the conventions behind such names, see Don Harrán, “Dedication and Labelling Practices in Seventeenth-Century Instrumental Music: The Case of Maro Uccellini,” Royal Musical Association Research Chronicle 45 (2014): 1–25. 16. Letter of March 26, 1611, in Claudio Monteverdi, Letters, ed. Denis Stevens (London: Faber, 1980), 83. 17. Sonata da chiesa literally means “church sonata” in contrast to sonata da camera, “chamber sonata.” While da chiesa sonatas may have had some liturgical function (see below), the terminological distinction essentially is between sonatas made up of movements with titles indicating only a basic tempo (da chiesa) and sonatas consisting predominantly of movements that carry the names of various dances (da camera). 18. Most sonata collections discussed in this chapter have some variant on this form of title. Therefore, at this point I shall cease providing translations in all cases. It should be noted, however, that the innocent conjunctions “e” (and) and “o” (or) have stimulated a great deal of musicological controversy. I have contributed to this debate, in Peter Walls, History, Imagination and the Performance of Music (Rochester, NY: Boydell, 2003), 30–43, and, more recently, in Peter Walls, “On Divided Lines: Instrumentation for Bass Parts in Corelli-era Sonatas,” Performance Practice Review 13 (2008): 1–15. 19. See Enrico Careri, Francesco Geminiani (1687–1762) (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1993), 53. 20. See Carl’Ambrogio Lonati, The Violin Sonatas: Milan 1701, ed. Franz Giegling (Winterthur: Amadeus, 1981). 21. Peter Allsop argues that the apparently greater virtuosity evident in violin music by German composers in the seventeenth century may have more to do with the method of transmission than with superior technical accomplishment; see his “Violinistic Virtuosity in the Seventeenth Century: Italian Supremacy or Austro-German Hegemony?” Il saggiatore musicale 3 (1996): 233–58. 22. Peter Allsop prefers the designation “free sonatas” for Corelli’s opera 1 and 3. See his Arcangelo Corelli: New Orpheus of Our Times (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999), 69–105. 23. John Hawkins, General History of the Science and Practice of Music, 5 vols. (London, 1776), 1:674–75. 24. For the Accademia Filharmonica correspondence, see Ruth Halle Rowen, Music through Sources and Documents (Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice Hall, 1979), 173–76. 25. Hawkins, General History, 4:318. 26. On the doubling of ripieno parts in this repertoire, see Richard Maunder, The Scoring of Baroque Concertos (Woodbridge, Suffolk: Boydell, 2004).

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27. Elaine Sisman, “Six of One: the Opus Concept in the Eighteenth Century,” in The Century of Bach and Mozart, ed. Sean Gallagher and Thomas Forrest Kelly (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Department of Music, 2008), 80, 82, and 89. 28. Michael Talbot, Antonio Vivaldi (London: Oxford University Press, 1978), 56. 29. L’arte del violino: XII concerti cioè, violino solo, con XXIV capricci ad libitum (Amsterdam, 1733). 30. See David K. Wilson, ed., Georg Muffat on Performance Practice (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2001), 67–81. 31. John Evelyn, The Diary of John Evelyn, ed. E. S. de Beer, 6 vols. (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1955), 4:167. 32. Arie diverse per il violino (1676), Other Ayrs (1679), Ayres 3rd and 4th parts (1685). 33. The double slash (//) mark that occurs several times in this example is an ornament. In his A Treatise of Good Taste in the Art of Musick (London, 1749) and again in The Art of Playing on the Violin (London, 1751), Geminiani calls this sign a beat and illustrates it as a trill involving the note on which it is indicated and the note immediately underneath it. However, in this context, Matteis seems to be using the sign to indicate a normal trill. 34. See Purcell’s contribution to John Playford, An Introduction to the Skill of Music, 12th ed. (London, 1694). 35. John Wilson, ed., Roger North on Music (London: Novello, 1959), 310n. 36. Jean Laurent le Cerf de la Viéville, Comparaison de la musique italienne, et de la musique françoise (Paris, 1704); reprinted as vols. 2–4 of Pierre BonnetBourdelot, Histoire de la musique et de ses effets (Amsterdam, 1725), 2:55. 37. See Peter Walls, “‘Sonade, que me veux tu?’ Reconstructing French Identity in the Wake of Corelli’s op. 5,” Early Music 32 (2004): 27–47. 38. Marin Mersenne, Harmonie universelle, 2 vols. (Paris, 1636–37), 2: 356. English translation from Robert Donington, The Interpretation of Early Music, rev. ed. (New York: Norton, 1992), 104. 39. Raguenet, Comparison, 20–21. On Nicola Haym as the translator, see Lowell Lindgren, “The Great Influx of Italians and Their Instrumental Music into London, 1701–1710,” Studi Corelliani VI: Atti del sesto congresso internazionale, 2:476. 40. See David Boyden, The History of Violin Playing (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1965), 154. 41. The Studio del Violino was not published, but Mannelli bequeathed manuscript copies of the treatise in his will. See Helene Wessely, “Mannelli, Carlo,” Grove Music Online. Oxford Music Online, Oxford University Press. http://www.oxfordmusiconline.com/subscriber/article/grove/ music/17654.

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94 ❧ Chapter Three 42. Leopold Mozart, A Treatise on the Fundamental Principles of Violin Playing, trans. Edith Knocker (London: Oxford University Press, 1951), 187; and compare Giuseppe Tartini, Traité des agréments de la musique, ed. Erwin R. Jacobi (Celle and New York: Moeck, 1961), 75. 43. All of these sources may be found in Tartini, Traité. On the dating of the “Regole”/Traité, see 39–40. 44. Tartini, Traité, 50–58. 45. Corrette, L’école d’Oprhée (Paris, 1739), 7. 46. Wilson, Roger North on Music, 309. 47. Wilson, Georg Muffat, 33. 48. Raguenet, Comparison, 9–10. Muffat’s preface to Florilegium Secundum (Augsburg, 1698) contains the most elaborate analysis of the rule of the down bow. This preface focuses on the French style. See Wilson, Georg Muffat, 23–65. 49. Tartini, Traité, 56. 50. Ibid., 135. 51. Example 3.10 after Biagio Marini, String Sonatas from Opus 1 and Opus 8, ed. Thomas D. Dunn (Madison: A-R Editions, 1981), 8–9. 52. Wilson, Roger North on Music, 164. 53. Geminiani, The Art of Playing on the Violin, 2. 54. Corrette, L’école d’Orphée, 34. 55. Tartini, Traité, 133–35. 56. Arcangelo Corelli, Sonaten für Violine und Basso Continuo, ed. Christopher Hogwood and Ryan Mark (Kassel: Bärenreiter, 2013) includes embellishments from all sources conceived specifically for violin. Neal Zaslaw (in “Ornaments for Corelli’s Violin Sonatas, Op. 5,” Early Music 24 [1996]: 95–118) lists additional embellished versions for other instruments. 57. Wilson, Roger North on Music, 160. Another English exemplar of free embellishment is William Babell’s (posthumously published) XII Solos, For a Violin or Hautboy with a Bass figur’d for the Harpsichord with proper Graces adapted to each Adagio by ye Author (London, ca. 1725). 58. Johann Joachim Quantz, On Playing the Flute, trans. Edward R. Reilly (London: Faber, 1966), 136. 59. Ibid., 162. 60. Ibid., 177. 61. Jean-Baptiste de Boyer, le Marquis d’Argens, Mémoires de Monsieur le Marquis D’Argens: avec quelques lettres sur divers sujets (London, 1735), 235.

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4

BACH AND THE VIOLIN

Peter Wollny

I

n a letter to the music historian Johann Nicolaus Forkel (1749–1818), Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach (1714–88) gave a concise, but fairly detailed outline of his father’s artistic background. Regarding Bach’s knowledge of string instruments, and particularly his interest in the violin, we read the following statement: In his youth, and until the approach of old age, he played the violin cleanly and penetratingly, and thus kept the orchestra in better order than he could have done with the harpsichord. He understood to perfection the possibilities of all stringed instruments. This is evidenced by his solos for the violin and for the violoncello without bass. One of the greatest violinists told me once that he had seen nothing more perfect for learning to be a good violinist, and could suggest nothing better to anyone eager to learn, than the said violin solos without bass.1

In the same letter we learn that Bach, “as the greatest expert and judge of harmony . . . liked best to play the viola, with appropriate loudness and softness.” When Forkel in 1802 published his long-announced Bach biography, he picked up this statement and added some explanatory commentary, which probably is also based on information provided by one of the Bach sons: “With this instrument [i.e., the viola], he was, as it were, in the middle of the harmony, whence he could best hear and enjoy it, on both sides.”2 Forkel’s statement could be a commentary on the list of string instruments specified in the catalog of Bach’s estate. According to this list,

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Bach owned three violins, three violas, three cellos, and one viola da gamba. Particularly noteworthy is the fact that one of the violins was made by the famous Jacob Stainer.3 These documents help to elucidate how Bach, who generally is regarded as one of the most eminent virtuosos of the organ and harpsichord, managed to compose his highly idiomatic works for string instruments. However, we have little information about how Bach achieved his mastery of the intricate and highly developed technique of playing the violin, which works he used to study, and who his teachers may have been. Still, it should be noted that in the late seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries, during Bach’s childhood and youth, one may observe a highly sophisticated state of violin playing in Thuringia. Many of Bach’s relatives were employed as town or court musicians and each played several string and wind instruments. The family was widely known for its high musicality, and in the town of Erfurt, for example, the name of “Bach” was used as a synonym for town musician. In a remarkable letter written after the death of Bach’s father in 1695, Barbara Margaretha Bach (widow of the deceased and stepmother of Johann Sebastian) wrote that—upon the death of her first husband, Johann Christoph Bach, a town musician and capable violinist of Arnstadt—“the Noble Count and Lord of that place most graciously inquired of the widow in these words: whether there was not another Bach available who would like to apply for the post, for he should and must have a Bach again.”4

The Violin in Thuringia during Bach’s Youth In Eisenach, the young Johann Sebastian Bach must have been in contact with the town organist, Johann Christoph Bach (1642–1703), a cousin of his father, and with the ducal Kapellmeister, Daniel Eberlin (1647–ca. 1714). Surviving works of these two composers bear witness to the treatment of the violin as Bach may have experienced it. In this respect, three pieces by Johann Christoph Bach are noteworthy. In his cantata (lament) “Ach, dass ich Wassers gnug hätte” (Oh, that I had enough water) he juxtaposes a solo violin over a consort of three gambas with the solo alto voice.5 Without any idiomatic or virtuosic elements of its own, the violin strictly imitates lines and figures presented by the voice. Thus the melodic, almost vocal qualities of the instrument

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are brought to the fore. The same composer’s highly expressive “Wie bist du denn, o Gott, in Zorn auf mich entbrannt” (How art thou, O God, erupted in anger at me) uses a similar scoring, but there are sudden outbursts of virtuosity (see ex. 4.1). Certain key words in the text (a compilation of passages from several penitential psalms) are commented on by the violin with rapid passages, dotted rhythms, and difficult leaps.6 In a third work, the wedding cantata for soprano and tenor, “Meine Freundin, du bist schön” (My friend, you are beautiful), the treatment of the solo violin is even more demanding. The central movement, an extended chaconne, relates how the bride (sung by the soprano), during a walk, reminisces about her lover. An explanatory note tells us that the wealth of good thoughts the girl nurtures during her walk are depicted by the figuration of the violin. Again we see rapid passage work and the instrument’s ambitus is extended to third position (highest note: d3). The leaps and broken chords require a high degree of bow technique.7 A similar approach to the violin is found in Daniel Eberlin’s cantata, “Ich will in aller Not auf meinen Jesum bauen” (I want to build in all distress on my Jesus).8 The piece is conceived for tenor, violin, and basso continuo. While the voice presents a strophic text in a simple, songlike fashion, the violin is treated in two instrumental sections (labeled “Sonata”) as a virtuosic solo instrument performing rapid passage work and extended double stops. The final section of the piece combines the vocal presentation of the poem’s last stanza with passages in thirty-second notes in the violin. Hans Joachim Moser (1889–1967) called this impressive composition the most demanding violin piece before J. S. Bach.9 Eberlin’s mastery of the violin is also documented in two trio sonatas transmitted in the “Codex Rost.”10 These were first published in 1675 in a collection of six works of this type, titled Trium mirifice. Since only the continuo part of this print survives, however, the manuscript copies in the “Codex Rost” are the only complete instrumental works by Eberlin that have come down to us. The two pieces have Italian titles (“La Favorita” and “La Eminenza”), bearing witness to Eberlin’s studies in Rome, where he took lessons with the violin virtuoso Lelio Colista (1629–80). The two pieces display characteristics similar to those of the vocal concerto; they require a high degree of bow technique and the mastery of the fingerboard up to the fifth position. From a short testimony by his son-in-law, Georg Philipp Telemann

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Example 4.1. Johann Christoph Bach, “Wie bist du denn, O Gott, in Zorn auf mich entbrannt,” mm. 107–18.

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(1681–1767), we know that Eberlin was also interested in the technique of scordatura,11 but no pieces in this fashion by him survive. A third eminent violin virtuoso in the vicinity of the young Bach was Johann Paul von Westhoff (1656–1707). After serving for about twentyfive years at the electoral court of Dresden, following the conversion of Augustus the Strong to Catholicism, he found employment at the ducal court of Weimar in 1699. We may assume that Bach met Westhoff personally and perhaps also studied with him when serving as a “lackey” in Weimar in 1702/3. The surviving works by Westhoff all date from his tenure at the court of Dresden; they show remarkable features that probably attracted Bach’s attention. We know of two collections of suites for unaccompanied violin (published in 1682 and 1696), of which only the second survives, while the first is known only by its title, mentioned in one of the Leipzig book fair catalogs.12 In January 1683, the Mercure galant published a single “Suite pour le violon seul sans basse,” which may have been taken from the now-lost first collection. Westhoff’s suites omit all elements of fancy virtuosity, yet aim to combine polyphonic playing on an unaccompanied violin with the rules of strict composition, elevating this type of work to the status of high art. The suite movements, notated in a complicated quasi-score fashion, are composed in three or even four parts throughout and frequently require from the player successions of awkward fingerings. The full texture of a movement like the sarabande from the first Suite in A Minor looks—and sounds—remarkably similar to the sarabande from Bach’s Partita in B Minor, BWV 1002 (see ex. 4.2). A different treatment of the violin is found in Westhoff’s “Sonata violino solo col suo basso continuo,” published in the Mercure galant of December 1682, and in six similar pieces published in Dresden in 1694. These works display a variety of techniques in a wealth of different Example 4.2. Johann Paul von Westhoff, Sarabande from Suite in A Minor, mm. 1–16.

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movement types. The polyphonic treatment is limited to two voices but extends even to high positions. The passage work and sequences cover the entire range of the violin (up to fourth position) and alternate with complicated arpeggio sections and tuneful melodies. The compositional inspiration is fairly high; particularly noteworthy is the inclusion of new movement types such as the “aria,” which imitates the motto technique of contemporary opera arias. Although the evidence is somewhat sketchy, the surviving sources document that around 1700 the art of violin playing was fairly advanced in central Germany, particularly at the Ernestine and Albertine courts in Thuringia and Saxony.

Bach’s Earliest Pieces for Violin We can only guess when and where Bach may have learned to play the violin and composed his first pieces for the instrument. Payments documented in the account books of the Weimar court show that between December 1702 and May 1703, he was employed as a member of the private chapel of Duke Johann Ernst von Sachsen-Weimar. We have no information about his particular function in this ensemble, but one can easily imagine him playing the violin in addition to various types of keyboard instruments. When Bach started his career as an organist, first in Arnstadt (1703–7) and subsequently in Mühlhausen (1707/8), he probably had little opportunity to play and practice other instruments. The situation may have changed in July 1708, when he returned to the court of Weimar to take up his position as chamber organist. Working together regularly with the members of the exquisite Weimar Hofkapelle, he must have become acquainted with the newest developments in music for instrumental ensembles and solo violin and perhaps felt inspired to compose pieces in those genres himself. Bach’s earliest surviving chamber work is probably the Fugue for Violin and Basso Continuo in G Minor, BWV 1026 (see ex. 4.3). The piece is transmitted in a manuscript copied by Bach’s Weimar cousin and colleague Johann Gottfried Walther (1684–1748) around 1714–17.13 We do not know whether this fugue represents an independent composition or belongs in a cyclic context (it may be the second movement of an otherwise lost sonata da chiesa). BWV 1026 is remarkable both because of its considerable length (181 mm.) and its

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extraordinary virtuosity. The almost radical application of double stops and the passage work, which requires the mastery of the sixth position, are reminiscent of Westhoff’s violin technique. Despite its high degree of originality the fugue displays only a few elements of Bach’s characteristic later personal style. This may point to a relatively early date of origin—perhaps it was written in connection with a visit by the Dresden violinist Johann Georg Pisendel (1687–1755) documented in 1709. A similarly early date may be assumed for the Violin Sonata in E Minor, BWV 1023. It is worth considering whether this extraordinary piece also originated during the encounter with Pisendel. This would accord with the fact that the only surviving manuscript copy, located in the Sächsische Staats- und Universitätsbibliothek in Dresden (shelf number: Mus. 2405-R-1), was evidently prepared at Pisendel’s request for the music collection of the Dresden court. The scribe of the manuscript can be identified as the Dresden copyist Johann Gottfried Grundig, and certain characteristics of his handwriting point to a date Example 4.3. J. S. Bach, Fugue for Violin and Basso Continuo in G Minor, BWV 1026, mm. 57–76.

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of origin between 1720 and 1735. The demanding technique, especially in the toccata-like first movement, and the compositional style, which lacks a distinctive personal idiom despite its striving for originality, place this sonata in the vicinity of the fugue, BWV 1026. Technically the most demanding movement is the extended introduction. Over a pedal in the bass, the violin presents scales and broken chords that require the player to move his left hand up to fourth position even on the lower strings.

The Sei solo â violino senza basso accompagnato, BWV 1001–6 (1720) During his Weimar years, Bach gained considerable experience in composing for small and large ensembles. His appointment as concertmaster in March 1714 led to his increased involvement with the court chapel. From now on he had to compose and perform cantatas for the Sunday services on a monthly basis. We do not know, however, whether the new title necessarily meant that he had to lead the orchestra from the first violin desk. Around the same time, the repertoire of the Weimar court chapel was greatly enlarged by Italian and French pieces, which had been bought by the young Prince Johann Ernst in Amsterdam and elsewhere. Thus in 1713 and early 1714, Bach became acquainted with the violin concertos of Antonio Vivaldi (1678–1741), some of which he studied and transcribed for harpsichord and organ. By the time Bach left Weimar at the end of 1717 in order to become Kapellmeister of the court chapel at Cöthen, his own style of composing had changed significantly due to his exposure to the novel Italian concerto style, with its highly effective treatment of the violin. In Cöthen, Bach worked with colleagues who, as former members of the dissolved royal court orchestra in Berlin, were among the most eminent virtuosos of their time; they included the violin virtuosos Joseph Spieß and Martin Friedrich Marcus.14 The last Weimar and the first Cöthen years came to fruition in the cycle of three sonatas and three partitas for unaccompanied violin of 1720 and in the so-called Brandenburg Concertos of 1721. Johann Sebastian Bach’s sonatas and partitas for unaccompanied violin undoubtedly mark a high point in western violin music. These pieces set new standards both in instrumental performance and compositional technique, which have lost none of their relevance over the

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centuries. Their exceptional nature was already recognized in the eighteenth century, although their artistic significance was interpreted in different ways. While Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach pointed out the pedagogical aspect of the works, which grew out of his father’s profound knowledge of the idiomatic use of string instruments, Bach’s pupil Johann Philipp Kirnberger (1721–83) emphasized the achievement in terms of compositional technique. In his view, the true supremacy in polyphonic composition lay in the art of omission; only the composer who truly mastered the intricate secrets of harmony and counterpoint could present them unadorned in a work for a reduced number of voices. In the first part of his treatise Die Kunst der reinen Satzes in der Musik (The art of strict musical composition) (1771), after commenting on fugues in three and two voices, Kirnberger logically goes on to discuss works for an unaccompanied melody instrument: “It is even more difficult, without the slightest accompaniment, to write a simple melody so harmonically determined that it is impossible to add a voice to it without making mistakes, not to mention the fact that the added voice would be quite unsingable and clumsy. In this style we possess 6 sonatas for the violin and 6 for the violoncello, entirely without accompaniment, by J. S. Bach.”15 By reducing his compositional resources to the barest minimum, Bach set himself an extraordinary task: to display the full harmonic and contrapuntal riches of his musical idiom, without making noticeable concessions, on a melody instrument with only a limited capacity for playing chords or for realizing a polyphonic setting. Kirnberger’s claim is confirmed by a remark of Johann Friedrich Reichardt (1752–1846), for whom the mastery demonstrated in the solo violin works shows the composer’s ability to move within his selfimposed fetters with the greatest possible freedom and confidence. In this light, Philipp Spitta’s reference to the Chaconne of Partita 2, which he called a “triumph of the spirit over the material,” is a fitting description of the entire monumental cycle. In his works for unaccompanied solo instruments Bach was venturing into a field that had been explored by few composers before him, and one whose potential was very far from being exhausted. As mentioned above, a possible model may have been the solo suites of Johann Paul von Westhoff. Although Westhoff’s music belongs stylistically to a different world, both collections pursue the common goal of transferring a polyphonic texture to an unaccompanied violin while adhering to the rules of strict counterpoint, thereby elevating

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this species of composition to the realm of high art. But whereas Westhoff achieves this only through a perceptible lessening of harmonic complexity and melodic charm, in Bach’s case it seems that the very challenge of the solo medium stimulated the composer to surpass even the harmonic riches of his great organ and keyboard works, perhaps because here the harmonies can merely be suggested by the performer and truly blossom only in the receptive imagination of an attentive listener. According to a note on the title page of the autograph fair copy, Bach completed his cycle of sonatas and partitas for violin solo in 1720, a year in which his life was affected by two events in particular—the death of his first wife, Maria Barbara, and his unsuccessful application for the post of organist at the Jacobikirche (Church of Saint James) in Hamburg. Indeed, it has often been claimed—and “proved” by abstruse research into number symbolism—that the solos for violin constitute Bach’s musical reaction to these biographical turning points, but none of the arguments put forward stand up to proper critical examination. In fact, it has not even been established with certainty that the cycle was not already fully written out before his wife’s death (early July 1720); we only know that the paper used for the autograph came from the paper mill of Joachimsthal in Bohemia and was not used by Bach before his stay in Carlsbad (probably from late May to mid-July 1720). Whatever the truth of the matter, our discouragingly scanty knowledge of Bach’s life can hardly be expanded in a reliable manner by nitpicking interpretations that ignore musical evidence. Bach’s music eludes any such superficial biographical approach. Information is just as scarce about the specific circumstances of the works’ genesis and about who may have commissioned them or been chosen as their dedicatee. There has been occasional mention of the Dresden concertmaster Johann Georg Pisendel, who had been personally acquainted with Bach since 1710; but there is no certainty that the works were intended for this colleague, or even that he knew of them. A notable feature of the autograph is that the solos for violin are designated as a “libro primo,” pointing to a projected similar second series of instrumental pieces, the Cello Suites, BWV 1007–12, which could be considered the “libro secondo,” while the isolated Partita for Flute, BWV 1013, may possibly constitute a fragment of a “libro terzo,” which most likely was not completed any further. Bach’s apparent intention to fit the violin cycle into a larger creative plan by no means excludes the

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possibility of a dedication to a specific performer, but it does put the significance of the issue into perspective. Similarly, we do not know if some or perhaps even all of the pieces have an earlier history going back before the year 1720, in which case that date would merely mark the moment when Bach assembled them in an autograph fair copy. Some distinct peculiarities of notation in one of the early copies have given rise to the supposition that at one time there existed an autograph from the early Weimar period (before 1714).16 However, this does not withstand closer scrutiny, and it is doubtful whether any of the extant copies represent an earlier stage of composition than that of the autograph manuscript. Based on the musical evidence it is unlikely that the work dates from before 1720. The violin technique plainly appears more mature here than in works that were certainly or most probably written in Weimar. It is comparable rather to the violin parts in the first and fourth Brandenburg Concertos and the closing movement of the secular cantata “Der Himmel dacht auf Anhalts Ruhm und Glück” (Heaven cared for Anhalt’s fame and bliss), BWV 66a, (December 1718; the music has survived as the opening chorus of the Leipzig Easter cantata “Erfreut euch, ihr Herzen” [Rejoice, you hearts] BWV 66). The generous proportions of the movements, along with the superior mastery of form, are features one associates with works from the Cöthen period rather than with the Weimar years. Given these numerous unanswered questions, in the final analysis it is the musical text—transmitted in exemplary fashion by the autograph score—that forms the sole key to understanding these works. It is not certain whether Bach himself performed these pieces on the violin. There is, however, much evidence to suggest that they could also be played on keyboard instruments. The most telling clue for this is a statement by Bach’s pupil Johann Friedrich Agricola (1720–74): “Their author often played them on the clavichord himself, adding as much harmony as he deemed necessary. Here, too, he acknowledged the need for a resonant harmony of the sort that he could not wholly attain in the original composition.”17 As early as 1758, Jacob Adlung (1699– 1762) mentioned the pieces in a brief survey of Bach’s keyboard works, adding that “they are actually violin solos without a bass part, three sonatas and three partitas, but are very well suited for performance on the keyboard.”18 An idea of how this might have been accomplished is provided by the keyboard arrangements of Sonata no. 2, BWV 1003 (BWV 964), and the opening movement of Sonata no. 3, BWV 1005 (BWV

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968), both of which have come down to us in a manuscript from the music library of Bach’s son-in-law, Johann Christoph Altnickol (1720– 59). Similarly, the fugue of Sonata no. 1, BWV 1001, has been transmitted in transcriptions for organ (BWV 539/2) and lute (BWV 1000). Finally, the question arises as to whether Johann Mattheson’s familiarity with the fugue subjects of the Sonatas in A Minor and C Major dates from Bach’s visit to Hamburg in November 1720, and whether these pieces were among the works Bach played there when he tried out the organ at the Jacobikirche.19 Whatever the case, even in their original form, the violin solos enjoyed an astonishingly wide dissemination during the eighteenth century, as is attested by the many surviving sources. The following is a brief survey of the most important early manuscripts and their transmission: 1.

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Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin, Stiftung Preußischer Kulturbesitz, Mus. ms. Bach P 967: Autograph fair copy with the following original title: “Sei Solo. | â | Violino | senza | Basso | accompagnato. | Libro Primo. | da | Joh: Seb: Bach. | anno 1720.” In 1917, Bach’s autograph, which had been part of the estate of Wilhelm Rust (1822–92), entered the holdings of the Berlin Royal Library. Rust had probably obtained the manuscript from an unknown private collection in or around 1890. The only concrete evidence for the manuscript’s earlier provenance is an ownership mark written on the flyleaf: “Louisa Bach | Bückeburg | 1842.” This is a reference to Christina Louisa Bach (1762–1852), a daughter of Bach’s younger son Johann Christoph Friedrich (1732–95), who served as a musician and concertmaster at the court of Bückeburg from 1749 until his death. We may assume that the autograph entered the possession of the “Bückeburg Bach” after J. S. Bach’s death when his personal effects were distributed among his children. However, the year cited in his daughter’s ownership mark may also imply that she only obtained possession of the manuscript at this later date, in which case the source was returned to the family after being held, perhaps temporarily, by a nonrelative. Bach’s autograph has become well-known through several facsimile editions. One of the most beautiful of all his autograph scores, it is remarkable for the painstaking accuracy of its musical text, particularly with regard to articulation (see fig. 4.1). Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin, Stiftung Preußischer Kulturbesitz, Mus. ms. Bach P 268: Manuscript in the hand of Anna Magdalena Bach, prepared around 1727/28, with additions by the Brunswick violinist Georg Heinrich Ludwig Schwanberg. This source was originally transmitted in conjunction with a copy of the suites for unaccompanied cello, also

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Figure 4.1. J. S. Bach, Partita in B Minor, BWV 1002, Sarabande, autograph fair copy. Reproduced by permission from Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin, Stiftung Preussischer Kulturbesitz, Mus. ms. Bach P 967.

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made by Bach’s second wife. A comparison with the autograph clearly reveals that A. M. Bach’s copy, which was apparently made specifically for Schwanberg, was prepared directly from J. S. Bach’s autograph fair copy. Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin, Stiftung Preußischer Kulturbesitz, Mus. ms. Bach P 267: A collective manuscript containing, in separate fascicles, copies of BWV 1001–5 in the hand of an unknown scribe from the first half of the eighteenth century and a late eighteenth-century copy of BWV 1006 in a different hand. This source was once owned by the famous collector Georg Poelchau; it entered the holdings of the Berlin Royal Library in 1841. According to a frequently quoted note at the bottom of the first page of music, Poelchau discovered the manuscript in 1814 “in the posthumous effects of the pianist Palschau in St. Petersburg among old papers intended for the butter shop.” Nothing is known about the manuscript’s early history. Since Johann Gottfried Wilhelm Palschau apparently acquired both handwritten and printed music from the Hamburg music dealer Johann Christoph Westphal, it is conceivable that this source was formerly a master copy from Westphal’s establishment. On Poelchau’s authority, the earlier part of the manuscript was long thought to be a Bach autograph. However, fascicles 1–5 are in the hand of an otherwise unknown and unidentifiable scribe who apparently belonged to Bach’s close circle. This copyist should be sought primarily among accomplished violinists. One possible candidate is Bach’s student Georg Gottfried Wagner (1698–1756), of whom Johann Gottfried Walther reported that “he cultivated, in addition to the keyboard and other instruments, especially the violin, which he continued to play thereafter during his studies of theology” at Leipzig University.20 Wagner had attended the Leipzig Thomasschule from 1712 to 1719, during which period he received instruction from Johann Kuhnau. Various documents inform us that he took a leading part as a violinist in Bach’s church music performances from 1723 to 1726.21 However, the certain identification of the handwriting in the manuscript is prevented by the fact that few textual and no musical documents survive in Wagner’s hand. Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin, Stiftung Preußischer Kulturbesitz, Mus. ms. Bach P 804: A large collective manuscript from the private collection of the Thuringian cantor and organist Johann Peter Kellner. Fascicle 22 of the volume (pp. 121–46) contains a partial copy of the works: the three sonatas and selected movements from Partitas nos. 2 and 3. Kellner’s copies, especially those of the fugues from the sonatas in G minor and C major and of the chaconne from the Partita in D Minor, contain a large number of substantial departures from the versions found in the autograph. They are hardly likely to bear Bach’s authorial sanction, however, and in all likelihood represent interventions by the copyist.

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The chaconne, for example, has been shortened by Kellner by almost a third of its original length, and significant passages are also missing from the fugue in C major. Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin, Stiftung Preußischer Kulturbesitz, Mus. ms. Bach P 968: A manuscript copy prepared in or around 1720 by a copyist from Cöthen. This scribe is also found in the original performance parts of the secular cantata BWV 184a and in the parts of cantata BWV 21. Hans-Joachim Schulze has hypothetically identified the hand as belonging to the Cöthen organist Emanuel Leberecht Gottschalck (d. 1727), who became a copyist of the court chapel in 1719.22

The set begins with Sonata no. 1 in G Minor, BWV 1001. The work’s four-movement layout, the ornamented melodic lines of the opening Adagio, and the fugal structure of the second movement, are all elements reminiscent of Arcangelo Corelli’s great set of violin sonatas, opus 5, which was published in 1700. The Adagio strides forward in massive quarter-note chords, surrounded by decorative chains of sixteenth and thirty-second notes, and soon strays into distant harmonic realms. At the precise midpoint of the movement, the enharmonic transformation of a diminished-seventh chord restores the tonic of G minor. The fugue that follows is fairly free from a formal point of view, but the short, pithy theme is extremely densely worked; with the exception of a few episodes it appears in virtually every measure. The third movement, Siciliana, suggests the dialogue style of a trio sonata movement, with a strongly motivic bass and two upper voices generally treated in parallel motion. The strict hierarchy of this setting and its periodic structure are gradually broken up in the course of the movement, so that the “bass” theme also appears in other positions. The sonata ends with a furious Presto, whose wide-ranging implicit harmonies are concealed beneath the contours of the monophonic, extremely jagged line in sixteenth notes. Partita no. 1 in B Minor, BWV 1002, follows the classical model of the four-movement suite, except that the composer has replaced the customary concluding gigue by a Bourrée. The device of providing each movement with a “Double” (variation) enabled Bach to illustrate the same basic harmonic framework twice over, first of all in a chordal setting, then in virtuoso figuration and broken chords. A striking feature of this technically very demanding composition is its passionate and at the same time melancholic, indeed tragic, tone, which it shares with other works by Bach in this key.

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Sonata no. 2 in A Minor, BWV 1003, resembles the Sonata in G Minor, BWV 1001, in its formal structure. The introductory Grave serves as a broad prelude to the fugue that follows, which develops a relatively short yet striking subject. However, the compositional technique here is considerably more ambitious than in the G-minor fugue, because Bach provides this theme with a chromatic countersubject and later works out both themes in inversion. The slow movement is of the type “melody with continuo,” which sets the performer the demanding task of distinguishing clearly and audibly between the two elements of melody and accompaniment. Again similar to the G-minor sonata, the concluding Allegro is a furious perpetuo mobile featuring sonorous arpeggios. Like the first partita, the Partita no. 2 in D Minor, BWV 1004, again displays a modified version of the four-movement suite form. The four core movements (Allemanda, Corrente, Sarabanda, Giga) are retained without change and are followed by a monumental Ciaccona, which may well be deemed one of Bach’s most impressive creations. The first, second, and fourth movements are dominated by a monophonic style characterized by motor rhythms, with the wide-ranging harmonic excursions indicated by broken triads and emphatic top notes. The double stops and the rhythm of the Sarabanda already point forward to the final Ciaccona—a movement so expansive with its 257 measures that it turns out to be longer than the four preceding movements combined. Here Bach tackled a type of movement he rarely chose, setting himself an additional challenge with its unchanging basic four-measure pattern (the harmonization of a descending tetrachord). Systematically exploring and expanding this exceedingly plain raw material by continuous variation, the composer demands that the performer execute an incomparable wealth of virtuoso passages, combinations of chords, and arpeggios never before thought of in this form. Here Bach opens up entirely new dimensions in violin playing, and at the same time, to an even greater degree, explores new territory in his compositional technique. Along with the Ciaccona of BWV 1004, the Sonata no. 3 in C Major, BWV 1005, poses the greatest challenge to the performer. From the point of view of compositional technique, it is also a genuine tour de force. Over a gently pulsating rhythm, the initial Adagio stacks masses of sound and harmony on top of one another in a manner that one would have thought could only be executed by a keyboard instrument.

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This tendency is also pursued in the fugue that follows. The subject, obviously derived from the chorale “Komm heiliger Geist, Herre Gott” (Come Holy Spirit, Lord God), is combined with a descending chromatic countersubject. Within this broadly conceived framework of 354 measures, Bach deploys every imaginable art, including stretto and inversion of the subject and countersubject, and diverse types of double counterpoint. After a melodious, almost galant Largo, the tension of the rich harmonies is resolved in the breathtaking virtuosity of the Allegro assai. Partita no. 3 in E Major, BWV 1006, displays a free suite form; with the exception of the Gigue, it seems deliberately to avoid the standard movements of the suite, replacing them with fashionable galanteries. The work is introduced by the famous Preludio, which has been regarded ever since as a touchstone of every violinist’s bowing technique. The shimmering sound unfolds in continuous sixteenth-note figures of arpeggios and runs, interspersed with open strings. Bach himself was so fascinated and proud of this piece that he transcribed the violin part for organ, and used it in the opening Sinfonia of his town council election cantata, BWV 29, composed in 1731. In this new context he integrated the solo part into a newly composed orchestral movement in which he realized the previously rather compressed sound in exemplary fashion. The subsequent dance movements also present orchestral characteristics: the Loure with its festive rhythm and suggestion of imitation between upper and lower voices, the Gavotte en Rondeau with its stamping rhythm, the two graceful Menuets and their cheerful melodies, the boisterous Bourrée with its syncopated figures, and finally the light-footed, darting Gigue. Despite its significant technical difficulties, Bach managed to create a very accessible work.

The Six Sonatas for Violin and Obbligato Harpsichord, BWV 1014–19 In the first half of the eighteenth century, theorists and performers of instrumental chamber music elevated the texture of the trio sonata to an ideal of compositional technique. In this genre linear counterpoint, euphonious harmony, and a rich vein of melody seemed to form a perfect synthesis. Music theorists such as Johann Mattheson (1681– 1764), Johann Joachim Quantz (1697–1773), and Johann Adolph

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Scheibe (1708–76) proclaimed the trio texture to be nothing less than a touchstone for any composer of stature. Mattheson described the special demands posed by this genre: “Here all three voices, each taken by itself, must carry a fine melody; and yet all the while they must sustain the triadic harmony to the utmost extent possible, as if it were by happenstance.”23 Hardly any other composer of the time brought this ideal to such a pitch of perfection as Johann Sebastian Bach. As late as 1774 his son Carl Philipp Emanuel could say of his father’s trios that they “still sound excellent and give me much joy, although they date back more than fifty years” and that they contain “some Adagii that could not be written in a more singable manner today.”24 Perhaps another reason for the undiminished high regard felt for this set of compositions even long after Bach’s death may be that the trio not only satisfied Bach’s own notion of perfect balance and harmony (which he felt could only be attained when all the voices “work wonderfully in and about one another”25), but also honored the importance attached by the generation of his sons and pupils to personal and “sensitive” melody. Equally significant was Bach’s use of the harpsichord as an obbligato partner of the melody instrument. Having the harpsichord perform one of the two upper voices in the right hand and the bass in the left, it now became possible for two players to produce a three-voice compositional fabric. In order to distinguish the three voices more clearly in timbre, Bach gave the performers the liberty to reinforce the bass line with a viola da gamba. The fact that Bach’s trios continue to occupy a firm position in the history of the genre can easily blind us to the fact that, all in all, he wrote very few examples of this species. In addition to a few isolated pieces, these examples include the six organ trios (BWV 525–30), the three flute sonatas (BWV 1030–32), the three sonatas for viola da gamba (BWV 1027–29), and above all the present collection of six sonatas for violin and harpsichord (BWV 1014–19). As can be seen from the various combinations of instruments, the trio texture is not bound to any particular scoring; rather, it functions as what we might call an abstract compositional principle whose acoustical realization was often governed by external circumstances. Thus, the same composition could appear as an instrumental number in a church cantata with a sprightly scoring for oboe d’amore, viola da gamba, and basso continuo (BWV 76/8) and as an introduction to an organ trio (BWV

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528/1). Similarly, the trio sonata for two flutes and continuo (BWV 1039) and its parallel version for viola da gamba and obbligato harpsichord (BWV 1027) are merely two contrasting realizations of the same compositional substance. Revealingly, not one of Bach’s six violin sonatas appears in a parallel version with a different scoring. For a long time it was presumed that these six pieces grew out of “genuine” trio sonatas for two melody instruments and basso continuo. However, this hypothesis can at best be true only for a few of their movements. Even the earliest source (see below) calls for an obbligato use of the keyboard. The only indication that the work might have had a history predating the extant sources might be the term “Violino I” affixed to the first sonata in a copy written out by Bach’s pupil Johann Friedrich Agricola. On the other hand, the idiomatic handling of the keyboard in the first movement of Sonata no. 3 and in the slow movements of Sonatas nos. 4 and 5 hardly conveys the impression that they were based on earlier versions for a different set of instruments. In these and other movements from this cycle, Bach struck out on new paths in the personal and idiomatic treatment of the individual parts, especially the harpsichord, that would not become commonplaces in trio writing until the latter half of the eighteenth century. The source transmission of the six sonatas for violin and harpsichord is extraordinarily complex. It grants us only cursory glimpses into the genesis of the cycle while harboring a great many convoluted problems, not all of which can be solved. When Rudolf Gerber edited these works for the Neue Bach-Ausgabe in the 1950s (NBA VI/1), many of the sources had still not been properly classified and evaluated. In the following we therefore provide a brief discussion of the pertinent sources with up-todate information regarding their scribes and dates of origin: 1.

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Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin, Stiftung Preußischer Kulturbesitz, Mus. ms. Bach St 162: Manuscript copy of the harpsichord part in the hand of Johann Heinrich Bach, written in 1725, with additions by Johann Sebastian Bach. This source contains the following title on page 1: Sei Sounate | â | Cembalo certato è | Violino Solo, col | Basso per Viola da Gamba accompagnato | se piace | Composte | da | Giov: Sebast: Bach. The associated violin part is missing; instead violin parts for sonatas nos. 1–4 were added at a later date on four separate sheets. These later parts were prepared by Georg Heinrich Ludwig Schwanberg some time around 1727/28 and evidently originally belonged to a different context. After

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Bach’s death, the harpsichord part apparently passed to his son Johann Christoph Friedrich, as is suggested by the note added at the bottom of the title page in the latter’s hand: “NB: He composed these trios before his death.”26 Thereafter the manuscript’s history is uncertain. Apparently in the early nineteenth century it belonged to the source holdings of the publishing house of C. F. Peters in Leipzig and subsequently was acquired by Franz Hauser, passing with his collection to the Berlin Royal Library in 1904. Berlin, Universität der Künste, 6138/21: Manuscript copy by Johann Friedrich Agricola, written around 1739/40 and after 1741 (several sections written at different times). An examination of the watermarks and handwriting places the different fascicles in Agricola’s Leipzig and Berlin periods, respectively. The source contains: (a) the harpsichord part for Sonatas nos. 4–6, written around 1739/40; (b) the score of Sonatas nos. 1–5, written after the fall of 1741 but presumably no later than 1750; (c) the violin part for Sonata no. 6, written at the same time as (b); (d) the violin part for Sonatas nos. 2 and 3, written by an unknown Berlin copyist. The partial sources (b)–(d) are presumably copies taken from formerly complete manuscripts that Agricola had prepared for his personal use during his years of study in Leipzig. To judge from the readings they contain, Bach largely retained the shape of Sonatas nos. 1–4 until about 1740, apart from a few changes in the bass part to movement 2 of the Sonata in A Major, BWV 1015. By that time, the final two sonatas had assumed their finished shape. Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin, Stiftung Preußischer Kulturbesitz, Mus. ms. Bach St 463–68: Set of parts in the hand of the Berlin copyist Schlichting, prepared around 1745, with annotations by Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach. The only secure fact about the copyist is that he worked for C. P. E. Bach during the 1740s and early 1750s. He may have been identical with Johann Friedrich Ernst Schlichting (d. 1775), a counselor at the Berlin Superior Court of Justice and a member of the Berlin Montagsklub from 1756 to early 1766. Schlichting’s copies present the trios at roughly the same evolutionary stage as Agricola’s manuscripts, to which, however, they are not directly related. Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin, Stiftung Preußischer Kulturbesitz, Mus. ms. Bach P 229: Manuscript score in the hand of Johann Christoph Altnickol, presumably written between 1747 and 1750/51. In addition to BWV 1014–19, this miscellany also contains copies of the flute sonata in B Minor, BWV 1030, and C. P. E. Bach’s trio sonata in F Major Wq 154. The uniform handwriting in Altnickol’s manuscript suggests that all pieces were written out in one stage or at least without extended interruptions. As the last piece was only composed in 1747, we have

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a secure terminus post quem for the date. Moreover, it should be kept in mind that the watermark of the paper was untypical of Altnickol’s Leipzig manuscripts and thus points in the direction of his Naumburg period, which began in September 1748. Finally, two titles added by Johann Gottfried Müthel (to movement 2 of BWV 1015 and to movement 3 of BWV 1019) allow us to give the source a terminus ante quem of 1750/51, the time when Müthel studied with Altnickol in Naumburg. P 229 represents the latest stage in the cycle’s evolution and evidently takes into account Bach’s post-1745 revisions. Despite the general reliability of its musical text, the manuscript leaves open many questions of articulation and embellishment and also lacks various movement headings that would normally have been found in the master copy. It would seem that Altnickol, after preparing his copy, did not make a final comparison with his exemplar, which may only have been available to him for a brief period of time. Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin, Stiftung Preußischer Kulturbesitz, Am.B. 61: Manuscript score prepared by the Berlin copyist Anonymous 401 around 1770, from the collection of Johann Philipp Kirnberger. This manuscript transmits the first five sonatas in their early version, but gives for Sonata no. 6 an intermediate version with a different succession of movements.

As the surviving sources show, the six sonatas for violin and obbligato harpsichord form a unified cycle that was completed no later than 1725. Since Bach was extremely busy with composing cantatas during his first two years in Leipzig (summer 1723 to summer 1725), it is likely that the set originates from his years in Cöthen. As the revised version in Altnickol’s copy and J. C. F. Bach’s remark in St 162 suggest, Bach continued to perfect the workmanship of the individual pieces in several stages and polished many of their details up until the last years of his life. In this honing process, he managed to give each sonata its own highly distinctive musical profile. Sonata no. 1 in B Minor, BWV 1014, opens the cycle with a remarkable experiment: the first movement is an expressive Lamento in which—through double stops in the violin and a three-part texture in the harpsichord—the number of real voices sometimes expands to as many as five. The two fast movements realize the trio ideal in exemplary fashion, with all three voices developing the thematic material on an equal basis. In the third movement, the two upper parts (the violin and the right hand of the harpsichord) produce broadly arching cantilenas over a steady pulse in the bass. Sonata no. 2 BWV 1015 is

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noteworthy for its cheerful lyricism, which unfolds within a highly artistic contrapuntal setting. While the first movement has many canonic imitations, the third unfolds as a strict canon between the two upper voices; the two fast movements present a wide array of fugal devices. Similar contrapuntal techniques are also found in Sonatas nos. 3–5; in the fast movements Bach seems to develop the aesthetic principles he created in the two- and three-part inventions on a grander scale. Only Sonata no. 6 seems to stand apart. Bach appears to have struggled with the formal disposition of this work, because he thoroughly reworked it at least twice. In this piece, he blurs the traditional generic boundaries between sonata and suite, combining elements from both in a truly original and idiosyncratic whole. The earliest extant stage of the work has come down to us in the copy written out by Johann Heinrich Bach (St 162). Here the quick opening movement is followed by a Largo and a rhythmically intricate movement in E minor for solo harpsichord (Bach later incorporated this movement as a Courante in the Partita BWV 830). After a terse trio movement in B minor, the sonata presents another binary movement in G minor, marked “Violino solo,” of which only the bass line survives. However, as the movement is largely identical with the Gavotte from BWV 830, the violin part can be reconstructed with little effort. The sonata ends in this version with a repeat of the opening movement. As Bach himself entered movements 3–5 into the harpsichord part of St 162, we may assume that this version of BWV 1019 was preceded by a quite different one of which he adopted only the first two movements, combining them with others from a different context. The second surviving version (BWV 1019a) may have originated in or around 1730. It presents a heavily revised second movement and dispenses with the two movements corresponding to those in the Partita BWV 830, which by this time had already appeared in print. As a third movement Bach added an instrumental arrangement of an aria (perhaps dating from his Cöthen period) that was used around 1729/30 in the cantatas “Herr Gott, Beherrscher aller Dinge” (Lord God, ruler of all things) BWV 120a and “Gott, man lobet dich in der Stille” (God, You are praised in the stillness) BWV 120b. The movement underscores the experimental nature of the sonata by imparting an almost foreign quality of sensual cantabile. In the final version, movement 3 was replaced by an extended binary Allegro for solo harpsichord. The ensuing Adagio was heavily rewritten and a new finale was added. Altogether the six sonatas are extremely demanding for the violin, even if typical virtuoso effects are largely avoided.

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Violin Concertos It is obvious that only a fraction of Bach’s orchestral output has come down to us. There are only two concertos for solo violin and one concerto for two violins surviving. In addition the first and fourth Brandenburg Concertos contain demanding parts for solo violin; but these works are rather concerti grossi, or—as Antonio Vivaldi labeled similar works of his—“Concerti per molti stromenti.” There has been much conjecture concerning the reasons for the above-average rate of loss in this particular field, but no really conclusive explanation has yet been produced. The fact that it is precisely from his years in Weimar and Cöthen—when, as concertmaster or Kapellmeister he was placed at the head of outstanding instrumental ensembles—that so few works for such forces have survived has led some scholars to hypothesize that—following a practice attested to in a number of eighteenth-century documents—Bach may have been obliged to leave a large part of his compositions behind in these princely residences. Other views refer to the division of his estate among his heirs. However, the only certainty is that, by Bach’s death at the latest, the veil of oblivion had begun to descend on his orchestral works, perhaps also in part because of the far-reaching change in musical taste that set in by the mid-eighteenth century. As a result, much effort had to be expended in the course of the early nineteenth-century Bach revival to win back for the performing repertoire works that had in the meantime become totally unknown, even to Bach experts. Thorough source studies undertaken by Bach scholars from the 1950s onward have yielded the by now generally accepted insight that some of Bach’s lost violin concertos may have been transmitted as harpsichord concertos. Altogether, comparative studies of Bach’s technique of arrangement have repeatedly led to speculation about the exact form of presumably lost models, followed by attempts at reconstructing them; some of these are stylistically convincing, while others remain extremely doubtful. The Violin Concerto in A Minor, BWV 1041, and the Double Concerto in D Minor, BWV 1043, survive in sets of performance parts from the time around 1730 and obviously belonged to the repertoire of Bach’s Collegium Musicum. Since no scores survive, it is hard to decide whether the pieces originate from that time or are in fact works from the Cöthen period. Certain stylistic features (such as the siciliano style of the slow movement in BWV 1043 and the broad harmonic range of the first two

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movements in BWV 1041) point to a later date of origin, however not long before 1730. Although the solo violin parts in these two pieces are treated idiomatically and also display a certain degree of virtuosity, the main emphasis of the compositions lies in the firm integration of the solo part into the orchestral tutti and the thorough elaboration of the thematic and motivic substance. The Concerto in E Major, BWV 1042, shows similar characteristics of thematic development, but in general has a simpler structure and lacks any elements of the galant style.

The Violin in Bach’s Vocal Works Beginning with his Weimar cantatas, Bach regularly integrated solo violin parts into his vocal works. Particularly in his Leipzig years the treatment of the violin becomes increasingly virtuosic and idiomatic. In order to illustrate the full range of Bach’s use of the violin in the vocal genres, we briefly discuss a few examples. The St. Matthew Passion contains two great arias with solo violin and orchestra, one for each chorus. The first one (chorus 1) features the famous lament of Peter after his denial of the captured Jesus (“Erbarme dich, mein Gott” [Have mercy, my God]). The piece adopts a mournful siciliano rhythm. The presentation of the entire thematic material is entrusted to the solo violin and later taken up by the alto voice, while the other strings are confined to mere accompaniment. The second aria (chorus 2) has the same instrumentation, but treats the solo violin as a member of the string group, from which it steps forward with glittering arpeggios in the episodes, merging with the other violins for the presentation of the main thematic material. Yet another type of combination of solo violin and string orchestra is found in the aria “Laudamus te” in the Gloria of the Mass in B Minor. Here the instrumental group displays a five-part texture, with the solo violin treated as a primus inter pares. One of the most beautiful solos for the violin is found in the tenor aria, “Ich traue seiner Gnaden” (I trust in His grace), of the chorale cantata, “In allen meinen Taten” (In all my actions) BWV 97, composed in 1734. We do not know whether this aria was originally written for this cantata. The flawless fair copy might suggest that Bach reused an older piece here. The solo violin alternates between beautiful cantabile passages, virtuosic figures, progressions in two parts, and full chords.

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Figure 4.2. J. S. Bach, fragmentary Sinfonia to lost church cantata BWV 1045, mm. 118–32, unknown scribe. Reproduced by permission from Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin, Stiftung Preussischer Kulturbesitz, Mus. ms. Bach P 614.

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The most extreme case of virtuosic violin writing is found in the fragmentary Sinfonia to an otherwise lost church cantata (BWV 1045). The piece is a full-scale concerto movement for large orchestral forces (strings, oboes, trumpets, and timpani). The part of the solo violin consists mostly of complicated arpeggios. In the first solo section, the violinist has to execute three-part chords in fourth position, with high notes played on the lower strings combined with the open E and A strings, respectively (see fig. 4.2). After a number of passages in first position, near the end of the fragment the part climbs up to the stratospheric seventh position and continues with arpeggios of four-part chords in high positions. The origin of this movement remains obscure. Although it survives in an autograph score (dated around 1745), the rather simple thematic material and formal elaboration, and particularly the treatment of the solo instrument, seem foreign to Bach’s personal style. It is possible therefore to assume that, for this movement, Bach copied and arranged a work by another composer. The fact that he became interested in such a work late in his life demonstrates his continued keen interest in the development of violin technique, and also indicates that he must have had excellent musicians at his disposal in Leipzig.

Notes 1.

2. 3. 4. 5.

6.

7.

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The New Bach Reader: A Life of Johann Sebastian Bach in Letters and Documents, ed. Hans T. David and A. Mendel, revised and enlarged by Christoph Wolff (New York: Norton, 1998), 397. Henceforth cited as NBR. NBR, 460. Ibid., 252. Ibid., 32–33. For a modern critical edition of this work, see Johann Christoph Bach, Ach, dass ich Wassers gnug hätte: Solo-Kantate für eine Altstimme, ed. Max Schneider (Leipzig: Breitkopf und Härtel, 1912). Modern critical edition: Johann Christoph Bach, Wie bist du denn, o Gott, in Zorn auf mich entbrannt: Lamento für Baß, Violine, drei Gamben und Generalbass, ed. Diethard Hellmann (Neuhausen-Stuttgart: Hänssler, 1976). Modern critical edition in Altbachisches Archiv. Aus Johann Sebastian Bachs Sammlung von Werken seiner Vorfahren Johann, Heinrich, Georg Christoph, Johann Michael und Johann Christoph Bach. Zweiter Teil: Kantaten, ed. Max Schneider, Das Erbe Deutscher Musik, 2 (Leipzig: Breitkopf und Härtel, 1935), 91–135.

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Bach and the Violin 8. 9.

10. 11.

12.

13.

14. 15.

16.

17. 18. 19.

20. 21.

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Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin, Preußischer Kulturbesitz, Mus. ms. 30294, no. 5. Hans-Joachim Moser, Geschichte der deutschen Musik, vol. 2/1: Vom Beginn des Dreißigjährigen Krieges bis zum Tod Joseph Haydns (Stuttgart: Cotta’sche Buchhandlung, 1922), 91. See Marmee A. Eddy, “The Rost Codex and Its Music” (PhD diss., Stanford University, 1984), 268–75. See Georg Philipp Telemann’s remark in his autobiography of 1740, published in Johann Mattheson, Grundlage einer Ehrenpforte (Hamburg, 1740), ed. Max Seiffert (Berlin: Liepmannssohn, 1910), 363. See Albert Göhler, Verzeichnis der in den Frankfurter und Leipziger Messkatalogen der Jahre 1564 bis 1759 angezeigten Musikalien (Leipzig, 1902; repr., Hilversum: Frits Knuf, 1965), part 2, 94: Erstes Dutzend Allemanden, Couranten, Sarabanden & Giquen Violino Solo sonder Passo Continuo auf die neueste Manier mit 2. 3. & 4. Sayten in Kupfer gestoche, in länglicht fol. bey dem Aut. zu finden. Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin, Stiftung Preußischer Kulturbesitz, Mus. ms. Bach P 801, pp. 179–90. On this anthology, see Hermann Zietz, “Quellenkritische Untersuchungen an den Bach-Handschriften P 801, P 802 und P 803 aus dem ‘Krebs’schen Nachlaß’ unter besonderer Berücksichtigung der Choralbearbeitungen des jungen J. S. Bach” (PhD diss., University of Hamburg, 1969). Friedrich Smend, Bach in Köthen (Berlin: Christlicher Zeitschriftenverlag, 1951), 22–23. See Bach-Dokumente, vol. 3, Dokumente zum Nachwirken Johann Sebastian Bachs 1750–1800, ed. Hans-Joachim Schulze (Leipzig: Deutscher Verlag für Musik, 1972), 219. Henceforth cited as Dok 3. Cf. Clemens Fanselau, Mehrstimmigkeit in J. S. Bachs Werken für Melodieinstrumente ohne Begleitung, Berliner Studien zur Musikwissenschaft, 22 (Sinzig: Studio, 2000), 319–20. Similar thoughts can be found in the Kritischer Bericht to NBA VI/1, 27. Dok 3, 293. Ibid., 124. See Bach-Dokumente, Band II: Fremdschriftliche und gedruckte Dokumente zur Lebensgeschichte Johann Sebastian Bachs 1685–1750, ed. Werner Neumann and Hans-Joachim Schulze (Leipzig: Deutscher Verlag für Musik, 1969), 294, 375. See also NBR, 328. Dok 3, 654. For further information on Wagner’s biography, see Hans-Joachim Schulze, “Johann Sebastian Bach und Georg Gottfried Wagner—Neue Dokumente,” Bach-Studien, 5, ed. Rudolf Eller and H.-J. Schulze (Leipzig: Deutscher Verlag für Musik, 1975), 147–54.

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122 ❧ Chapter Four 22. See Hans-Joachim Schulze, “Johann Sebastian Bachs Konzerte: Fragen der Überlieferung und Chronologie,” Bach-Studien, 6, ed. H.-J. Schulze (Leipzig: Deutscher Verlag für Musik, 1981), 9–26, esp. 19. 23. J. Mattheson, Der Vollkommene Capellmeister (Hamburg: Author, 1739), 344. 24. NBR, 388. 25. Ibid., 344. 26. This remark probably implies that Bach was still occupied with reworking the cycle in the final years of his life.

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5

MOZART, BEETHOVEN, AND THE VIOLIN

Robert Riggs Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart (1756–91) For I assure you that people who do not travel (I mean those who cultivate the arts and learning) are indeed miserable creatures. —Letter from Mozart to his father (Paris, 1778)

The Child Prodigy on Tour

Mozart spent approximately thirteen years—more than a third of his life span—“on the road,” and the rich opportunities and experiences afforded by these travels were an essential factor in his education and development. Seven years of this travel took place between the ages of six and sixteen, during which his father, Leopold (1719–87), a violinist and composer employed by the Archbishop of Salzburg, organized extended tours around Europe in order to exhibit Wolfgang as a child prodigy. Leopold was highly successful at securing and promoting concerts for his son before royal courts, in homes of the wealthy, and in public venues. The most far-ranging and longest of these tours took them to Germany, the Low Countries, France, and England, and lasted nearly three and a half years, from June 1763 to November 1766. Thus, Wolfgang was only seven years old at the start of the trip and almost eleven when he returned home, a unique childhood in the history of music. The first sixteen of his sonatas for violin and keyboard (harpsichord) stem from this period, and their composition resulted to a large

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extent from the stimulation and motivation that this tour provided the Mozarts, both father and son. Leopold was responsible for Wolfgang’s formal musical education, and he ensured that it encompassed the rigorous traditional training, both as a keyboard player (including figured bass realization) and as a violinist, expected in the eighteenth century for musicians aspiring to elevated positions as Kapellmeister or composers. Leopold—whose Versuch einer gründlichen Violinschule (Treatise on the fundamental principles of violin playing) was published in 1756, the same year Wolfgang was born—was especially qualified to teach violin to his son, but he was also a competent composer and keyboard player. Under Leopold’s tutelage, Wolfgang soon developed extraordinary ability on the violin and the keyboard, and he performed brilliantly on both instruments during this tour. Given Wolfgang’s early mastery of the violin and keyboard, it naturally followed that his juvenile compositions would include works for this combination. Another factor probably played an even greater role in this choice: the then-current vogue of the accompanied keyboard sonata.1 In every country visited by the Mozarts on this tour, sonatas for keyboard with the optional “accompaniment” of a violin (or flute), and sometimes cello as well, were popular with amateur musicians for Hausmusik. In these sonatas, the keyboard parts, which demand only modest technique, were self-sufficient and thus could be played alone. But if the social gathering included capable players on the other instruments, they could join in, because, as noted by Katalin Komlós, “playing alone was not nearly as much fun as making music together.”2 Moreover, in the upper classes the ability to play the keyboard fluently was considered, if not absolutely essential, then at least a very desirable aspect of every young woman’s education. Women who possessed this ability could entertain at social occasions either by playing solo or with others, who sometimes were men with sufficient ability on the optional instruments to play the undemanding accompaniments. Making music thus became an excellent opportunity for the ritual of courtship. A large repertoire of accompanied sonatas—which were first composed in France (by Mondonville, Rameau, Corrette, and Clement) and later in Germany (by Honauer, Eckard, and Schobert) and in England (by J. C. Bach, Abel, and Giardini)—was readily available as models and inspiration for Wolfgang and his father. Apparently, Leopold quickly realized that accompanied sonatas composed by his

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wunderkind would be an ideal vehicle for achieving his goals, which were to earn money and to promote his son’s career, as well as his own.3 During the course of the tour, Leopold oversaw the printing of sixteen accompanied sonatas by Wolfgang, his first published works. Issued at Leopold’s expense in four sets, each opus was dedicated to a prominent female member of the royalty who played the keyboard: op. 1, K. 6–7, Paris, 1764 (dedicated to Princess Victoire, the second daughter of King Louis XV); op. 2, K. 8–9, Paris, 1764 (dedicated to Countess de Tessé, lady in waiting to Princess Maria Josepha of Saxony, the wife of the Dauphin); op. 3, K. 10–15, London, 1765 (dedicated to Charlotte, Queen of England); and op. 4, K. 26–31, The Hague and Amsterdam, 1766 (dedicated to the Princess of Nassau Weilbourg, the sister of the Prince of Orange). In addition to prompting his young son to compose these sonatas, Leopold was also directly involved in their creation, although the precise extent of his contributions cannot be determined. Six of the thirteen movements comprising opus 1 and opus 2 are found as keyboard solos (in Leopold’s hand) in the notebook that he had assembled earlier in Salzburg for Wolfgang’s older sister, Nannerl, a keyboard player and singer who traveled with her brother and father on this tour and performed with them. But this does not necessarily mean that Leopold composed these movements; it is possible that he notated them from Wolfgang’s improvisations at the keyboard. They were transformed into accompanied sonatas simply by the addition of a violin part, which is restricted to providing harmonic support and doubling the melody in thirds or sixths, along with occasional imitative interjections of short motives during brief rests in the keyboard part. The violin’s role is limited in all sixteen of these early sonatas, although it is given slightly more prominence in opus 4.4 These works should not be viewed as Mozart’s immature attempts at duo sonatas and thus be denigrated because they lack the equal partnership between instruments that would become hallmarks of later chamber music, including Mozart’s own. Rather, they are accomplished contributions by the child composer to an entirely different genre: the accompanied keyboard sonata, with fluid and flexible scoring, intended for performance by amateur musicians at social functions. Modern performers must understand that the violin’s role is primarily supportive, not soloistic. Keeping this in mind, these sonatas can still be played and enjoyed today.

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Mozart was employed from November 1769 to September 1777 as an orchestral violinist in Salzburg and thus became his father’s colleague. However, during this same period Mozart’s travels continued, with three trips to Italy and one each to Vienna and Munich, accounting for over two and a half years away from Salzburg. In spite of these absences, which were granted by the archbishop, Mozart rose to become assistant concertmaster behind Michael Haydn (1737–1806), and later (after Haydn’s retirement) behind Antonio Brunetti (1745–86), who was appointed first concertmaster in 1776. During these Salzburg years Mozart composed five violin concertos: no. 1, in B-flat Major, K. 207, and no. 2, in D Major, K. 211, date from 1773 and early 1775, respectively; and the three most highly prized concertos (no. 3 in G Major, K. 216; no. 4 in D Major, K. 218; and no. 5 in A Major, K. 219), on which we will focus, all date from the last four months of 1775.5 Mozart probably composed the concertos for his own appearances as soloist, although there is only meager documentary evidence for his having performed any of them. In 1777 he took some of the scores and parts along on his trip with his mother (via Munich and Augsburg) to Mannheim and Paris. Letters to his father mention his having performed the demanding violin solos in his recently completed Divertimento K. 287 in Munich:6 “They all opened their eyes! I played as though I were the finest fiddler in all Europe,” to which his father replied: “I am not surprised . . . you yourself do not know how well you play the violin.”7 From Augsburg, Mozart reported that he performed a violin concerto by Vanhal and his own “Strassbourg Concerto [K. 216 in G Major, see below]. It went like clockwork. Everyone praised the lovely, pure tone.”8 The violin concertos were composed at a favorable point in Mozart’s career. As a child, he had “composed” his first keyboard concertos by adding orchestral accompaniments and ritornellos to solo keyboard sonatas by Johann Christian Bach (1735–82) and other current and recent composers. But by 1775, although only nineteen years old, Mozart had composed his first original piano concerto, as well as numerous symphonic and chamber works. Moreover, he also had extensive experience with Italian opera. Mozart’s violin concertos are indebted to his fusion of influences from all of these genres. The first movements of the violin concertos begin with orchestral ritornellos that present a generous sequence of contrasting thematic

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ideas with hierarchical structural properties: expository, transitional (dynamic), or closing (cadential). There are four or five periods that usually fall into highly individual antecedent and consequent halves, which Mozart then deploys independently as the movements progress. In spite of the plethora of ideas in the ritornellos, additional new themes are reserved for the soloist. This wealth of material allows many options for structuring expositions and makes it possible for Mozart to organize the modules so that variety, contrast, and surprise are maintained. Development sections are short and generally include extensive modulatory passage work, which is balanced by the presentation of a totally new lyrical theme. After such an effusion of ideas and unpredictability, Mozart restores welcome symmetry and order with regular recapitulations that are close copies of their expositions (with, of course, the secondary-key material stated, instead, in the tonic). Operatic touches abound, including: dramatic motivic interaction and dialogue between the soloist and orchestra; frequent changes in accompaniment patterns; recitative-like passages; opportunities for the soloist to improvise ornaments and to insert short Eingänge (short cadenza-like passages) between sections; and pauses on grand rhetorical half cadences to announce cadenzas. In the Fifth Concerto, Mozart introduces the solo violin in an unorthodox manner: by inserting a sixmeasure Adagio, an island of serenity, between the ritornello and the solo statement of the first thematic group, both of which are highly energized. Anticipating in slow motion the head motive of the first theme, the Adagio begins with the soloist’s broad presentation of the A-major triad, which evolves into an expressive cantilena decorated with operatic appoggiaturas. The slow middle movements, which are in sonata form, are conceived as soprano arias. The violin’s cantabile melody, richly ornamented and occasionally punctuated with wide dramatic leaps, soars high above the discrete orchestral accompaniment. All of Mozart’s violin concertos are scored for strings plus pairs of oboes and horns, the standard instrumentation for symphonies in the 1770s. In the Third Concerto, Mozart softens the timbre in the second movement by substituting flutes for the oboes; wind players in the eighteenth century usually were capable of “doubling,” that is, playing more than just one kind of wind instrument. In the slow movement of the Fourth Concerto, Mozart gives special prominence to the first oboe by featuring it in dialogue with the solo violin.

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All three finales are rondos with tuneful refrains and episodes that evoke, and even quote, popular and folk music. In the third episode of the finale to the Third Concerto, there is a tempo and meter change to Allegretto in 22 for the introduction of a new theme. This theme appears in an anthology printed in 1813 with the heading, “à la mélodie de Strassbourger,” thus suggesting that K. 216 probably is the “Strassbourg Concerto” that Mozart performed in Augsburg in 1777. The rondo of the Fourth Concerto also includes an episode with a pronounced folk character. This theme has to be played high on the D string, with the open G string bowed as a double stop, thus creating a drone bass that enhances the rustic association. In the Fifth Concerto (in A major), the rondo includes an extended episode (131 measures) in A minor that references, by turns, the HungarianGypsy (or verbunkos) style and the “alla turca” style (i.e., Turkish military, “janissary,” band music). The latter style, which was occasionally evoked in concert music, was familiar to the public as a result of periodic military conflicts between Austria and the Ottoman Empire during the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. Mannheim and Paris: The Sonatas K. 301 to K. 306

The impetus for Mozart to compose more sonatas for keyboard and violin came again from travels—his trip to Mannheim and Paris in 1777– 78. In the twelve years since the accompanied sonatas of his childhood, much had changed. Mozart, now mature at age twenty-two, had already composed some three hundred works in various genres. The fortepiano was well on its way to eclipsing the harpsichord as the keyboard instrument of choice for performers and composers, including Mozart. Moreover, other composers had been experimenting with the accompanied sonata and gradually transforming it into the modern duosonata. We know that Mozart was acquainted with these developments because, during his brief stay in Munich en route, he wrote to his father and sister, who remained home in Salzburg, and enclosed a copy of the Divertimenti da camera by Joseph Schuster (1748–1812): “I send my sister herewith six duets for clavicembalo and violin by Schuster, which I have often played here. They are not bad. If I stay on I shall write six myself in the same style, as they are very popular here. My main object in sending them to you is that you may amuse yourselves à deux.”9 The outstanding feature of Schuster’s duets is that the two instruments now

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share the presentation of thematic material and engage in frequent dialogue. Although the keyboard is still somewhat dominant, the more democratic interplay between the instruments approaches the concertante principle. It is precisely this aspect that characterizes the six sonatas that Mozart, true to his word, began in Mannheim in late 1777 and completed in Paris in 1778, where they were published as Six sonates pour clavecin ou forté piano avec accompagnement d’un violon (Six sonatas for harpsichord or fortepiano with violin accompaniment), with the designation, “opus 1.”10 This is one of the first keyboard publications by any composer on which the fortepiano is advertised as an alternative. Mozart and his publisher, Jean-Georges Sieber (1738–1822), both of whom would have been aware of the continued popularity of accompanied sonatas, probably placed “accompaniment” in the title as a marketing ploy, but it is not appropriate for these works. In the Sonata in G Major, K. 301, the first of the set, Mozart immediately proclaims the violin’s new importance by presenting the lyrical principal theme first in the violin, accompanied by the keyboard. After both instruments interrupt with a contrasting forte unison, the roles are reversed. This kind of partnership is maintained throughout the sonata. Thus, in contrast to Mozart’s accompanied sonatas, the keyboard is not self-sufficient and the violin is not optional. Mozart rarely composed works in the minor mode, a tendency that he shared with his contemporaries. His compositions in minor keys usually exhibit striking and powerful expressive qualities, as is true in K. 304 in E Minor, his only sonata for keyboard and violin in the minor. In order to interpret and describe its affective content, scholars have looked to the sonata’s biographical context and have employed colorful metaphors. The autograph of K. 304 bears the inscription à Paris, which has led to speculation that Mozart’s choice of the minor mode and other expressive aspects are linked to his presumed emotional response to the death of his mother during their stay in Paris. In the first movement, Hermann Abert finds “a constant battle between weary resignation and uncontrollable defiance.”11 For Alfred Einstein, the work “springs from the depths of emotion, and goes beyond the alternating dialogue style to knock at those gates of the great world of drama which Beethoven was to fling wide open.”12 And Eric Schenk hears “griefladen, resigned, personal expressions of the great loss he [Mozart] had suffered.”13 However, these readings predate research concerning the

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evolution of Mozart’s autograph notation, which demonstrates that K. 304 was begun in Mannheim, perhaps largely completed there as well, and only finished after the Mozarts’ arrival in Paris.14 Aware of this more accurate chronology, Maynard Solomon, employing a psychoanalytical approach, chose instead to decode the expressivity of K. 304 in terms of Mozart’s growing emotional maturity. He describes the second movement, a minuet and trio, as “a three-stage descent—from an ideal reality to a troubled inwardness. . . . At the opening, the social order is implicitly represented as an aristocratic state of grace, beauty, and decorum. This order is soon undermined, with agitated forces contending for expression and soon exhausting themselves in a declamatory peroration.”15 The E-major trio thus becomes “a moment of symbiotic fusion, a discovery of the inmost retreat, providing release from strife,” which transforms the reprise of the minuet into a “lament of imperfect consolation, because we know the pain through which we have passed since the same material opened the movement in such apparent innocence.”16 The foregoing readings of K. 304 have not been quoted in order to point out the problems and dangers, which are real, of using biographical events as keys to interpretation. Rather, their purpose is to illustrate Mozart’s uncanny ability to evoke a variety of vivid images and metaphors in the minds of receptive listeners and performers by employing the standard, even stock, compositional techniques of the period, but in original and subtle ways. Consider Mozart’s handling of sonata form in the first movement of K. 304, where the principal theme, rather than simply being restated, reappears each time in a distinctive guise. At the opening it is presented in stark octaves with the violin on top (see ex. 5.1). The dynamic is piano, and the articulation is nonlegato. After a dramatic interruption by four measures of hammered staccato eighth notes in forte, the counterstatement (m. 13) adopts a softer texture: homophony, with the piano providing harmony—its first appearance in the sonata—for the theme in the violin. The principal theme also returns as the exposition’s “closing theme,” but this time in canon between the violin and piano. Mozart’s treatment of the juncture between the development and recapitulation is especially striking (see ex. 5.2). The traditional dominant preparation is prolonged by a return of the forte interruption from measures 8–12, but the tonic return of the principal theme in the violin is given yet another, almost shocking, guise: unaccompanied measures alternate

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Example 5.1. Mozart, Sonata for Violin and Piano in E Minor, K. 304, mvt. 1, mm. 1–20.

Example 5.2. Mozart, Sonata for Violin and Piano in E Minor, K. 304, mvt. 1, mm. 108–20.

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with those that are newly harmonized with dramatically reiterated seventh chords. Moreover, although the prevailing dynamic is piano, each of the harmonized measures begins with a forte-piano (fp), which reinforces the unexpected effect. This presentation is so startling and “development-like” that initially we cannot even be sure that the recapitulation has begun. The contrasting settings of the principal theme suggest that the “persona” of this musical drama indeed has experienced pronounced emotional swings. Imaginative deployment of contrasting textures, dynamics, articulations, and harmony is also crucial to the expressive power of the second movement. Instead of numerous exact repetitions and a literal da capo after the trio, which are found in virtually all classical minuets, Mozart heightens interest by varying the returns of the structural units. Changing mode was a common expressive ploy in the late eighteenth century, but his shift from minor to major at the beginning of the trio is particularly effective and magical because it is reinforced by additional expressive means. The concluding section of the minuet, marked forte, is stormy, with considerable rhythmic activity, touches of imitation, and the rich full sonority of the violin’s double stops, coupled with widely spaced octaves in both hands of the piano. The trio, marked piano and dolce, presents a new and welcome affective atmosphere (Solomon’s “release from strife”). It is serene, almost static, due to the slow harmonic rhythm of repeated closely spaced chords, gently colored by appoggiaturas. The unusually long, four-beat rest after the pause on the dominant in measure 118, followed by the return of the main theme, is breathtaking (see ex. 5.3). It is understandable that writers have often cited K. 304 and other minor-key works to establish Mozart’s “romantic” image. Julian Rushton, for example, finds the trio “as emotionally telling as similar music by Schubert.17 Viennese Sonatas

The long-established legend regarding Mozart’s extraordinary compositional facility and speed has been thrown into sharper perspective by modern research. Scholars investigating his compositional process have identified approximately 320 sketches and drafts, which are associated with 10 percent of Mozart’s oeuvre, suggesting that perhaps most of these documents were discarded, quite possibly by Mozart himself, after he no longer needed them. Moreover, some 150 surviving

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Example 5.3. Mozart, Sonata for Violin and Piano in E Minor, K. 304, mvt. 2, mm. 113–27.

fragments—compositions that were begun but never finished, representing a ratio of one fragment to every four completed works—provide another revealing, but enigmatic, view into Mozart’s workshop. Do the fragments represent compositions that he never completed because he was not satisfied with them, or because he could foresee problems with their completion? The sketches and fragments call into question the widespread notion of Mozart’s ability to conceive fully polished works in his head and then to notate them with great ease. Another explanation for the fragments, however, is the possibility that they represent mnemonic records for fully conceived works that he intended to notate completely, but never found the time to do so. The autograph manuscripts for two of Mozart’s Viennese violin sonatas, K. 379 in G Major/Minor and K. 454 in B-flat Major, contain solid evidence regarding their genesis, and thus they shed light on his compositional process. In March 1781, Mozart traveled to Vienna to join the entourage of his Salzburg employer, Archbishop Colloredo. He wrote home to his father on April 8: Today (for I am writing at eleven o’clock at night) we had a concert, where three of my compositions were performed—new ones, of course: a rondo for a concerto for Brunetti;18 a sonata with violin accompaniment for myself, which I composed last night between eleven and twelve (but

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134 ❧ Chapter Five in order to be able to finish it, I only wrote out the accompaniment for Brunetti and retained my own part in my head); and then a rondo for Ceccarelli, which he had to repeat.19

The sonata to which Mozart refers is K. 379 in G Major/Minor, and its autograph score (now in the Library of Congress) largely substantiates his astonishing claims. The score is notated in two colors of ink: (1) light brown for the violin line from start to finish and also for much of the piano part in the first two movements; and (2) a much darker, almost black ink for the piano part in those passages not in brown ink in movements 1 and 2, and also throughout movement 3. The situation in the third movement for the final variation, essentially a piano solo, is especially revealing. As can be seen in figure 5.1, only the violin’s pizzicato arpeggios are notated. Moreover, space has not been provided for the piano part; it is found by itself (in black ink) on the following page (see fig. 5.2), which is a different type of paper than the main body of the manuscript, suggesting that it was attached at a later date. Therefore, the autograph indicates that Mozart, using brown ink, wrote out as much of his sonata as time permitted in order to perform it. As was common practice in the eighteenth century, both he and Brunetti read from this manuscript (the standing violinist reading over the seated pianist’s shoulder), which contained the complete violin part and fragments of the piano part. At a later date, using (by chance) black ink rather than brown, Mozart completed the manuscript. This involved writing in the piano part wherever it was missing as well as notating and appending the final page with the piano part for the last variation. But could Mozart have composed this sonata in one hour? It is crucial to note that Mozart made a distinction between the acts of composing and writing. In 1780, with reference to Idomeneo, act 3, he reported that “I must now write at break-neck speed. Everything has been composed, but not yet written down.”20 Thus, there is biographical evidence for the argument that much of Mozart’s creative work was strictly internal. In view of this dichotomy between composing and writing down a score, perhaps Mozart’s letter concerning K. 379 should be understood to mean that he only composed, that is, mentally conceived it (possibly with the aid of a piano or sketches) during that late-night hour, and that he then wrote out the score on the day of the concert itself—by any standard still a rush job that could have necessitated the

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Figure 5.1. Mozart, Sonata for Violin and Piano in G Major/Minor, K. 379, autograph, mvt. 3, last variation. Courtesy of the Library of Congress.

Figure 5.2. Mozart, Sonata for Violin and Piano in G Major/Minor, K. 379, autograph, mvt. 3, last folio, piano part for last variation. Courtesy of the Library of Congress.

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incomplete notation of the piano part. But even this proposed “slower” genesis of K. 379 is still quite breathtaking. It is possible that within twenty-four hours Mozart conceived the sonata, wrote most of it down, performed it, and reported the events to his father.21 Due to its unique structure and powerful expressive content, K. 379 is one of Mozart’s most fascinating sonatas. The opening Adagio is a sonata-form movement, but it lacks a recapitulation. At the end of the development section, the dominant leads instead to the second movement, an Allegro in the parallel minor, also in sonata form, complete with recapitulation. Mozart’s rationale behind the unusual ordering, structure, and joining of the first two movements can be traced to contemporary aesthetics, which valued the pleasurable benefits of playing with listeners’ expectations. Under expectation play, Johann Georg Sulzer (1720–79), Heinrich Christoph Koch (1749–1816), and other prominent eighteenth-century aestheticians and theorists, discuss devices such as: harmonic surprises and deceptive cadences; unconventional tempos, dynamics, or instrumentation; and the unexpected juxtaposition of contrasting material. Mozart clearly is exploiting the use of the unexpected at several levels in K. 379. It is already surprising in the 1780s to begin a sonata with a slow rather than a fast tempo. If a slow tempo is encountered at the beginning of a work, it normally functions only as a brief introduction to a fast first movement. In K. 379, the initial element of surprise is renewed throughout the course of the Adagio, because it gradually becomes apparent that this is not merely an introduction, but rather an independent movement. Then, just when the listener has become acclimated to this novel idea, Mozart plays his most unexpected wild card. Instead of a recapitulation, he substitutes an Allegro, attacca, in the parallel minor. The sudden change in tempo, meter, mode, and character, comes as a shock. In late eighteenth-century aesthetics the effect of such bold and unexpected events produced an affect called Verwunderung (wonderment or astonishment), which was considered one of the distinctive and valued pleasurable emotions that art was capable of evoking.22 Shortly after the performance of K. 379, Mozart decided, against his father’s strong objections, to resign his position in Salzburg and to settle in Vienna where he would reside for the remaining decade of his life. It speaks to the popularity of the genre that he chose to make his

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initial public statement in the capital as a composer with another set of six sonatas for violin and piano. K. 379 was the first of the four sonatas that he quickly produced in 1781, to which he added two earlier works, K. 296 (Mannheim, 1778) and K. 378 (Salzburg, 1779), to complete the set. They were printed as Mozart’s opus 2 by Artaria later that year. Mozart composed four more violin sonatas—K. 454 (1784), K. 481 (1785), K. 526 (1787), and K. 547 (1788)—which were published individually. As with K. 379, the autograph of K. 454 in B-flat Major was also incomplete at its first performance, which was given in Vienna by Mozart and the touring Italian violinist, Regina Strinasacchi (1764– 1839). Contemporary accounts maintain that Mozart played from a blank score, but again the colors and layers of ink in the autograph demonstrate that it initially contained the complete violin line but only portions of the piano part.23 In K. 454 Mozart created total parity between the two instruments, allowing them equal opportunity to present an extraordinarily rich variety of thematic ideas. A lengthy Largo introduction to the first movement establishes the grand, almost symphonic, scale and tone of this work. In the Adagio of the next sonata, K. 481 in E-flat Major, Mozart experimented with distant enharmonic modulations (which move audaciously from D-flat major via C-sharp minor to A major) by exploiting the aural equivalence of dominantseventh and augmented-sixth chords. When Mozart returned from Paris to Salzburg in January 1779 after an absence of sixteen months, he decided to abandon playing violin professionally. Therefore, he did not wish to resume his former position as assistant concertmaster, and, after negotiations, he was appointed court organist at three times his previous salary. He also lost interest in appearing as a violin soloist, but his passion for performing as a pianist increased, especially after taking up residence in Vienna. These developments clearly were decisive in Mozart’s exclusive focus on composing concertos for piano, rather than for violin, from that point forward.24 He still enjoyed occasionally participating in domestic string quartet evenings, but in these he preferred to play viola. Nevertheless, Mozart’s expertise at playing and composing for the violin continued to inform his masterful handling of the instrument in his subsequent chamber and symphonic music. Inspired by Mozart’s violin sonatas and concertos, Beethoven would soon begin his own cultivation of these genres.

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Ludwig van Beethoven (1770–1827) Beethoven received instruction at an early age on both the violin and the piano, but he focused on and developed greater aptitude for the piano, eventually becoming one of the leading pianists of the era. Nevertheless, his abilities as a string player were sufficient for him to play professionally for four years, beginning when he was eighteen, as a violist in the chapel and theater orchestra at the court in Bonn, his hometown. In the time-honored pedagogical tradition for novice composers, he used works by older masters as models for his own student efforts. In 1785, when he was fifteen, Beethoven composed three quartets for piano and strings (violin, viola, and cello), WoO 36, which are closely patterned after specific violin sonatas by Mozart that had been published in Vienna just four years earlier: the Quartet in E-flat Major after K. 379; the Quartet in D Major after K. 380; and the Quartet in C Major after K. 296. In the Quartet in E-flat Major, Beethoven emulated all of the unusual formal and tonal aspects of K. 379 discussed above, and the second movements of both works also have pronounced thematic and expressive similarities.25 Beethoven wanted to further his musical education in Vienna, where he hoped to study with Mozart. Unfortunately, he was not able to settle in Vienna until late 1792, almost a year after Mozart’s death. Nevertheless, Mozart remained a crucial source of inspiration for Beethoven. His first works for violin and piano include: Variations on “Se vuol ballare” from The Marriage of Figaro (WoO 40), begun in Bonn and completed in Vienna; and a fragmentary sonata in A major, modeled on Mozart’s K. 526. Later, as preparation for composing his first string quartets in 1798, Beethoven studied Mozart’s quartets. Because scores of chamber music were rarely published in the eighteenth century, Beethoven even created hand-copied scores from the printed parts for two of Mozart’s quartets so that he could analyze them in detail. The first nine of Beethoven’s ten sonatas for violin and piano date from late 1797 to 1803; his final contribution to this genre, opus 96, stems from 1812 and was revised for publication in 1815. By the time Beethoven set out to compose his first violin sonatas, he had completed several years of composition study in Vienna under Joseph Haydn (1732–1809), Johann Albrechtsberger (1736–1809), and Antonio Salieri (1750–1825), and his career as a piano virtuoso and composer was flourishing. He had completed three Piano Trios op. 1, two Cello

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Sonatas op. 5, and nine solo piano sonatas. Thus, he was well prepared to make a strong statement with a set of three violin sonatas published as opus 12 in December 1798 or January 1799. The first performance of at least one of these sonatas probably took place in March 1798, in a concert given by Beethoven and Ignaz Schuppanzigh (1776–1830), one of the premier violinists in Vienna. Schuppanzigh founded and led a string quartet—the first professional quartet in the modern sense of presenting concerts with a regular established membership—that was employed at this time by Prince Karl Lichnowsky (1761–1814) and later by Count Andrey Razumovsky (1752–1836), both of whom became important patrons of Beethoven. Schuppanzigh and Beethoven developed a close friendship—Beethoven even studied violin with him for a brief period—and in coming years Schuppanzigh would premiere numerous chamber works by both Beethoven and Schubert. The opus 12 sonatas demonstrate characteristic features of the mature classical style, which Beethoven absorbed from his contemporaries and teachers and which exemplify his “early period.” Each sonata is in three movements: fast-slow-fast. The weighty first movements are in sonata form with clearly defined and contrasting structural units, while the last movements are sonata-rondos with a lighter and often playful or even humorous quality. In Sonata no. 1 the slow middle movement is a theme and variations; in nos. 2 and 3 the slow movements employ ternary plans with varied returns of the A sections. Regarding the relationship between the violin and piano, Beethoven continues the approach used by Mozart in his late sonatas. The two instruments share and alternate thematic and accompaniment functions, although the piano is given slightly more prominent and numerous thematic opportunities. Exploiting his deep understanding of the idiomatic potentials of both instruments, Beethoven provides them with brilliant figurations and witty “conversational” exchanges. Looking beyond these conservative traits, the opus 12 sonatas also contain experimental and innovative elements, which sometimes were deemed too avant-garde by Beethoven’s contemporaries, as is revealed in a review from 1799: It is undeniable that Herr van Beethoven takes an original path; but what a bizarre and weary path! Learned, learned, learned and continually learned, but without nature, without melody. Yes, when considered carefully, there is only learned material, without good technique; a

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140 ❧ Chapter Five roughness, for which one feels little interest; a search for strange modulation, an aversion against usual harmonic progressions, a piling up of difficulty upon difficulty, such that one loses all patience and joy.26

What elicited such strong criticism? Admittedly, some movements are constructed from numerous highly contrasting thematic components—too many in the reviewer’s opinion—which are abruptly juxtaposed in surprising and dramatic ways. The first movement of no. 1 in D Major, for example, introduces a long string of ideas that are set off from each other with sudden and extreme changes in dynamics and degree of rhythmic activity. Unusually distant tonal excursions into unexpected regions are especially prominent in no. 3 in E-flat Major. At the end of the development section in the first movement, Beethoven modulates to the remote key of C-flat major (♭VI in relationship to the home tonality) and remains there for six measures while introducing a totally new legato theme. The piano dynamic and the “measured tremolo” effect of the sixteenth-notes in the piano left hand contribute to an aura of mystery. The resulting tension is resolved by the addition of A♮ to the C-flat chord, which is treated as an augmented sixth that resolves to the dominant of E-flat major only one measure before the unanticipated forte recapitulation. In the ternary second movement in C major, the middle section quickly modulates to the remote key of D-flat major (i.e., ♭II) where it remains until another augmented-sixth sleight of hand leads to the tonic for the return of the A section. But this return is abbreviated to only eight measures, after which there is an extensive coda with substantial motivic development and, shortly before the end, another unorthodox tonal excursion via a deceptive cadence to E-flat major. By eighteenth-century standards, this treatment of harmony and tonality is indeed “bizarre” and “learned.” The reviewer’s obsession with Beethoven’s excessively “learned” style might also refer to the extreme exploitation of motivic development in the first movement of no. 2 in A Major, where witty deployment of a ubiquitous two-note minor/major second motive dominates the discourse. We now revere Beethoven’s ingenuity at composing with such basic motivic cells. And we value his dramatic treatment of form and tonal adventurousness as attractive, innovative aspects of his early style. An awareness of criticism of these features by Beethoven’s contemporaries can further sharpen our sensitivity to his originality and penchant to deviate from inherited traditions.

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Opus 23 in A Minor and Opus 24 in F Major (“Spring”)

Beethoven frequently worked on several compositions at the same time, and sometimes, as was the case with his next violin sonatas, opus 23 and opus 24, he simultaneously composed a contrasting pair of works of the same genre.27 The stylistic and expressive differences between these two sonatas are acute. Opus 23 in A Minor has a pronounced learned quality by virtue of its preoccupation with counterpoint. Unlike the sonatas of opus 12, the first movement of opus 23 has little internal contrast. It is dominated by a limited number of related motives and the minor mode is retained for the secondary group. The contrapuntal texture is enlivened with points of imitation and brief canons, with the violin frequently assigned the role of middle voice between the left and right hands of the piano. These features (along with the 86 meter, presto tempo, and numerous sforzandos on weak beats) combine to generate an unrelieved energetic and stormy character. The sonata-form second movement with the unique tempo marking, Andante scherzoso più Allegretto, has a fugal transition (with four entries of the subject) between the first and second groups. The refrain and some of the episodes of the concluding rondo again are highly contrapuntal, with Beethoven delighting in and showing off his mastery of species and invertible counterpoint. The author of the opus 12 review undoubtedly would have judged opus 23 to be even more excessively learned and bizarre. In the Sonata in F Major, op. 24 (“Spring”), Beethoven emphasized entirely different values: homophonic texture with lyrical melodies rather than contrapuntal complexity, almost as if he wanted to counter criticism about the supposed paucity of melody in his music.28 The opening themes of the first, second, and fourth movements are lyrical cantabiles, with legato articulation and flowing homophonic accompaniment. Moreover, these themes are related by virtue of their incorporation of the same turn motive. Lewis Lockwood has argued that by emphasizing amiable lyricism in opus 24 (and in several other works from this period), Beethoven was evoking the aesthetic of “the beautiful,” a term that is paired and contrasted with “the sublime” during this period by Immanuel Kant (1724–1804), Johann Goethe (1749–1832), and Friedrich Schiller (1759–1805)—major literary figures whom Beethoven read and admired.29 For these writers, powerful, bold, energized, and startling works of art elicited the sublime;

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while beautiful art was serene, balanced, elegant, and graceful. Aware of this dichotomy, Beethoven generally conceived his compositions so that both categories were present, often with more emphasis on the sublime in the fast outer movements and on the beautiful in the slow central movement. However, his predilection for the sublime sometimes resulted in works too heavily weighted in that direction for the taste of his audiences and critics. Lockwood suggests that in opus 24 Beethoven may have intentionally minimized elements that evoke the sublime in favor of those associated with the beautiful in order to refute reviews, like that of opus 12, that criticized his music for its lack of lyrical melody.30 Beethoven was successful. An anonymous review of opus 24 declares that it “belongs to the best that Beethoven has written, which is to say to the best that is currently being written overall.”31 Nevertheless, in opus 24, which in its aesthetic stance might be viewed as a large-scale experiment, Beethoven did not entirely abandon his proclivity for the unconventional. The second movement, Adagio molto espressivo, is cast in an unorthodox hybrid form that combines ternary and variation designs. The “beautiful” theme is presented alternately by both instruments as if “competing” with each other by adding increasingly elaborate ornamentation. After the return of the A section, which is truncated to only eight measures, there is an extensive coda, which incorporates further variations of the theme, underscored by a daring modulatory plan that moves swiftly down by thirds from the tonic, B-flat major, through B-flat minor, G-flat major, D major, and D minor, before returning to B-flat major, all within the span of sixteen measures. In many of his early piano sonatas (op. 2, nos. 1–3; op. 7; op. 10, no. 3; and op. 22) Beethoven had experimented with adding either a minuet or a scherzo to the traditional three-movement plan for sonatas. This resulted in the four-movement design that had long been standard practice in symphonies and string quartets. In opus 24 he employed this design for the first time in a violin sonata and would do so again in opus 30, no. 2 and opus 96. The scherzo in opus 24 sparkles with witty “quasi canonic” imitation—the violin lags one beat behind the piano— which gives the impression that the performers remain doggedly out of sync. With its constant staccato articulation, humor, and absence of lyrical themes, this brief movement serves as an effective foil to the other movements.

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Opus 30, nos. 1, 2, and 3

Beethoven’s next violin sonatas, opus 30, nos. 1–3, were composed in 1802 during the same period as the three piano sonatas opus 31. While opus 31 (especially no. 2 in D Minor) is regularly lauded for its experimental features that make it a harbinger of Beethoven’s middle period, the opus 30 sonatas generally are considered more conservative. I would suggest, however, that the outer movements of opus 30, no. 2 in C Minor exhibit cardinal traits of the coming style, including relentless energy and forward motion that evoke the impassioned, stormy character of the “heroic,” and lengthy developmental codas that expand the sonata-form movements. The opening of the first movement, Allegro con brio, is characterized by vibrant rhythmic activity, grand rhetorical pauses, and the suspenseful drama of “dueling” fortissimo chords between the instruments. The marchlike secondary theme in the relative major, with dotted rhythms, staccato articulation, and four-square phrasing establishes a military topic. And perhaps most significant, Beethoven’s use of a brief motive (mm. 1–2) as the germinal cell and foundation for such an expansive movement foreshadows the famous exploitation of this device in his Third and Fifth Symphonies. The sense of unrest and drive in the last movement is even more acute, and (as in the first movement) there is a lengthy coda, which resumes the development process and concludes with a “stretto” (marked presto) that ratchets up the excitement. These outer movements, with their overwhelming power and energy, surely would have been considered sublime by Beethoven’s contemporaries. In form and expressive content, the middle movements of opus 30, no. 2, are expansive cousins of their counterparts in opus 24. The leisurely Adagio cantabile in A-flat major—a ternary plan with a warm flowing melody in the A section that embraces three embedded turn figures—represents the beautiful in this sonata. The central section, with its unanticipated move to the parallel minor, is mysterious and searching, and the reprise of the A section is wonderfully varied with increasingly active figuration in the accompaniment. As in opus 24, the scherzo provides an element of comic relief, this time resulting from clipped grace notes and numerous unexpected sforzandos that clash with the underlying metric pulse. The compact Sonata in G Major, op. 30, no. 3 flaunts its eighteenthcentury orientation with a graceful Tempo di Minuetto in E-flat major as

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the middle movement. Beethoven shows off his mastery of Haydnesque humor by playing with listeners’ expectations in the outer movements, especially the finale, a rondo with a tuneful refrain in running sixteenth notes that swirl in perpetuum mobile. The episodes modulate to closely related keys (E minor, D major and minor) and are followed by returns of the refrain in the tonic as is expected in well-behaved eighteenthcentury rondos. However, there is also a “false return” that teases with the first four measures of the refrain in B major. Finally, near the end there is a grand rhetorical pause on the dominant seventh of G major, but, instead of resolving to the refrain in the tonic, the continuation is a deceptive cadence to the lowered submediant. The piano vamps for two measures on an E-flat-major chord before the violin enters with the refrain in that key. The bald humor of this unexpected move—in tonality, texture, and style—often elicits smiles from audiences. The Sonata in A Major, op. 30, no. 1 is the most conservative and expressively restrained member of this opus, but this was not always the case. Its original finale, a very lengthy Presto in A major, was so unrelentingly wild and driving that Beethoven replaced it with a less “brilliant” movement, the present calm and orderly theme and variations, judging it to be a more suitable companion to the other movements.32 Conservative features reign throughout. The relationship between the instruments is sometimes even reminiscent of the early accompanied piano sonata, with the violin, although it does participate in thematic presentation, woven contrapuntally into the fabric of the piano’s texture. Rather than evoking extreme and vivid characters, the expression remains reserved and subtle. The tempos are moderate, the classical forms are transparent and balanced, and excess or extravagance is avoided in favor of elegance and beauty. Richard Kramer’s observation that opus 30 represents “a social Beethoven who is making music with and for friends”33 certainly is apt for the Sonatas in A Major and G Major, but, as I have suggested above, does not seem appropriate for the C-minor Sonata with its extroverted and progressive features— although perhaps that depends on who his friends were and how much darkness and drama they could handle in music. Opus 47 in A Major (“Kreutzer”)

Beethoven completed the opus 30 sonatas in May 1802, and when he again took up the genre in April 1803, he made the unusual decision

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to “recycle” the rejected finale from opus 30, no. 1, which now became the third movement of the new Sonata in A Major, op. 47 (“Kreutzer”). Beethoven gave the premiere of opus 47 on May 24, 1803, with George Augustus Polgreen Bridgetower (1778–1860), a touring violin virtuoso employed at the time by the Prince of Wales, who later became King George IV of England.34 Beethoven was so late in finishing opus 47 that, on the day of the performance, he summoned his student, Ferdinand Ries (1784–1838), at 4:30 a.m. and asked him to copy the violin part for Bridgetower’s use at the performance, which took place at 8:00 a.m. in the Augarten under conditions reminiscent of Mozart’s experiences with K. 379 and K. 454. According to Ries: “The pianoforte part was noted down only here and there in parts. Bridgetower had to play the marvelously beautiful theme and variations in F from Beethoven’s manuscript at the concert because there was not time to copy it [the violin part]. The final Allegro, however, was beautifully written, since it originally belonged to the Sonata in A Major (Op. 30).”35 Beethoven admired Bridgetower’s musicianship and originally intended to dedicate the sonata to him. But when opus 47 was published two years later, rather than Bridgetower, Beethoven honored instead the French violinist, Rodolphe Kreutzer (1766–1831), as the dedicatee. The traditional explanation for this change has been speculation that Beethoven and Bridgetower had a falling out over a common romantic interest. However, other factors may have been equally or even more decisive. In 1798 Kreutzer had spent several weeks in Vienna and had performed (probably one or more of the opus 12 sonatas) with Beethoven in a private concert at the residence of Prince Franz Joseph Lobkowitz (1772–1816). Kreutzer was one of the leading members of the French “school” of violin performance and also a prolific composer of operas that were enjoying great success in Paris. During the period following the premiere of opus 47, Beethoven was seriously considering leaving Vienna and moving to Paris. Thus, had he gone to Paris, the dedication to Kreutzer would have functioned as a politically diplomatic bow to a prominent and influential member of the city’s musical establishment.36 Opus 47, the longest and most virtuosic of Beethoven’s violin sonatas, is the only one that prefaces the first movement with a slow introduction (see ex. 5.4). The parity of the two instruments, but with the violin as initiating protagonist, is created in the first period by assigning the first four-measure phrase to the unaccompanied violin, regally

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Example 5.4. Beethoven, Sonata for Violin and Piano in A Major, op. 47 (“Kreutzer”), mvt. 1, mm. 1–30.

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establishing the tonic with chords and double stops. The piano’s answer imitates the violin but with an inflection to the minor mode on the second chord, followed later by modulations that touch fleetingly on A minor, C major, and D minor. A two-note half-step motive gradually crystallizes, which is isolated and reiterated over changing harmonies, creating a sense of searching and suspense. Resolution arrives when this motive unexpectedly assumes its destined role at the head of the Presto’s principal theme. The sudden move from a relaxed Adagio to a frenetic Presto, along with the definitive shift to A minor, ignites a highenergy drama that flares for the next 580 measures. The beginning of the secondary group (m. 91), which is dominated by whole- and halfnote motion, provides only momentary abatement from the fiendishly difficult and constant deluge of notes from both instruments. Unifying factors in this movement include the prominence of the half-step motive in all of the themes and frequent exploitation of modal shifts. The second theme, for example, is first stated by the violin in the dominant major, followed by the piano’s response in the dominant minor. In opus 47 Beethoven has taken the traditional dialogue principal to a new and more sophisticated level. Instead of simply taking turns with exact repetitions of themes, the responses are imaginatively varied by changing the mode, by the addition of new counterpoint, by abbreviation or extension, and by replies that suggest contradiction or debate. Exchanges of this nature are more engaging and representative of genuine human discourse than are the more literal repetitions typical in most previous violin sonatas, including Beethoven’s. This new dynamic provides insight into Beethoven’s striking subtitle for opus 47. In the first edition, the full title reads: SONATA/per il Pianoforte ed un Violino obligato/scritta in uno stilo molto concertante/quasi come d’un concerto/composta e dedicate al suo amico/R. KREUZER (Sonata for the piano and violin obligato, written in a very concertante style, almost like a concerto, composed for and dedicated to his friend R. Kreuzer). In the late eighteenth century, “concertante” meant a style in which the participating instruments shared, but also possibly competed with each other, in presenting the musical ideas. And in concertos of the period, in addition to an emphasis on virtuosity, there is also a perception that the forces, soloist versus tutti (orchestra), often strive to assert their supremacy and distinctiveness. Thus, by means of the subtitle, Beethoven wanted to announce, perhaps even advertise, opus 47 as an innovative sonata with the qualities of a concertante or concerto for both violin and piano.

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148 ❧ Chapter Five Example 5.5. Beethoven, Sonata for Violin and Piano in A Major, op. 47 (“Kreutzer”), mvt. 3, mm. 8–15.

Although Tolstoy, as discussed in chapter 2, was acutely receptive to the extraordinary power of the first movement of opus 47, he dismissed—unfairly I believe—the other movements as “the superb, but ordinary, traditional andante with its vulgar variations and its utterly weak finale.”37 It must be remembered that Beethoven composed the first two movements with the already extant finale in mind, and thus they were, in a sense, created in response to it. The finale is certainly not “utterly weak.” It is a 86 Presto in A major that suggests a wild tarantella with constant swirling motion, prevalent iambic rhythmic patterns, occasional large melodic leaps, and a moto perpetuo strand of eighth notes that ensures continuity (see ex. 5.5). Although in sonata form, these features dominate both the first and second groups, and thus there is little internal contrast. It was the movement’s hyperenergetic forward drive, technical brilliance, and great length that led Beethoven to conclude that it would be out of place following the very reserved first two movements of opus 30, no. 1. However, these very attributes inspired Beethoven to balance opus 47 with a first movement of comparable excitement and monumental proportions: 599 measures in the first movement versus 539 measures in the finale. In order to integrate the previously composed finale, Beethoven also created links between the outer movements. He presaged the sonata’s global move from minor to major by beginning the slow introduction

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to the first movement with the opposite move: major to minor. The piano’s initial response to the violin is a grand four-octave A-major chord (m. 5), which of course is a pianistic expansion of the violin’s first chord (see ex. 5.4). The sketches and other manuscript sources reveal that, when it was intended for opus 30, no. 1, the finale began with the repeated C♯s in the present measure 2. However, after the introduction had been composed, Beethoven decided to launch the finale by adding the identical four-octave A-major chord in the piano as its opening gambit (see ex. 5.5). One cannot argue with Tolstoy’s description of the F-major Andante as “superb but conventional.” It undoubtedly is a traditional movement, but there is nothing “ordinary” about the exquisite theme (with its emphasis on second beats, and the chromatic line that magically elides the antecedent and consequent phrases of the first period) or “vulgar” about the marvelously inventive variations. The regularity of the rounded binary theme is strictly maintained throughout the four variations, which are characterized by increasingly elaborate ornamentation and diminutions of both melody and accompaniment. The nearly obligatory variation in the parallel minor is the most “abstract,” and an expressive recitative passage precedes the lengthy, rhapsodic coda with its motivic reminiscences of the theme. With its emphasis on order, balanced proportions, and beauty, the Andante is a welcome buffer between the outer movements, which embody the overwhelming, powerful, and almost out-of-control aspects of the sublime. Beethoven’s next work for violin, the Concerto in D Major, op. 61 (1806), will be discussed in the following chapter because of its significant position in the history of the violin concerto in the nineteenth century. Opus 96 in G Major

Beethoven’s last violin sonata, opus 96 in G Major, was written for a visiting performer, the French violin virtuoso and composer Pierre Rode (1774–1830), known today primarily for his valuable technical studies in all keys, the 24 caprices en forme d’études. When composing opus 96, Beethoven also had in mind his royal composition and piano student, Archduke Rudolph (1788–1831). The Archduke, to whom the sonata is dedicated, and Rode premiered the sonata at a private soirée given by Prince Lobkowitz in December 1812.

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Composed shortly after the completion of the Seventh and Eighth Symphonies and the Piano Trio in B-flat Major, op. 97 (“Archduke”), opus 96 falls chronologically and stylistically in the transition between Beethoven’s middle and late periods. More than nine years had elapsed since the “Kreutzer” Sonata, and the two works are extraordinarily different. The extroverted virtuosity, speed, and rhythmic excitement in opus 47 are replaced in opus 96 by intimacy, calm reflection, lyricism, and an integrated and cooperative, rather than confrontational and competitive, relationship between violin and piano. The “pastoral” as a musical topic can be evoked in instrumental music by imitating sounds of nature and idealized country life, including weather (wind, rain, thunder, and lightning), animals (especially birds and their songs), flowing water, and peasant music (rustic dances, bagpipes, and hunting horn calls). Beethoven’s best-known composition of this type is the Sixth Symphony (“Pastoral”)—the subtitle is authentic—which illustrates all of these features. Moreover, Beethoven headed each movement of his Sixth Symphony with a descriptive title that facilitates specific and detailed interpretation of its programmatic content. Although Beethoven did not provide opus 96 with verbal titles or clues, Beethoven scholars have identified pastoral associations in it. The most recent and persuasive exponent of this approach is Maynard Solomon, who proposes that “Each of the movements of the G-major sonata elaborates a distinctive version of pastoral, the whole constituting a series of sharply etched illustrations of the range and purposes of pastoral experience.”38 For Solomon, the sonata-form first movement is an idyll, that is, a classical poem (or prose) dealing with idealized pastoral life of peace and contentment. The principal theme begins with a one-measure motive, with a trill on the first note, which is suggestive of birdsong (see ex. 5.6). Much of the movement’s thematic material is related to the stepwise descending appoggiatura in this opening motive. After a brief “conversation” concerning this topic, the violin and piano “take flight” with rising arpeggios in parallel motion. As the movement progresses, we encounter a festive parade (the second group), drone bagpipes, more avian trills, and—like a temporary shadow clouding the prevailing sunny and untroubled atmosphere—a descending half-stepsigh motive with minor harmonies. The second movement, Adagio espressivo in E-flat major, has a ternary plan with an A section that is hymnlike with its four-voice texture and conjunct motion. Solomon considers it an elegy and draws

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Example 5.6. Beethoven, Sonata for Violin and Piano in G Major, op. 96, mvt. 1, mm. 1–18.

attention to the triple iteration of the “Lebewohl” (farewell) motive at the first cadence (mm. 8–10). (Beethoven had employed this threenote motto, G–F–E♭, to denote the pastoral in earlier compositions, most notably the Piano Sonata in E-flat Major, op. 81a [“Lebewohl”].) Naturally, whether mourning or lamenting actually is suggested in opus 96 must remain subjective. Instead of an elegy, an anonymous reviewer of opus 96 in 1819 drew on a different pastoral genre, the classical eclogue (a shepherd’s amorous soliloquy) to describe this movement: “Thus the Acadian shepherd tenderly laments his pains of love to the hills, trees, bushes, to the springs and flowers, he breathes out his feelings in tones, and Chloe cannot remain insensitive.”39 As the final E-flat chord of the Adagio fades, Beethoven adds a C♯. The resulting augmented-sixth chord is then repeated, attacca, as the upbeat of the G-minor Scherzo. The unexpected change of tonality and mode brings new, contrasting aspects of the pastoral: frolicking

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physical play and games suggested by the nearly constant accents on third beats in the Scherzo; and a rustic waltz or Ländler with a drone base in the Trio. The Poco allegretto finale initially appears to be an untroubled vision of contented pastoral existence. It is a set of variations on a playful dance tune that would have been at home in a comic singspiel. But the variations—the first three follow tradition by treating the theme with increasingly faster diminutions—flow smoothly from one to the next and gradually veer away from the naiveté of the opening. With the change in tempo in variation five to Adagio espressivo, the character becomes introspective, and (via chromatic cadenza-like passages) reminiscent of the elegy or eclogue of the second movement. This disruption of the movement’s trajectory is more severe and extensive than is typical with slow variations. The remainder of the movement consists of a string of unexpected events: a brief false reprise of the theme in the original tempo but the wrong key, E-flat major; as variation 6, a frenetic Allegro; as variation 7 in the parallel minor, a learned fugato, the subject of which is a highly disguised transformation of the theme with its first twelve notes presented in equal eighth notes; a return of the theme in its original state; a brief Poco adagio statement of the theme’s tune in slow motion, which recalls the earlier adagios; and a frothy Presto rush to the final cadence. Solomon hypothesizes that Beethoven intentionally postpones the ending, that is, the arrival at the longed-for pastoral Arcadian state, by setting up barriers that must first be overcome, thereby making the final victory all the more meaningful. The purpose of the fugato in the minor, therefore, is “to emphasize the gravity of the occasion, [and] to imply that wisdom is a precondition for a deserved pastoral ending,” while the Adagios illustrate “the necessity of melancholia, the impermanence of life’s pleasures, [and] the contingency of life itself.”40

Notes Epigraph. Emily Anderson, trans. and ed., The Letters of Mozart and His Family, 3rd ed. (London: Macmillan, 1985), 612; and Wilhelm A. Bauer and Otto Erich Deutsch, eds., Mozart: Briefe und Aufzeichnungen, 4 vols. (Kassel: Bärenreiter, 1962–63), no. 487. (“Ich versichere sie, ohne reisen | wenigstens leüte von künsten und wissenschaften | ist man wohl ein armseeliges geschöpf!”)

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1.

For a recent discussion of the accompanied sonata genre, see Nicholas Baragwanath, “Mozart’s Early Chamber Music with Keyboard: Traditions of Performance, Composition and Commodification,” in Mozart’s Chamber Music with Keyboard, ed. Martin Harlow (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012), 25–44. 2. Katalin Komlós, Fortepianos and Their Music: Germany, Austria, and England, 1760–1800 (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1995), 85. 3. Although Leopold has been accused of exploiting Wolfgang, modern theories about proper childrearing and psychological development were unknown in the eighteenth century. Leopold sincerely believed that it was his obligation (as others probably did at the time) to allow the world to experience his son, whom he considered to be a “miracle.” Further, see Stanley Sadie, Mozart: The Early Years 1756–1781 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2006), 33–35. 4. For a detailed study of these works, see Jürgen Hunkemöller, W. A. Mozarts frühe Sonaten für Violine und Klavier: Untersuchungen zur Gattungsgeschichte im 18. Jahrhundert (Bern: Francke, 1970). 5. In addition to these five concertos, three additional violin concertos have been ascribed to Mozart at various times, all of which (including the “Adelaide Concerto”) are now considered spurious. Further, see Sadie, Mozart: The Early Years, 376–77. Brunetti performed several of Mozart’s concertos, and, at Brunetti’s request in 1776, Mozart composed alternate movements for two of them: the Rondo K. 269, to replace the original third movement of the Concerto in B-flat Major, K. 207; and the Adagio K. 261, as a substitute slow movement for the Concerto in A Major, K. 219. 6. During the same period as the violin concertos, Mozart also composed three additional serenades (K. 185, K. 203, and K. 204), each of which includes two concerto-like movements that feature solo violin throughout. 7. Anderson, The Letters of Mozart, 300, 331; Bauer and Deutsch, Mozart: Briefe, nos. 345 and 353. 8. Anderson, The Letters of Mozart, 338; Bauer and Deutsch, Mozart: Briefe, no. 355. 9. Anderson, The Letters of Mozart, 300; Bauer and Deutsch, Mozart: Briefe, no. 345. 10. That the sonatas were published as “opus 1,” notwithstanding the earlier use of this number, may suggest Mozart’s desire to announce his debut as a mature composer, no longer the former child prodigy. For stimulating discussions of the hypothesis that Mozart made stylistic, tonal, and expressive decisions not only about the individual sonatas of opus 1 as independent works but also in regard to the aggregate of the six sonatas as a largescale compositional statement: see Elaine Sisman, “Six of One: The Opus Concept in the Eighteenth Century,” in The Century of Bach and Mozart,

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11. 12. 13. 14.

15. 16.

17. 18. 19.

20. 21.

22. 23. 24.

25.

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ed. Sean Gallagher and Thomas Forrest Kelly (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Department of Music, 2008), 79–107; and Peter Walls, “Opus 1, Take 2: Mozart’s Mannheim and Paris Sonatas for Keyboard and Violin,” in Harlow, Mozart’s Chamber Music with Keyboard, 45–68. Hermann Abert, W. A. Mozart, trans. Stewart Spencer, ed. Cliff Eisen (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2007; orig. publ. 1919–21), 521. Alfred Einstein, Mozart: His Character, His Work, trans. Arthur Mendel and Nathan Broder (New York: Oxford University Press, 1943), 254. Erich Schenk, Mozart and His Times, trans. Richard Winston and Clara Winston (London: Secker and Warburg, 1960), 258. See Wolfgang Plath, “Beiträge zur Mozart-Autographie II: Schriftchronologie 1770–1780,” Mozart-Jahrbuch 1976/77 (Kassel: Bärenreiter, 1978), 170. Maynard Solomon, Mozart: A Life (London: Hutchinson, 1995), 198–99. Ibid., 200. For a broad overview of the modern reception of Mozart’s keyboard chamber music, see Martin Harlow, “The Chamber Music with Keyboard in Mozart Biography,” in Mozart’s Chamber Music with Keyboard, 1–24. Julian Rushton, Mozart (New York: Oxford University Press, 2006), 76. The rondo for Brunetti is K. 373 in C Major. Anderson, The Letters of Mozart, 722; Bauer and Deutsch, Mozart: Briefe, no. 587. The “rondo” for Francesco Ceccarelli (1752–1814), a castrato employed in Salzburg by Archbishop Colloredo, is K. 374, a recitative and aria for soprano. Anderson, The Letters of Mozart, 702; Bauer and Deutsch, Mozart: Briefe, no. 573. Further, see Robert Riggs, “Mozart’s Sonata for Piano and Violin, K. 379: Perspectives on the ‘One-hour’ Sonata,” Mozart-Jahrbuch 1991 (Kassel: Bärenreiter, 1992), 708–15. See Heinrich Christoph Koch, Versuch einer Anleitung zur Composition (Leipzig, 1787), 2:23. See the facsimile edition of this autograph (Stockholm: Autographus Musicus, 1982), with a foreword by Edward Melkus. The one exception to this statement is Mozart’s Sinfonia concertante K. 364, a double concerto for violin and viola, from 1779. The composition of this work may have been stimulated by Mozart’s recent sojourns in Mannheim and Paris, cities where concertos for multiple soloists were very much in vogue. Beethoven’s use of these Mozart’s sonatas as models has been discussed by several scholars, including: Richard Kramer, “The Sketches for Beethoven’s Violin Sonatas Opus 30” (PhD diss., Princeton University, 1973), 493.

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26. Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung (Leipzig, 1799) columns 570–71 (my translation). German text in Stefan Kunze, ed., Ludwig van Beethoven Die Werke im Spiegel seiner Zeit: Gesammelte Konzertberichte und Rezensionen bis 1830 (Laaber: Laaber, 1987), 18. 27. Opus 23 and opus 24 were initially published together as opus 23, but because the publisher mistakenly printed them in different formats, Beethoven had them reissued with individual opus numbers. 28. The nickname, “Spring” Sonata, for opus 24 did not originate with Beethoven, but it gained currency by the middle of the nineteenth century and has remained popular ever since. 29. Lewis Lockwood, “‘On the Beautiful in Music’: Beethoven’s ‘Spring’ Sonata for Violin and Piano, Opus 24,” in The Beethoven Violin Sonatas, ed. Lewis Lockwood and Mark Kroll (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 2004), 24–46. 30. Ibid., 41–44. 31. Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung (Leipzig, 1802) columns 569–70 (my translation). German text in Kunze, Ludwig van Beethoven, 24. 32. Beethoven also substituted movements in several other works, including: the Piano Sonata in C Major, op. 53 (“Waldstein”), in which the original slow second movement (now known as the “Andante favori”) was replaced; and the String Quartet op. 130 in which the original finale was removed and published separately as the Grosse Fuge op. 133 and a new, much less radical finale substituted in its place. 33. See Richard Kramer, “‘Sonate, que me veux-tu?’ Opus 30, Opus 31, and the Anxieties of Genre,” in Lockwood and Kroll, The Beethoven Violin Sonatas, 47–60, 57. 34. Bridgetower, who had been a child prodigy, was the son of a West Indian father and a European mother. See Josephine R. B. Wright, “George Polgreen Bridgetower: An African Prodigy in England, 1789–99,” Musical Quarterly 66 (1980): 65–82. 35. Gerhard Wegeler and Ferdinand Ries, Biographische Notizen über Beethoven (Koblenz: K. Bädeker 1838), 82, as cited by Alexander Thayer, Thayer’s Life of Beethoven, rev. and ed. Elliot Forbes (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1967), 332. 36. In addition, Suhnne Ahn (in “Genre, Style, and Compositional Procedure in Beethoven’s ‘Kreutzer’ Sonata, Opus 47” [PhD diss., Harvard University, 1997], 137–94) has made a strong case that Kreutzer’s Grand Sonata in A Minor (Paris, 1799) for violin and piano may have influenced aspects of opus 47. 37. Leo Tolstoy, “The Kreutzer Sonata,” in The Kreutzer Sonata Variations, trans. and ed. Michael R. Katz (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2014), 55.

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156 ❧ Chapter Five 38. Maynard Solomon, “The Violin Sonata in G Major, Opus 96: Pastoral, Rhetoric, Structure,” in Lockwood and Kroll, The Beethoven Violin Sonatas, 110–28. 39. Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung mit besonderer Rücksicht auf den österreichischen Kaiserstaat (Vienna, 1819), columns 633–35 (my translation). German original in Kunze, Ludwig van Beethoven, 325. 40. Solomon, “The Violin Sonata in G Major,” 126–27. Like all great works, opus 96 is multivalent, and thus other readings are also valid and stimulating. William Kinderman, for example, places opus 96 in the context of Schiller’s aesthetic of the dialectic between naive and sentimental art. The former represents the external world and therefore is unreflective, while the latter modifies reality with input from the imagination. Kinderman suggests that in the concluding sections of opus 96, “two levels of experience are exposed: the inward world of the slow variation and the outward world of the dance. . . . [and that there is] a tensional play of tempos and character that embraces both of Schiller’s poetic categories.” See William Kinderman, Beethoven, 2nd ed. (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009), 188.

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6

THE VIOLIN CONCERTO AND VIRTUOSITY IN THE NINETEENTH CENTURY

Robert Riggs The French Violin Concertos and Beethoven

O

nly one violin concerto in the modern standard repertoire, Beethoven’s (1806), was composed between Mozart’s concertos (1775) and Mendelssohn’s Concerto in E Minor (1844), but this was not a barren phase in the history of violin performance and composition.1 On the contrary, this period witnessed tremendous growth in the popularity of touring violin virtuosos, many of whom were prolific composers of their own repertoire, especially concertos designed to showcase new techniques that they pioneered. France became the epicenter of these developments when the great Italian violinist, Giovanni Viotti (1755–1824), settled in Paris in 1782. Viotti and his disciples—most notably Rodolphe Kreutzer (1766–1831), Pierre Rode (1774–1830), and Pierre Baillot (1771–1842)—created a vogue for French violin concertos throughout Europe with their prolific output, which, by 1820, encompassed seventy concertos: twenty-nine by Viotti, nineteen by Kreutzer, thirteen by Rode, and nine by Baillot. Although Viotti moved to London in 1792 and retired early from active solo playing, Kreutzer, Rode, and Baillot became professors of violin at the newly founded Paris Conservatoire (1795), composed important violin études, and jointly authored a Méthode de violon (1803). This pedagogical activity, combined with extensive concert tours featuring their own concertos, made Paris into a widely recognized and influential “violin capital.”

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Moreover, it was also in Paris that François Tourte (1747 or 1748– 1835) experimented with designs for the bow and established, around 1785, its modern characteristics regarding the shape of its head, its length and weight, and the use of a metal ferrule on the frog to spread the hair in order to enhance tone production. Viotti and his colleagues were thus the first violinist/composers to capitalize on the playing characteristics of the new Tourte bow.2 The three-movement French concertos embody many features typically found in other concertos of the period: fast first movements, many of which have a marchlike (and hence martial) character, with three solo sections framed by orchestral ritornellos; brief arialike slow movements (frequently titled “Romance”), which provide opportunities for the soloist to embellish the “soprano’s” cantabile; and brilliant concluding rondos with episodes that often were either humorous or employed folk melodies or dance rhythms to evoke exotic (e.g., Spanish, Russian, or Hungarian) mannerisms. Viotti, Kreutzer, Rode, and Baillot were intimately involved with opera—as concertmasters, conductors, or general directors—at various points in their careers. Kreutzer was also a prolific and successful composer of operas.3 Thus, they infused their concertos with elements of drama and declamatory pathos. This repertoire also introduced adventurous and experimental features that presage later romantic developments, including: movements linked by transitions; cyclic recurrence of material from one movement to another; foreshadowing, in a slow introduction, a theme that will appear in the body of the movement; and a predilection for minor tonic keys. Although generally known today only to specialists (with the possible exception of one or two by Viotti), these concertos greatly influenced later contributions to the genre. The French penchant for establishing a marchlike (military) character in first movements of violin concertos is evident in many nineteenth-century concertos. Maiko Kawabata conjectures that the factors behind this phenomenon extend beyond the mere transmission of a popular musical style.4 She argues that a major impetus came from the cultural glorification of heroic individuals and actions, of which virtuosity was considered a musical manifestation. Viewed from this perspective, violin virtuosos were associated with military heroism because of the concerto’s dynamic of pitting soloist against orchestra: the commander endowed with exceptional genius who leads and dominates his army. In discussions of both violin and piano virtuosos, music criticism

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during this period frequently alluded to heroes from Greek mythology and to actual historical figures. Napoleon Bonaparte (1769–1821), the most famous military hero of the era, was often enlisted for this purpose. Goethe even made a comparison between the French general and Paganini that brought the “demonic” into play: The demonic is that which cannot be explained in a cerebral and a rational manner. It is not peculiar to my nature but I am subject to its spell. Napoleon possessed the quality to the highest degree. Amongst artists one encounters it more often with musicians than with painters. Paganini is imbued with it to a remarkable degree and it is through this that he produces such a great effect.5

Historian Peter Gay has argued that the nineteenth century was basically an unheroic age and thus that the widespread hero worship of military leaders, virtuoso performers, and political demagogues “were all symptoms of an inner void waiting to be filled with idealized images.”6 And Kawabata concludes that “Perhaps it was because heroically coded violin performances supplied these ‘idealized images’ to audiences that they were once so popular.”7 Beethoven’s long-standing and broad interest in French music began during his student years in Bonn and continued in Vienna, where he enjoyed personal associations—thanks to their concert tours—with Kreutzer, Rode, and Baillot. Several aspects of Beethoven’s Violin Concerto in D Major, op. 61, are indebted to their concertos. However, unlike the French concertos that provide the soloist with many opportunities for both brilliant virtuosic display and thematic presentation, Beethoven largely eschews virtuosity and adopts instead a symphonic conception in which the orchestra is given the principal role in stating thematic ideas, around which the solo violin weaves an ornate commentary of scales, arpeggios, and other figurations. Rarely, and then only for a few measures, are themes assigned to the soloist. But much of this “accompanimental” solo writing, including the use of broken octaves and sixths, is indebted to French models.8 By virtue of their beautiful context and original deployment, these stock elements are essential ingredients in the magic of the concerto. Composed in the last months of 1806 and premiered in December of that year by the Viennese violinist, Franz Clement (1780–1842), opus 61 exemplifies stylistic aspects of Beethoven’s middle period, especially his expansion of classical forms, which accommodate wide-ranging

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tonal exploration and intense motivic development. However, the concerto does not exhibit the overt heroic character found in some of Beethoven’s other famous works composed at that time, for example, the Third and Fifth Symphonies, parts of Fidelio, and the Fifth Piano Concerto. Some writers refer to the Violin Concerto as pastoral because they perceive the first two movements as prevailingly serene and tranquil, and the finale as spirited and playful.9 Others, however, argue that the first movement’s unusual opening gesture, soft solo timpani beats on the tonic, is a subtle reference to the stylized marches of the French concertos (see ex. 6.1).10 This prominent use of timpani, which sometimes bears military associations, is striking, and the regular beats establish the duple 44 meter and moderate tempo appropriate for a march. But other stylistic markers to support a militaristic reading—crisp dotted rhythms, staccato articulation, and accented downbeats—are not present. In any event, the timpani introduces a seminal motive, which recurs throughout the movement in widely varying instrumentations, contexts, and diminutions. Moreover, the motive’s rhythmic pattern is “subsumed” into the structure of the themes. Thus, this unpretentious idea functions as a ubiquitous unifying element and is a remarkable example of how, with severe economy of means, Beethoven erects grand structures.11 In support of the martial interpretation of the timpani beats, later appearances of this motive often inject drama, excitement, or suspense into the discourse, for example: the mysterious and dissonant D♯s in measures 10 and 12 (see ex. 6.1), which are later harmonized with diminished-seventh chords and thereby “explained” in measures 65 and 67; and the deceptive cadence at measure 28, where the harmonic shock of the B-flat-major chord is intensified by the fortissimo statement of the motive in diminution by the entire orchestra, strengthened by the first entrance of the trumpets. Also, the recapitulation at measure 365 becomes the movement’s dramatic climax because it is triumphantly launched by the full orchestra’s fortissimo presentation of the timpani motive and the entire first theme, both of which now take on an aggressive (perhaps military) character, due to the new orchestration and dynamics. The repeat of the secondary theme in the minor mode (mm. 51–72 in the orchestral ritornello and mm. 152ff. in the solo exposition) also contribute to the movement’s expressive depth and complexity. In conclusion, the martial or heroic elements, which are the exclusive province of the orchestra, are kept in check and

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ultimately overridden by the sovereign calmness and serenity of the solo violin, which literally soars above and stands out from the orchestra by virtue of its emphasis on a high tessitura.12 Such judgments must, of course, always remain subjective. Perhaps an important source of the movement’s greatness and appeal lies in its dual nature: a fusion of the peaceful and pastoral with sublimated elements of drama and conflict. Leon Plantinga eloquently captures this duality: “It is as if a placid tone in the movement is maintained only with difficulty, as if a prevailing idyllic serenity is but an interlude in the midst of a harder and more tumultuous world that threatens at every turn to intrude. Though the warrior’s arms, as we might imagine, have been left behind for now, thoughts of that other life can never be wholly suppressed.”13 There can be no doubt, however, about the tranquility of the Larghetto, a theme with variations, in which the role of the soloist parallels its function in the first movement. The ten-measure theme, constructed over a chaconne bass, is presented by the orchestra alone. In four strict variations that follow, the violin accompanies the changing instrumentation of the theme with decorative “coloratura,” brief cadenza-like links between phrases and variations, and, in the fourth variation, with syncopated doubling of the melody an octave higher. Representing a departure from the regularity of this structure, both before and after the fourth variation (at mm. 45 and 71), the solo violin presents a different and even calmer lyric melody of great beauty, still in the tonic, G major. Considered by some to be related to the principal theme, these sections stand out as the most expressive passages in the movement. Ultimately, the peaceful pastoral spell—Tovey called the movement a “case of sublime inaction”14—is interrupted by the sudden fortissimo entrance of the orchestral strings with a fanfare-like link to the third movement. The finale is one of Beethoven’s many sonata-rondos in 86 meter that feature an ebullient, lighthearted refrain. This one has the pronounced character of a rustic dance that surprises with alternations between very low (on the G string) and very high (E string) presentations. The overall plan is standard: A, B (in the dominant), A, C, A, B (in the tonic), cadenza, coda “A.” Section C, which is developmental and mostly in G minor, introduces a mildly comic dialogue between the soloist and the first bassoon. While not imposing greater technical demands than the other movements, the solo writing is more overtly virtuosic because of the double stops and the agility required by the extremely fast tempo.

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As in the first two movements, Beethoven provides the setting for a cadenza. Although he composed cadenzas for the first four of his piano concertos, Beethoven did not compose any for his Violin Concerto.15 Thus, numerous composers and violinists have taken up the challenge and written their own, with those by Joseph Joachim (1831–1907) and Fritz Kreisler (1875–1962) performed most frequently.16

The Violinist Composers: Spohr, Paganini, Ernst, de Bériot, Vieuxtemps, and Wieniawski During the years between the concertos of Beethoven (1806) and Mendelssohn (1844), the most significant new additions to the repertoire were made by Louis Spohr (1784–1859) and Nicolò Paganini (1782–1840). Spohr ranked among Europe’s most highly regarded composers during the 1830s and 1840s. As one of the founders of German romantic opera, Spohr made pioneering and extensive use of recurring motives and themes of reminiscence. He was also a prolific composer of symphonies, some of which were programmatic, and string chamber music. Spohr led a dual performing career as a touring violin virtuoso and as music director of opera houses in Vienna and Kassel. His fifteen violin concertos (composed between 1802 and 1846) merge influences from the French tradition, especially from Rode, with German formal rigor, but they give more prominence to the orchestra than is found in most concertos by other virtuosos of the day. Although Spohr’s aesthetic did not embrace the colorful tricks—for example, lefthand pizzicatos, double harmonics, and ricochet bowings—exploited by Paganini and others, his concertos are technically very demanding. Spohr’s involvement with opera is clearly felt in some of his concertos, most prominently in the experimental Concerto no. 8 in A Minor, op. 47, subtitled “in modo di scena cantante” (in the style of a vocal scene), which he always referred to in German as his Gesangszene (vocal scene). Composed in 1816 during a concert tour in Germany, Switzerland, and Italy, Spohr conceived it with Italian audiences in mind as an aria for violin as soprano in the manner of Rossini, the reigning master of bel canto. Rossini developed and standardized a multisectional aria structure (adopted later by Donizetti, Bellini, and Verdi) known as the scena ed aria. The structure included: (1) the “scena,” an orchestral introduction followed by an accompanied recitative that provides dramatic

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context for the aria; (2) the aria part 1, the “cantabile,” always in a slow tempo with a legato lyric melody, which invites improvised ornamentation, over a simple chordal accompaniment; and (3) the aria part 2, the “cabaletta,” faster and more rhythmically active than the cantabile, with an emphasis on speed, agility, and staccato articulation. The cabaletta nearly always has two strophes or verses; the preceding cantabile can likewise be strophic or have a somewhat ternary aspect (ABA), with a contrasting or quasi-developmental middle section. Spohr’s Gesangszene closely follows this model. The scena begins with a marchlike orchestral introduction (Allegro molto in A minor) in the French manner. The solo violin enters with interjections of recitative between phrases of the march and gradually dominates the discourse with longer passionate exclamations liberally decorated with trills and turns. The orchestra, now moving away from concerto style and into the realm of opera, punctuates with accompagnato chords. The cantabile, an Adagio in F major, follows attacca. Highly embellished with turns and written-out ornamentation, its broad melody gains considerable drama from numerous octave and tenth leaps. The two strophes are separated by a contrasting middle section in A-flat major. A brief unaccompanied recitative for the violin (entirely in double stops: thirds, sixths, and octaves) creates a linking bridge to the cabaletta, Allegro moderato in A minor. Its fiery strophes, again in the military manner of the introduction, frame a middle section in E-flat major that imitates Rossini’s penchant for supporting a flowing melody with a harmonically simple “um pa um pa” accompaniment. The orchestra closes the Gesangszene with the cyclic return of march motives from the scena’s introduction. Although Spohr is known by violinists today for purportedly having invented the chin rest, his music deserves new exponents to champion it once again.17 The sensational aspects of Paganini’s career and his technical innovations were discussed in chapter 1. There is some uncertainty about how many concertos Paganini actually composed because none of them was published during his lifetime, and several were not reconstructed until the twentieth century. Nevertheless, he composed at least six concertos: numbers 1, 2, and 6 while he was still in Italy, and numbers 3, 4, and 5 during the first years (1828–31) of his European concert tour. Compositional influences on Paganini included: concertos by Viotti and his disciples regarding overall layout and the use of march references; and Italian operas as models for his lyric themes.18 The martial

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character of Paganini’s vigorous and bold first themes allows his second themes, which embody all the characteristics of aria cantabiles, to create maximum contrast. He possessed a great gift for melody, and thus his themes (including those in his famous 24 Caprices op. 1, for unaccompanied violin) are usually charming and memorable. In his concertos, Paganini achieved a balance in the solo part between thematic material and bravura pyrotechnics, with the latter perhaps too dominant for modern tastes. Paganini was a tremendous inspiration for a legion of younger violinist/composers who followed him. The Belgian Charles-Auguste de Bériot (1802–70), the Moravian Heinrich Wilhelm Ernst (1814– 65), the Belgian Henri Vieuxtemps (1820–81), and the Pole Henryk Wieniawski (1835–80) all ramped up the technical demands of their compositions in response to Paganini’s “challenge” and success. After hearing Paganini in Italy in 1829, Ernst was so enthralled that he followed Paganini on his tours and ultimately composed numerous short works in his style, as well as the Concerto pathétique in F-sharp Minor, which even trumps Paganini’s concertos in difficulty. De Bériot enjoyed a successful concert career—touring for many years with the famous singer, Maria Malibran (1808–36), who became his wife—and taught at the conservatoire in Brussels. De Bériot’s concertos, although they incorporate some of Paganini’s signature techniques, are not as difficult as Paganini’s and hence sometimes are still studied and performed by students. De Bériot’s most important student was Vieuxtemps, a child prodigy who made his debut in Paris at the age of nine with Rode’s Seventh Concerto. A passionate and energetic traveler, Vieuxtemps toured extensively throughout Europe and made three extended trips to the United States: 1843–44; 1857–58 (with pianist Sigismond Thalberg); and 1870–71 (with Swedish soprano Christine Nilsson, performing 121 concerts in six months!). From 1846 to 1851 Vieuxtemps lived in Russia where he was solo violinist to the czar and professor of violin. During the 1870s he taught at the Brussels Conservatory, where his most outstanding student was Eugène Ysaÿe (1858–1931).19 Vieuxtemps’s extensive study of counterpoint and composition, under Sechter in Vienna and Reicha in Paris, enabled him to fuse Viotti’s concerto form with modern technical demands, although he avoided Paganini’s flamboyant left-hand pizzicatos and double harmonics. Of the seven

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concertos composed by Vieuxtemps, the Fourth and Fifth are still in the repertoire. Vieuxtemps’s Concerto no. 4 in D Minor, op. 31 (ca. 1850), departs from Viotti’s mold and is outstanding for its synthesis of artistic content and virtuosity. The important role assigned to the orchestra and the addition of a scherzo to create a four-movement structure led Hector Berlioz to characterize it as a magnificent symphony with violin solo. The first movement, Andante, opens with an extensive seventyfour-measure orchestral introduction, which begins softly, off key, and continues systematically to avoid a tonic cadence. Rather than a presentation of themes, a few elemental motives are developed, which, along with the tonal ambiguity, create suspense and suggest exploration of the unknown. The violin finally enters with an extended series of impassioned, recitative-like statements. They eventually lead to a brief cantabile followed by a cadenza, which contains motives that will reappear in the principal theme of the last movement. Using the same strategy employed six years earlier by Mendelssohn in his concerto, Vieuxtemps links this improvisatory first movement to the following Adagio religioso by sustaining the root of the final chord, D, and reinterpreting it as the leading tone of the new key, E-flat major. The chorale texture establishes a religious aura, which climaxes with the return of the principal theme in the violin’s highest register, accompanied by flowing harp arpeggios. The D-minor Scherzo Vivace—with its motoric drive, staccato articulation, ubiquitous hemiolas, and large proportions—is strongly reminiscent of Beethoven’s symphonic scherzos. Its major-mode Trio is in the pastoral manner, with extended bass drones and double stops in the solo violin imitating the hunting calls of two French horns. Fourteen measures in D minor from the slow introduction to the first movement serve as a prelude to the Finale marziale Allegro, which begins with a triumphant march for the full orchestra, its victorious effect underscored and heightened by the shift to the major mode. The entire complex is modeled on the last movement of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony, which is also linked to the preceding movement by a slow, minor-mode introduction and capitalizes on the sudden change of mode and tempo to enhance the effect of its martial character. These features attest to Vieuxtemps’s lifelong cultivation of Beethoven’s music. As a student in Vienna (1833–34), Vieuxtemps encountered many musicians who had known both Beethoven and Schubert, and while there he performed

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Beethoven’s Violin Concerto—Vieuxtemps was fourteen years old at the time and learned it in two weeks—which to a large extent had been neglected since its premiere. Over the course of his career, in addition to solo appearances, Vieuxtemps also frequently performed chamber music, especially Beethoven’s string quartets. Wieniawski’s career developed largely along the same lines as that of Vieuxtemps, who was fifteen years his senior. After his talent as a child prodigy in Poland was discovered, Wieniawski pursued further study in Paris for two years. In 1851, although only sixteen years old, he began his touring career by giving two hundred performances (with his younger brother as accompanist) over the course of two years in Russia. After extensive concertizing in Western Europe, Wieniawski settled in St. Petersburg from 1860 to 1872, where he was active as a soloist, concertmaster, chamber musician, and teacher. He then resumed touring and spent two years in North America, playing 215 concerts with pianist Anton Rubinstein in the first year alone. Further strenuous tours ultimately undermined his health and contributed to his early death at the age of forty-five. Wieniawski’s compositions, all of which are virtuosic, include numerous short works with piano, such as mazurkas and polonaises, which represent a bow to Polish nationalism, and (with orchestra) the “Fantaisie brillante, on themes from Gounod’s Faust.” His two violin concertos date from his Russian periods. The Concerto no. 1 in F-sharp Minor (1853) employs extensive virtuosity—the solo violin enters with a demanding passage in tenths!—but nevertheless contains effective drama and romantic lyricism. By general consensus, the Concerto no. 2 in D Minor (1862) is Wieniawski’s greatest work. The first movement brilliantly integrates lyrical themes and bravura passages within a symphonic context and texture. Its structure, while maintaining ties with tradition, also exhibits several unique and experimental features. The lengthy orchestral ritornello introduces and immediately develops motives from the first and second themes. The single large solo section is organized as a sonata-form exposition with multiple and varied presentations of the first theme in the tonic, followed by a long transition, which consists of bravura passages for the violin underscored by thematic motives in the orchestra. After the second theme is extensively spun out, the violin again launches into brilliant passage work, with the orchestra providing a motivic background, culminating with a fortissimo cadence in F

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major. Since first entering, the solo violinist has played virtually without a break. The orchestra now has a fifty-measure ritornello, with further development of the principal motives. Functioning as a complement to the introduction, it completes the frame around the solo section. The movement closes without a recapitulation or a return to the tonic key. Instead, twenty measures of transition lead without a break, via a modulation to G minor, to the second movement, titled Romance, in B-flat major. The literary genre of the “romance”—a short passionate, tragic, or sentimental poem in strophic form—enjoyed a vogue during the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries. Composers, including Viotti and his circle, sometimes employed a formal and expressive approach for the slow movements in their concertos that was loosely analogous to the poetic romance. Theorists of the period identify the following features of the musical romance: tempo— slow; expression—lyrical but simple and naive; melody—sweet, natural, and pastoral, thus without ornamentation or mannerisms; and form—strophic, but with slight variations so that the expressive effect gradually increases. Wieniawski’s Romance embodies all these characteristics.20 The finale, Allegro moderato (à la Zingara), lives up to its subtitle by referencing gypsy fiddling with rapid sautillé passages and flashy double stops. In both this movement and the first, there are several long phrases in slurred up-bow staccato, one of the strengths of Wieniawski’s technique. In the finale the cyclic return of a transformed version of the second theme from the first movement provides satisfying closure to that movement, which lacks a recapitulation and is tonally open-ended, and also to the entire concerto.

Mendelssohn, Joachim, Bruch, and Brahms Felix Mendelssohn (1809–47) possessed prodigious ability, comparable to Mozart’s, on both violin and piano, and, like Mozart, he also ultimately focused on the latter instrument. As a violinist, Mendelssohn was steeped in the French tradition. During his youth in Berlin, he studied violin with Eduard Rietz (1802–32), a protégé of Rode, and, when visiting Paris with his wealthy family, he took lessons with Baillot. Moreover, in the course of Mendelssohn’s brilliant career as a conductor and pianist, he performed with virtually all the great violinists of

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the period and consequently was well acquainted with the new virtuosity. Nevertheless, when composing his Violin Concerto in E Minor, op. 64, in 1844, he consulted extensively with Ferdinand David (1810–73), concertmaster of Leipzig’s Gewandhaus Orchestra, which Mendelssohn conducted, concerning details of orchestration, balance, and idiomatic aspects of the solo part. During his student years, Mendelssohn’s primary mentor in theory and composition was Carl Zelter (1758–1832), director of the Berlin Singakademie and one of the rare musicians of the period who valued and performed baroque music, especially Bach and Handel. Thus, Mendelssohn received an eighteenth-century-style education in counterpoint and figured bass, which fostered his conservative, classically oriented aesthetic. However, in his Violin Concerto he also introduced significant innovative features. The concerto begins in a particularly arresting manner. After only one and a half measures of hushed oscillations on the tonic chord in the strings, the solo violin enters with the principal theme, which it extends and develops for forty-five measures. Only then does the orchestra enter with a traditional ritornello. Beethoven had begun his Fourth Piano Concerto with five measures of piano solo before the orchestral ritornello, but Mendelssohn takes the unprecedented step of completely reversing the order of these entire sections.21 As if to balance this breach of tradition, he then gives priority to the flutes and clarinets for the lyrical secondary theme in the relative major, which the violin underscores with a pedal tone on the open G string before taking its turn with the theme. Mendelssohn’s treatment of the cadenza is especially radical. Rather than simply providing the customary interrupted cadence for performers to insert their own cadenza, Mendelssohn composed the cadenza in order to guarantee its integral, organic relationship to the movement as a whole. This was essential because of his novel and astonishing placement of it at the juncture between the development and the recapitulation—rather than at the end of the recapitulation—and also because of the finesse with which he wanted it to emerge from, and then blend back into, the surrounding material. When the development reaches the home dominant (B major), which is sustained as a prolonged pedal point, the orchestra develops the head motive from the principal theme, while the solo violin plays dominant-seventh arpeggios over all four strings. After a crescendo to fortissimo, the orchestra drops out, but the violin continues the arpeggios. The cadenza has begun.

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This process is reversed at its conclusion. While the cadenza is still in full swing with rapid off-the-string arpeggios over all four strings, the orchestra stealthily enters, pianissimo, with the principal theme in the tonic. For fifteen more measures, the violin’s figurations overlap with the recapitulation in the orchestra. Mendelssohn’s linking of the movements is yet another experimental and novel feature. A held note in the bassoon bridges the first and second movements, while a fourteenmeasure transition, which subtly references the principal theme of the first movement, connects the second and third movements. These structural innovations coexist with Mendelssohn’s conservative traits. Periods are composed of balanced antecedent and consequent phrases, and the tonal plan forms a perfect palindrome based on third relationships: first movement (sonata form) E minor, G major, cadenza over a B-major pedal, E minor; second movement (ternary) C major, A minor—the axis of the palindrome, C major; third movement (sonata-rondo) E major, B major, G major, E major. With its expressive variety—romantic yearning and drama in the first movement, lyrical “song without words” in the second, and Mendelssohn’s characteristic scherzo style with crisp up-bow flying staccato in the third—and its well-proportioned mix of memorable themes and bravura passages, this concerto quickly assumed and has maintained a permanent place at the heart of the repertoire. Although Joseph Joachim (1831–1907) was a virtuoso of the highest caliber and a gifted composer, his musical persona and career were very different from those of most other great nineteenth-century violinists. Rather than focusing primarily on his own compositions, his performance repertoire emphasized masterworks by major composers, past and present. Moreover, Joachim was extremely careful to develop insightful interpretations with the goal of realizing the composer’s intentions by respecting every detail of the original text. His calling as an idealistic missionary championing great music was a product of his extensive interactions with many of the most prominent living composers, including Mendelssohn, Schumann, Brahms, Liszt, and Bruch. The son of a middle-class Jewish merchant in rural Hungary, Joachim began violin as a child in Budapest. After he showed promise, he was sent (at the age of eight) to Vienna, where he lived with the family of a cousin and studied for five years at the conservatory under Joseph Böhm (1785–1876), a student of Rode and leader of a string quartet that had given early performances of Beethoven’s late quartets. When

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Joachim was twelve, he moved to Leipzig with the intention of pursuing further study at the conservatory there. At his audition he played Beethoven’s “Kreutzer” Sonata with Mendelssohn, the conservatory’s director, at the piano. The verdict was that Joachim did not need to enter the conservatory as a student. Instead, he should regularly play chamber music with Mendelssohn, he should have occasional violin coaching with Ferdinand David, and he should continue his general education. Joachim followed this plan. During the next three years he mastered extensive repertoire (by Bach, Spohr, Paganini, and Ernst) and began his solo career, a major landmark of which was his performance in 1844 of Beethoven’s Violin Concerto in London, with Mendelssohn conducting. This initiated Joachim’s lifelong cultivation of Beethoven’s Concerto, which played a major role in establishing this work’s firm place in the repertoire. After Mendelssohn’s Violin Concerto was premiered by David in 1845, Joachim had the unusual opportunity to play it with Franz Liszt (1811–86) as piano accompanist. Later, when Liszt needed a concertmaster for the orchestra of the opera house in Weimar where he was music director, Joachim was awarded the position. After two years in Weimar, Joachim was engaged from 1853 to 1865 as concertmaster and conductor in Hanover. Nearly all his compositions—including two of his three violin concertos and five concert overtures—date from this period. His highly regarded Violin Concerto no. 2 in D Minor, op. 11, “in the Hungarian manner,” is a grand symphonic concerto, lasting approximately forty-five minutes, which places extreme demands on the performer’s technique and stamina. Rather than quoting authentic folk tunes, Joachim composed his own themes, which he colored with Hungarian traits and mannerisms, for example, use of the raisedfourth scale degree in the minor mode and prominent syncopations before cadences. While in Hanover, Joachim deepened his friendship, begun earlier in Leipzig, with Robert Schumann (1810–56) and his wife Clara (1819–96), and introduced them to his new friend, Johannes Brahms (1833–97), who was two years Joachim’s junior and living in nearby Hamburg. Joachim also found time to tour and began making annual trips to England, where he enjoyed great success. In London the Beethoven Quartet Society expected that visiting soloists would also perform chamber music. Figure 6.1 shows a virtuoso quartet, assembled in 1859 for the Society, with Ernst (first violin), Joachim (second violin), Wieniawski (viola), and Carlo Alfredo Piatti (cello). In 1868

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Figure 6.1. Quartet of the London Beethoven Quartet Society (ca. 1859), (standing left to right) Alfredo Piatti, cello; Henri Wieniawski, viola; Joseph Joachim, second violin; (seated) Heinrich Ernst, first violin. Reproduced by permission from Lebrecht Limited.

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Joachim assumed his final post as director of the Music Conservatory in Berlin, where he was active as a violin professor, soloist, leader of his own string quartet, and consultant to composers regarding their violin concertos, including Schumann, Bruch, Brahms, Dvo÷ák, and Busoni.22 After Mendelssohn’s Violin Concerto, the next important addition to this genre by a German was composed by Max Bruch (1838–1920). Prominent during his lifetime as a composer of vocal music (including operas, lieder, and choral music), as a conductor, and as an esteemed professor of composition at the conservatory in Berlin, Bruch is now remembered primarily for his violin works. Of his three violin concertos, no. 1 in G Minor, op. 26, is particularly outstanding. After its first performance in 1866, Bruch decided that it needed substantial revision and sent it for criticism to Joachim, who ultimately played a crucial role in shaping the final version, which he premiered in 1868 in Bremen. Because of its unorthodox form, Bruch used the designation Vorspiel (Prelude) for the first movement. Like Mendelssohn, Bruch dispensed with an opening ritornello. The concerto begins with a brief pianissimo timpani roll—perhaps a bow to the opening of Beethoven’s Violin Concerto—followed by three measures for the woodwinds, which introduce one of the principal motives and establish the tonic. As the orchestra fades away the soloist enters with an unaccompanied improvisatory flourish without bar lines. This process is then repeated in E-flat major, foreshadowing the key of the second movement. After this hesitant beginning, the Vorspiel gets fully in gear with the first theme, which is dramatic and declamatory with powerful double stops and chords. A prominent rhythmic motive in the bass (a dotted quarter note followed by an eighth note, repeated several times) serves as a cohesive element throughout the movement. The lyrical and relaxed second theme in the relative major provides traditional and welcome contrast. After a brief development section, the orchestra enters in the tonic with its first substantial ritornello, based largely on the dotted rhythmic motive. The expanded return of the opening improvisatory solo flourishes hints at a recapitulation, but neither of the two main themes appears again. Instead, the orchestra launches into a stormy transition that gradually subsides and connects directly to the second movement. In light of the work’s loose organization, Bruch asked Joachim if it should be called a “fantasy” rather than a “concerto.” Joachim replied that “for the name ‘Fantasy’ the last two movements are actually too completely and symmetrically developed; the different parts are

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brought together in a beautiful relationship, and yet there is sufficient contrast, which is the main point. Spohr, moreover, calls his Gesangszene a ‘Concerto.’”23 Joachim’s observations are perceptive and accurate. The second movement, Adagio, is rondo-like, with three heartfelt lyrical themes and an extended excursion to the exotic key of G-flat major. The soloist plays nonstop throughout, alternating roles as either the principal melodic voice or as the source of florid commentary when the orchestra takes the thematic lead. The aptly designated last movement (Allegro energico) has a gypsy flavor, with great rhythmic Schwung, crisp spiccato articulation, and generous exploitation of double stops, especially thirds, sixths, and tenths. Brahms’s legendary veneration of Beethoven is succinctly captured in his often-quoted remark from the early 1870s to justify why his first symphony was not completed until he was forty-three: “You have no idea how it affects one’s spirits to hear continually the marching of a giant behind him.”24 Beethoven’s legacy was both intimidating and inspiring for all who followed. However, by 1878, when Brahms began composing his Violin Concerto in D Major, op. 77, he had completed his first two symphonies. Having overcome his “anxiety of influence,” he could profitably use Beethoven’s Violin Concerto as an inspiring model for his own. Aspects of the model that Brahms embraced include: the symphonic conception, with the orchestra assigned significant responsibility for presenting thematic material and the soloist providing elaborate commentary and embellishment in its high register; the same formal organization for all three movements; the same tonic, D major, and frequent use of modal mixture; the initial entrance of the solo violin over an extended pedal point, suggesting an accompanied improvisation that postpones the violin’s statement of the principal theme; and, after the cadenza at the end of the first movement, the soloist’s unexpected pianissimo reprise of a lyric theme instead of the traditional energetic and loud orchestral ritornello. There are other subtle Beethovenian allusions as well. With the exception of one note, the principal theme of Brahms’s first movement consists of the tonic triad and thus is reminiscent of Beethoven’s many triadic openings, for example, the “Eroica” Symphony, the Leonore Overtures nos. 2 and 3, and especially the Piano Concerto no. 5. After their tonally unambiguous opening phrases, both violin concertos foreshadow their eventual expansion of tonal space by introducing an enigmatic chromatic complication

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at exactly the same point. Beethoven inserts the dissonant D♯s in measures 10 and 12 (later harmonized in mm. 65ff. with a diminished-seventh chord) as harbingers of future tonal exploration (see ex. 6.1). Brahms achieves a related effect after the half cadence in measure eight by introducing a nondiatonic C-major chord, which is immediately followed by the same diminished chord used by Beethoven—also with D♯ emphasized by its position in the oboe’s melody (see ex. 6.2). This brief foray into a distant tonality (C major), highlighted by the sudden change in instrumentation and softer dynamics, immediately conjures the expectation of imminent forays into exotic harmonic and expressive realms.25 Of course, notwithstanding the broad commonalities between the two works, each is distinguished by many unique features. Both concertos begin with lengthy orchestral ritornellos, but whereas Beethoven presents all of the movement’s thematic material, Brahms withholds one of the most crucial themes, the eventual “second theme” in the dominant, thus reserving it for the soloist. Furthermore, the improvisatory first entrances of the solo violin in the concertos are of a different order. Beethoven’s scales and arpeggios over a sustained dominant pedal are beautiful but nonthematic; with Brahms, however, every aspect of the “improvisation” is organically related to the thematic material. The first measures of his solo are an embellished and expanded transformation of the principal theme, but in the minor mode; and the orchestral interjections reference the dotted rhythm of the closing theme (m. 78). Later, throughout the long stretch of solo arpeggios (mm. 102–27), the orchestra gently accompanies with motives from the principal theme. Brahms’s second movement fuses variation and ternary principals, with the theme—one of the most beautiful in his oeuvre—first presented as a glorious oboe solo. In common with Beethoven’s slow movement, the solo violin, while never granted the theme in its original form, is given ecstatically embellished transformations of it. Brahms’s finale is a rondo with effective double stops and, probably in homage to Joachim, a pronounced gypsy flavor. Characteristic gestures and techniques of Brahms’s style are evident throughout the concerto: asymmetrical rhythmic groups that conflict with the underlying meter; developing variation of motives; extended pedal points; contrapuntal textures; and a predilection for rich sonorities.

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Example 6.1. Beethoven, Violin Concerto in D Major, op. 61, mvt. 1, mm. 1–13.

Brahms was a brilliant pianist but not a string player. Thus, during the gestation of the concerto he turned several times to Joachim—at this point his friend for twenty-five years—for critiques of the solo part. They met in person several times, and Joachim made many suggestions that are documented in their correspondence and in alternate versions of problematic passages entered in the autograph manuscripts of both the violin part and the full score. These sources reveal, however, that Brahms ultimately accepted very few of Joachim’s suggestions.26 Joachim premiered the concerto on New Year’s Day, 1879, with the Gewandhaus Orchestra in Leipzig, with Brahms conducting. Typical for the nineteenth century, the concert was very long and included both instrumental and vocal music. The program, which documents Joachim’s extraordinary virtuosity and stamina, comprised: the Beethoven Violin Concerto; songs; two movements of Bach’s Sonata in C Major, BWV 1005, for unaccompanied violin; an Overture by Joachim; and the Brahms Violin Concerto (with Joachim’s cadenza for the first movement).27

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Example 6.2. Brahms, Violin Concerto in D Major, op. 77, mvt. 1, mm. 1–14.

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Tchaikovsky and Nationalism By coincidence, Piotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky (1840–93) also composed his violin concerto in 1878. Having recently completed his Fourth Symphony, Tchaikovsky was on an extended trip abroad and living in Clarens, Switzerland. The impetus for him to compose the concerto resulted from a visit there in March by a young violinist, Iosif Kotek (1855–85), one of his former students at the Moscow Conservatory, who was pursuing further study under Joachim in Berlin. Kotek played the recently composed Symphonie espagnole by Édouard Lalo (1823–92) for Tchaikovsky, who accompanied at the piano. Tchaikovsky then wrote to his benefactress, Madame Nadezhda von Meck (1831–94), praising the work’s “freshness, lightness, piquant rhythms, beautiful and excellently harmonized melodies. . . . He [Lalo] does not strive after profundity, but . . . seeks out new forms, and thinks more about musical beauty than about observing established traditions, as do the Germans.”28 Within days of Kotek’s arrival and their reading of the Symphonie espagnole, Tchaikovsky began composing his Violin Concerto in D Major, op. 35. A month later it was completed. Tchaikovsky’s comment about German composers notwithstanding, several aspects of his concerto are indebted to them. He adopted Mendelssohn’s strategies of composing his own cadenza, situating it between the development and the recapitulation, and linking the second and third movements with a transition. As in Beethoven’s concerto, the solo violin’s initial entry is a brief cadenza-like solo flourish that prefaces its statement of the first theme. Using a symphonic sonataform structure in the first movement, Tchaikovsky provides a satisfying and balanced flow of lyrical melodies and brilliant passage work. His recycling and transformation of motives ensures considerable organic coherence. The brief orchestral introduction, for example, presents motives that recur within the first theme; and a tiny three-note cell from this theme (m. 32, E–G–A) spawns dozens of variants in the following measures. But explicit and colorful Russian elements are also present: the grand tutti at the start of the development, which is the movement’s only extended orchestral passage, transforms the first theme into an imperial faux polonaise; the slow movement (Canzonetta) in G minor has a Slavic flavor with occasional augmented seconds in the melody between the lowered-third and raised-fourth degrees of the scale; and the second theme in the boisterous finale suggests a folk dance, the

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trepak, its rustic association heightened by an open-fifth drone bass. Octatonic scales and harmonies also contribute to the concerto’s distinctive Russian sound.29 Tchaikovsky approached Russia’s most distinguished violinist, Leopold Auer (1845–1930), who had studied with Joachim in Hanover, about premiering the concerto, but the legend that Auer demurred because he considered the concerto unplayable is probably apocryphal. According to Auer, he first wanted to revise some of the awkward technical passages in order to render them more effective. But his other commitments caused so much delay that Adolf Brodsky (1851–1929) was engaged for the first performance (Vienna, 1881) and thus became the concerto’s dedicatee.30 However, Auer eventually performed the concerto many times and also published an edition with alternate versions of several passages, along with suggestions for possible cuts. Nationalistic elements in Tchaikovsky’s music are tempered by his classical European-style training and cosmopolitan experiences. Nationalism is more pronounced in other late nineteenth-century composers, including the great Spanish violinist, Pablo de Sarasate (1844–1908), who enjoyed a highly successful international career as a touring virtuoso. Although Sarasate composed no concertos, he created an oeuvre of fifty-four opus numbers: attractive works for violin and piano, including numerous Spanish dances, character pieces, and (with orchestra) the Zigeunerweisen (Gypsy Airs). Like Paganini, Ernst, Wieniawski, and others before him, Sarasate also cultivated the popular operatic fantasy and produced one of the most brilliant examples of the genre, his Carmen Fantasy. Its five sections are each based on a different number from the opera Carmen by Georges Bizet (1838–75). The framing outer sections employ fastpaced pseudo-gypsy music, tinged with elements of flamenco. The first is derived from the entr’acte music that establishes the festive atmosphere prior to the parade’s march into the bullring in the final act; the last comes from the “Gypsy Song” sung by Carmen, Frasquita, and Mercédès in the tavern at the beginning of act 2. The “Gypsy Song” is particularly effective as the finale because of its long gradual accelerando and mounting excitement. Bizet’s orchestration for it features two flutes playing the rapid staccato theme in parallel thirds. Sarasate demonstrates that the same effect can be achieved by one virtuoso violinist. The three central sections of the Fantasy are adaptations of

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Carmen’s well-known arias in the first act: the Habanera; the Song (Carmen’s flirtation with Zuniga and Don José: “Tra la la la la la la”); and the Seguidilla. Sarasate exploits the violin’s full potential to vary the many repetitions of the infectious melodies by changing tessitura, adding grace-note embellishments, doubling the melody (in thirds, sixths, and octaves), coloring the timbre with artificial harmonics, and inserting both left- and right-hand pizzicatos. As a performer, Sarasate was universally praised for his beautiful tone, accurate and precise technique, interpretive flair for exotic repertoire, and cultivation of compositions other than his own. Thus, many significant works were premiered by and dedicated to him, including: Bruch’s Concerto no. 2 and Scottish Fantasy; Saint-Saëns’s Concertos nos. 1 and 3, and Introduction and Rondo capriccioso; Lalo’s Concerto no. 1 and Symphonie espagnole; Dvo÷ák’s Mazurek op. 49; Joachim’s Variations op. 11; and Wieniawski’s Concerto no. 2. This list attests both to the popularity of nationalistic works and to Sarasate’s proclivity for them. Lalo’s Symphonie espagnole (1874), which had so impressed Tchaikovsky, was tailor-made for Sarasate. Its title notwithstanding, the Symphonie espagnole is a five movement bravura violin concerto that evokes sensual Spanish dances—seguidilla, habanera, malagueña, and also Moorish folk music—suggestive of those in Carmen, although Lalo’s work predates it. Camille Saint-Saëns (1835–1921) explored the exoticism of Spanish music in two highly effective single-movement works for violin and orchestra, Havanaise and Introduction and Rondo capriccioso, while his three violin concertos, of which no. 3 in B Minor (1880) is particularly outstanding, effectively blend elements of the French and German traditions of the three-movement concerto. Bruch’s Fantasy for Violin with Orchestra and Harp, with Free Use of Scottish Folk Melodies (1880) exemplifies the long-standing continental fascination with Scottish culture, evidenced by the voluminous Scottish folk-song settings of Haydn and Beethoven, and the vogue for opera librettos derived from Scottish sources, especially Sir Walter Scott’s novels. The Scottish Fantasy is a concerto in four movements, each rhapsodizing on a genuine Scottish tune: (1) “Auld Robb Morris”; (2) “The Dusty Miller”; (3) “I’m Down for Lack of Johnnie”; and (4) “Scots wha’ hae’” (which bears the unusual designation, Allegro guerriero [warlike allegro]). Brief quotations from “Auld Robb Morris,” which recur in the connecting link between movements 2 and 3, and at the end of the finale as a sentimental reminiscence, create effective cyclic unity.

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Sibelius and Elgar Jean Sibelius (1865–1957), one of the greatest nationalist composers, was fascinated by Finnish folk music and the melodic formulas used in the sung narration of national epics and myths. As a music student, he concentrated for a decade on becoming a violin soloist, but, hindered by his late start at age fifteen and insufficient innate violinistic ability, he gradually redirected his focus to composition. When he began his violin concerto in 1903, he had abandoned his initial interest in quoting folk material in favor of distilling its essential properties and expressive traits. This resulted in a stern “neoprimitive” style, which he succeeded in fusing with the standard features of an exhibitionistic violin concerto. James Hepokoski suggests that the work, with its “brooding Nordic atmosphere,” could be regarded “as a deepening of the tradition—a virtuoso concerto simultaneously affirmed and transcended by a thoroughgoing seriousness of purpose and ‘surplus’ density of compositional pondering.”31 The first movement, in free sonata form with highly virtuosic passages, fulfills traditional expectations. Like Mendelssohn, Sibelius also dispenses with an opening orchestral statement and begins with a glowing pianissimo murmur in the strings on the tonic chord, D minor, as the backdrop for the violin’s entrance. Sibelius had the beautiful inspiration of launching the principal theme with a dissonance; the melody’s first note, a sustained G♮, creates an expressive clash with the harmony, which is rendered even more acute in the consequent phrase by altering it to G♯. The vivid pathos of this theme sets the stage for the ensuing rhapsodic succession of intense ideas: dreamy, declamatory, aggressive, and pastoral. Unlike the symphonic concertos of Beethoven and Brahms, in which the orchestral and solo forces enjoy a complementary and peaceful coexistence, with Sibelius the factions have more autonomy and often seem to be in opposition, the orchestra interrupting the soloist’s discourse with powerful interjections. Perhaps prompted by Mendelssohn’s placement and treatment of his cadenza, Sibelius trumps his model by entirely omitting the development section and replacing it with a lengthy cadenza. In the ternary second movement, Adagio di molto, the lyrical outer sections evoke intimacy, passion, and anguish comparable to the Cavatina in Beethoven’s late String Quartet op. 130, while the central section is more active. The rondo-like finale is characterized by gypsy virtuosity and powerful

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rhythmic drive that thrives on alternations between the duple and triple accents of 86 and 43 meters. Tovey, who placed the concerto on a par with the greatest of the genre, characterized the principal theme, with its ubiquitous dotted rhythm, as “a polonaise for polar bears.”32 Sibelius’s background as a violinist enabled him to create a concerto that is rich in daunting, yet idiomatic, bravura. There are extended passages in sixths, thirds, and especially octaves (both as double stops and broken), as well as challenging bow strokes. However, when first performed in Finland in 1904, the concerto was even more difficult—and longer. After its poor reception, Sibelius decided that it needed major revisions before further performances. This involved substantially shortening it and removing some of the most problematic sections, including the original “second cadenza” in the first movement. The revised version was premiered in Berlin in 1905 by Carl Halir (1859–1909), concertmaster of the Berlin Philharmonic and second violinist in the Joachim String Quartet, with Richard Strauss (1864–1949) conducting. After decades of struggle and slowly increasing recognition early in his career, Edward Elgar (1857–1934) was established as one of England’s preeminent musicians when he completed his Violin Concerto in B Minor, op. 61, in 1910. The impetus for the concerto came from the Austrian violinist, Fritz Kreisler (1875–1962), who was enamored with the late-romantic style of Elgar’s orchestral and choral music, which was enjoying great success on the continent. Elgar responded to the violinist’s prompting with a large classically designed concerto. It was premiered with great acclaim by Kreisler in London, with Elgar conducting the Philharmonic Society. The concerto opens with a full orchestral exposition of the first movement’s themes, all of which are very brief. Several of them have a close family resemblance, which, combined with Elgar’s developing variation technique, produces the impression of one theme smoothly morphing into another. This thematic fluidity is complemented by tonal ambiguity resulting from frequent modulation, often achieved through use of sequences. The first entry of the solo violin establishes the nature of the relationship of the forces throughout the concerto. Rather than assigning the entire principal theme to the soloist, the antecedent phrase is stated by orchestral strings, and the solo violin provides the consequent response. This cooperative relationship is also manifested when the violin assumes a middle voice within the contrapuntal texture of the orchestra. The solo writing also includes rhapsodic and recitative-like

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passages, as well as some dazzling bravura display, but the latter is kept very much “in check,” with the result that the prevailing expression is intimate and restrained. In addition to its own thematic material, the second movement also revisits themes from the first; and the third movement brings back themes from both previous movements. Thus, in spite of its vast canvas—the concerto’s playing time is approximately fifty minutes—the cyclic principle successfully promotes a sense of unity. The three movements also share stylistic features, including: frequent tempo changes with liberal indications for rubato; many instructions for modifications of expressive character; numerous and finely nuanced dynamic markings; and inventive, colorful orchestration. The last movement, the most extroverted and virtuosic of the three, contains the only cadenza. This very rare example of an “accompanied” cadenza contains wistful reminiscences of themes from the first movement, accompanied by thrummed pizzicato tremolando in the orchestral strings and punctuated by brief interjections from the winds.33 Elgar dedicated the concerto to Kreisler and also prefaced the score with an epigraph: “Herein is enshrined the soul of . . . . .” The enigma of the ellipsis, with its five dots, has elicited considerable speculation. Various candidates have been proposed, including several women with whom Elgar is known to have developed emotional attachments. Diana McVeagh, however, proposes an association between the concerto’s epigraph and its musical style, and also offers an insightful solution to the enigma: “Perhaps the impulse partly to conceal, partly to reveal, lies at the heart of the music with its compelling mixture of passion and inhibition. . . . Whosoever was the ‘soul’ Elgar wished to enshrine, he has enshrined his own, and the violin’s.”34 Thus, Elgar’s transcendent concerto is a monument to the violin’s expressive power and an appropriate concluding work for this study of its virtuoso repertoire in the long nineteenth century.

Notes 1.

2.

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The only exceptions to this admittedly very broad statement might be Paganini’s Concerto no. 1 in E-flat Major [D Major], op. 6 (1816) and perhaps Spohr’s Concerto no. 8 in A Minor, op. 47 “Gesangszene” (1816). During this same period (ca. 1780–1810), violin design was also “modernized” in order to produce a greater volume of sound. This involved: (1) the use of longer, thinner necks, which were joined to the violin’s body

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3. 4.

5. 6. 7. 8.

9.

10.

11.

12.

13. 14. 15.

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at a slight angle, leaning “backward,” thus creating greater tension; (2) lengthening of the fingerboard; and (3) modifications to the bass bar and bridge. These developments were not specifically Parisian, but were rather widespread trends, the origins and first practitioners of which are not well documented. Not to be confused with Conradin Kreutzer (1780–1849), composer of the widely performed opera, Das Nachtlager in Granada (1834). See Maiko Kawabata, “Virtuoso Codes of Violin Performance: Power, Military Heroism, and Gender (1789–1830),” 19th-Century Music 28 (2004): 89–107. Quoted in Geraldine de Courcy, Paganini: The Genoese (Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 1957), 1:361–62. Peter Gay, The Naked Heart (New York: Norton, 1995), 159. Kawabata, “Virtuoso Codes of Violin Performance,” 106. See Boris Schwarz, “Beethoven and the French Violin School,” Musical Quarterly 44 (1958): 431–47; and Robin Stowell, Beethoven: Violin Concerto (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998), 11–29. See Lewis Lockwood, Beethoven: The Music and the Life (Norton: New York, 2003), 245–48; and R. Larry Todd, “Nineteenth-Century Concertos for Strings and Winds,” in The Cambridge Companion to the Concerto, ed. Simon P. Keefe (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005), 119. Schwarz (“Beethoven and the French Violin School,” 437) maintains that the drum motive “provides an implied march character to the otherwise lyrical Violin Concerto”; Stowell (Beethoven: Violin Concerto, 15) agrees with him. For a detailed table demonstrating that the timpani motive occurs in more than half of the first movement’s 535 measures, see Stowell, Beethoven: Violin Concerto, 70–73. Also, Beethoven sometimes tailored works for specific performers. Franz Clement, who as a child prodigy had traveled with his father around Europe on concert tours that rivaled Mozart’s, was known for his prowess and artistry in high positions. Leon Plantinga, Beethoven’s Concertos: History, Style, Performance (New York: Norton, 1999), 220. Donald Francis Tovey, Essays in Musical Analysis, vol. 3, Concertos (London: Oxford University Press, 1936), 93. However, for his adaptation of the Violin Concerto (op. 61) as a Piano Concerto (op. 61a), which was commissioned by Clementi, Beethoven composed four cadenzas. His unusual cadenza for the first movement includes a section that is accompanied by the timpani playing its ubiquitous quarter-note motive. (This passage supports a military interpretation of the motive because at this point the piano launches into an unequivocal

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16. 17. 18.

19.

20.

21.

22.

23.

24. 25.

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quick march.) In their desire to have authentic cadenzas by Beethoven, several violinists have adapted his piano cadenzas for the violin. See Stowell, Beethoven: Violin Concerto, 48–49, 92–93. For further discussion and an extensive list of published cadenzas, see ibid., 90–97, 100–101. Spohr also published a Violinschule (Vienna, 1832), which was widely used in the nineteenth century. Paganini performed concertos by Rode on his European tour. Before launching his solo career, Paganini’s association with opera included the many years he spent playing in the opera orchestra in Lucca, as well as his personal friendship with Rossini. Eugène Ysaÿe enjoyed a distinguished career, both in Europe and the United States, as violinist, teacher, composer, and conductor. His Six Sonatas for Solo Violin, op. 27 (1924), are an important contribution to the virtuoso repertoire. The romance has also been proposed as a model for interpreting the form and expressive content of the slow movement of Beethoven’s Violin Concerto. See Owen Jander, “Romantic Form and Content in the Slow Movement of Beethoven’s Violin Concerto,” Musical Quarterly 69 (1983): 159–79. Mozart, in his Piano Concerto no. 9 in E-flat Major, K. 271, also allowed the piano two brief responses in dialogue with the orchestra at the beginning of the orchestral ritornello. Dvo÷ák composed his Violin Concerto in A Minor, op. 53, for Joachim and consulted with him about it, but Joachim was not enthusiastic about the work and never performed it. Schumann also turned to Joachim when composing his Violin Concerto in D Minor (WoO 23) in the last year of his creative life, 1853. After giving private informal readings of the concerto, Joachim recommended further revisions, which Schumann never carried out because of his final illness. Therefore, after Schumann’s death, Joachim advised Clara Schumann against publishing it. At the encouragement of Schumann’s heirs, the concerto received its first public performance in 1938 in London. Letter from Joachim to Bruch, August 17, 1866, as quoted in Christopher Fifield, Max Bruch: His Life and Works (New York: George Braziller, 1988), 65. Max Kalbeck, Johannes Brahms (Vienna: Wiener Verlag, 1904), 1:165. This brief excursion to C major foreshadows Brahms’s design of beginning the development section with a substantial passage in that key and its relative minor. And this points in turn to another parallel with the Beethoven Concerto; C major and A minor are also prominent in its development.

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26.

27.

28. 29.

30.

31.

32. 33.

34.

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Furthermore, Brahms had great admiration for Viotti’s Violin Concerto no. 22 in A Minor and even incorporated a brief quotation from it in the first movement of his concerto (mm. 236–42). See Boris Schwarz, Great Masters of the Violin: From Corelli and Vivaldi to Stern, Zukerman and Perlman (New York: Simon and Schuster, 1983), 146. See Boris Schwarz, “Joseph Joachim and the Genesis of Brahms’s Violin Concerto,” Musical Quarterly 69 (1983): 503–26; and Clive Brown, “Joachim’s Violin Playing and the Performance of Brahms’s String Music,” in Performing Brahms, ed. Michael Musgrave and Bernard D. Sherman (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003), 48–98. Brahms also composed his Double Concerto for Violin and Cello in A Minor, op. 102, for Joachim. It was premiered in 1887 with Joachim and Robert Hausmann (cellist in Joachim’s string quartet) as soloists. Quoted in David Brown, Tchaikovsky, vol. 2, The Crisis Years 1874–1878 (New York: Norton, 1983), 260. See Raymond Knapp, “Passing—and Failing—in Late-Nineteenth-Century Russia; or Why We Should Care about the Cuts in Tchaikovsky’s Violin Concerto,” 19th-Century Music 26 (2003): 195–234. The detailed analysis in this article is speculatively interpreted in the context of Tchaikovsky’s sexual orientation. Adolf Brodsky was a violin professor at the Moscow Conservatory (1875– 79), where he and Auer were colleagues. Brodsky later held posts in Leipzig (professor at the conservatory), New York City (concertmaster of the New York Symphony Orchestra), and Manchester (concertmaster of the Hallé Orchestra and director of the Royal Manchester College of Music). James Hepokoski, “Sibelius,” in The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians, ed. Stanley Sadie and John Tyrrell (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004). Tovey, Essays in Musical Analysis, 3:215. Earlier examples of partially accompanied cadenzas include: Beethoven’s adaptation of his Violin Concerto as a Piano Concerto, as mentioned earlier; and Joachim’s Violin Concerto no. 2 in D Minor in which the cadenza for the first movement is intermittently accompanied. Diana McVeagh, Elgar the Music Maker (Woodbridge: Boydell, 2007), 135.

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7

THE VIOLIN CONCERTO IN THE TWENTIETH CENTURY

Robert Riggs

M

any excellent violin concertos were composed between 1900 and 1930 (e.g., those by Glazunov, Sibelius, Bartók [Concerto no. 1], Reger, Elgar, Delius, Szymanowski [Concerto no. 1], and Pfitzner) that depend on the conventions of the nineteenth century: emphasis on virtuosic display, sense of heroic soloist versus orchestral masses, and assimilation of symphonic principles. As outstanding representatives from this group, the concertos by Sibelius and Elgar were discussed in the previous chapter. The present chapter, however, will focus on works that depart more drastically from those earlier norms. Prokofiev’s Violin Concerto no. 1 in D Major (1917) and Kurt Weill’s Concerto for Violin and Wind Orchestra (1924) stand out as two of the first concertos to adopt a consistently modernist posture—and, with it, to leave behind many of the aforementioned conventions. In the 1930s numerous composers developed innovative ways to reinvent the genre with their new compositional techniques and aesthetics. During this particularly rich decade Stravinsky, Sessions, Berg, Prokofiev (Concerto no. 2), Schoenberg, Hindemith, Bartók (Concerto no. 2), Walton, Barber (who retained a largely conservative Romantic approach), and Britten composed concertos that exemplify their unique artistic visions. Post-1945 concertos include those by William Schuman, Korngold, Henze (Concertos nos. 1 and 2), Shostakovich (Concertos nos. 1 and 2), Penderecki (Concertos nos. 1 and 2), Davies, Dutilleux,

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Glass (Concertos nos. 1 and 2), Carter, Ligeti, Adams, and, of course, many others. These composers, with their widely disparate compositional orientations, also succeeded in creating violin concertos of enduring beauty and interest. Their concertos (not all of which could be included because of page limitations) will be discussed in chronological order, thereby revealing lines of influence and providing a panorama of changing styles throughout the century.

Sergei Prokofiev (1891–1953) In spite of the chaos and distraction of the Russian Revolution in 1917, the Violin Concerto no. 1 in D Major was one of several major works that the twenty-six-year-old Prokofiev completed during this turbulent year, his last in Russia before many years of immigration, first to the United States and then to France. He began visiting his homeland in 1930 and returned there permanently in 1936. Prokofiev’s style is characterized by the interaction of tradition with innovation, and in this concerto the ordering and forms of the movements are overtly experimental. Instead of the standard fast-slow-fast sequence, he placed the fastest movement in the middle, surrounded by moderately paced, primarily lyrical movements. The opening is reminiscent of the Sibelius Violin Concerto. Shimmering, pianissimo strings accompany the soloist’s exceptionally beautiful cantilena, with the tonic proclaimed by its first two notes: the fourth from A (an upbeat) to D. This theme rises and falls unpredictably until it peaks in C major more than two octaves above its starting point. On its gradual descent it rests on another tonal plateau, D-flat major, before returning home to its original tessitura and moving smoothly on to new ideas. The tempo is Andantino, and the expressive marking, sognando (dreamlike), is an important cue for the violinist to produce appropriate tone colors by varying the bow’s point of contact on the strings. This dreamlike theme, with its amorphous shape and unexpected modulations, returns in new transformations at the end of the movement and again at the conclusion of the third movement, thereby stamping its aura on the concerto as a whole. The ambiguous form of the first movement is also “dreamlike.” It can be parsed as either a free rhapsodic sequence of ideas rounded off by the return of the principal theme, or as a sonata form, but with

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the recapitulation truncated to include only the principal theme. In the latter reading, the secondary theme is the contrasting idea in C major (m. 63)—which is marked narrante (narrating, in a declamatory style)—with its many ornaments, quirky accents, and syncopations. The following section (m. 93), which is based primarily on motives from the secondary theme, represents the development. A brief unaccompanied passage suggests a cadenza, which is followed by the peaceful recapitulation of the principal theme presented by the flute, with the solo violin skittering above (con sordino, pianissimo) in its highest register with decorative scales. The Scherzo, marked Vivacissimo, is a compact five-part rondo (ABACA) with breathless rhythmic drive, colorful orchestral palette, and supercharged energy that is alternately playful, amusing, and mocking. The ingenious athletic writing for the violin sparkles with special effects: left- and right-hand pizzicatos, sul ponticello, harmonics, glissandos, and ricochet bowing. The compendium of challenging bravura techniques found throughout the concerto profited from Prokofiev’s consultations with Polish violinist Pawel Kochański (1887–1934). It was probably this movement that elicited the unjust dismissal of the concerto by composer Georges Auric (1899–1983) at its belated premiere in Paris, 1923, as too “Mendelssohnian.” The last movement, which begins in G minor, is freely constructed from ideas presented in its first period: a four-measure bass melody stated by the bassoon; and the soloist’s broad lyric theme, with its onemeasure anacruses in staccato eighth notes. However, the outlines of an ABBʹAʹ plan can be construed in the first ninety-three measures. After its initial presentation by the violin, the lyric theme is given to the orchestra, with the soloist contributing an obbligato counterpoint high above. This sharing and alternation of functions between soloist and orchestra continues throughout the movement. These ideas are then subjected to extensive transformation and development: the lyric theme is presented in augmentation, the bassoon melody is treated as a basso ostinato, and the staccato anacruses are woven into the texture of the inner voices. Moreover, the keys of C major and D-flat major, which hark back to the first movement, play important roles. The global tonic, D major, is not achieved until the coda (marked più tranquillo and pianissimo), which brings back the principal theme of the first movement. It is played by the orchestral violins, doubled an octave higher with a chain of trills by the solo violin, and delicately accompanied by the

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staccato anacruses. The final cadence fades out with the fourth motive, A to D, with which the concerto began. With its bold fusion of earlier materials, the coda serves as a transcendent conclusion, both for this movement and for the entire concerto.

Igor Stravinsky (1882–1971) The impetus for Stravinsky’s Concerto in D came from Willi Strecker (1884–1958), head of Schott Music, Stravinsky’s publisher, and the Polish-born Jewish violinist, Samuel Dushkin (1891–1976). Although Stravinsky was not initially attracted to the project because of his lack of experience with the violin’s idiomatic capabilities, he was persuaded by Strecker’s assurances that Dushkin would be a sensitive and effective consultant. Both Stravinsky and Dushkin were residing in Paris at the time, which facilitated their collaboration throughout the compositional process. The concerto’s neoclassical orientation is proclaimed by the headings of its four movements: (1) Toccata, (2) Aria 1, (3) Aria 2, and (4) Capriccio. Although the headings and some aspects of the style evoke the Baroque period, the concerto’s stylistic associations are considerably broader. The Toccata alludes to the speed, virtuosity, and motoric rhythms characteristic of its Baroque predecessors. However, there also are parallels to late eighteenth-century style, including extended scalar passages articulated as two-note groups with slurs, trills, and appoggiaturas, passages in parallel thirds, turn figures, and characteristic deployment of staccato and legato articulation. Moreover, the movement uses, if a bit freely, sonata form, constructed with periodic phrases, familiar cadential patterns, and frequent repetition of ideas. However, Stravinsky undercuts and subverts these clichéd markers of regularity by inserting surprises: occasional disruptive measures of 85 or 83 within the otherwise regular measures of 43 and 42; added dissonant notes to triadic tonal harmonies; and avoidance of exact repetition by varying the orchestration. In order to command a broad color palette, Stravinsky employs late nineteenth-century instrumentation: triple woodwinds (including piccolo, E-flat clarinet, English horn, and contrabassoon), four horns, three trumpets, three trombones, tuba, timpani, and strings. But his sparing deployment of these large forces produces the intimate

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quality of chamber music. Rather than traditional extended solo passages, with the orchestra limited to accompaniment, there are many sections in which the soloist participates in duos or small ensembles with one or more orchestral instruments. Stravinsky explained this feature in relation to the striking absence of a cadenza: “I did not compose a cadenza, not because I did not care about exploiting violin virtuosity, but because the violin in combination was my real interest.”1 Indeed, virtuosity, but not flashy bravura, is demanded by the extremely fast tempos of the outer movements, the many inventive but awkward double stops and chords, and the rhythmic challenges of coordination between soloist and orchestra. Awkwardness, for example, is present in the very first chord, a triple stop requiring the stretch of an eleventh (see ex. 7.1). Stravinsky referred to this chord as the concerto’s “passport” because it serves as a motto that launches each of the movements.2 Moreover, because there are virtually no extended tutti passages, the soloist must play, with never more than a few measures rest, throughout the entire concerto. Stravinsky has been praised as one of the great melodists of the twentieth century, and the two Aria movements justify this claim.3 The sprightly paced Aria 1 has the élan of salon music, whereas Aria 2 evokes the long, asymmetrical, and elaborately ornamented phrases of Bach’s Adagios. The rondo-like Capriccio includes duo passages between the soloist and the concertmaster that are suggestive of Bach’s Concerto for Two Violins, of which Stravinsky was very fond. The Concerto in D was premiered in Berlin in 1931 by Dushkin with Stravinsky conducting. Their partnership proved so congenial that, during the following years, they frequently performed together as a violin and piano duo. For their concerts Stravinsky composed a new work, the Duo Concertant, and made transcriptions for violin and piano of several of his earlier works, including the Divertimento, a suite derived from his ballet, Le baiser de la fée (The fairy’s kiss). Example 7.1. Igor Stravinsky, Violin Concerto, mvt. 1, m. 1 (solo violin part).

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Alban Berg (1885–1935) The “Second Viennese School” is represented by concertos by Alban Berg and his teacher, Arnold Schoenberg (1874–1951). In February 1935, the Russian-born American violinist, Louis Krasner (1903–95), commissioned Berg to compose a violin concerto. Its programmatic nature was determined two months later by the death of eighteen-yearold Manon Gropius, daughter of Gustav Mahler’s widow, Alma (1879– 1964), and her second husband, the Bauhaus architect Walter Gropius (1883–1969). As a close friend of Alma, Berg had known Manon since her birth. Wanting to compose a work in her memory, he decided to combine the projects. The violin concerto became a requiem for Manon, and the score bears the inscription: “Dem Andenken eines Engels” (To the memory of an angel). The concerto has two movements, each subdivided into two parts: Movement 1 (Andante, Allegretto); and Movement 2 (Allegro, Adagio). The first movement is a musical portrait of Manon, and the second represents the cataclysm of her death, followed by acceptance and redemption. In most of the concerto Berg employs his characteristic free and idiosyncratic use of serial technique. However, there are sections that are atonal but not serial and even some that are tonal. The twelve-tone set used in the work begins with stacked thirds, which produce tonal triads when three consecutive notes are grouped together (see ex. 7.2). Moreover, the set is idiomatically conceived for the violin because the first, third, fifth, and seventh tones correspond to its open strings. The violin enters softly in the second measure of the Andante with delicate, slurred arpeggios over the four open strings creating, with this elemental violinistic gesture, a metaphor for Manon’s birth; the wind instruments intone the remaining pitches of the tone row. The movement gradually comes to life and unfolds with clear sections and symmetries, the vivacious Allegretto triple-meter waltz figures in schmaltzy Example 7.2. Alban Berg, Violin Concerto, tone row; and incipit of J. S. Bach’s chorale “Es ist genug.”

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parallel thirds, along with rustic dance gestures, conjuring visions of Viennese gaiety. Several fortissimo climactic passages are reminiscent of Ravel’s La valse and even trump its sense of wild abandon and parody. The Allegro explodes with intense dissonance and energy, the violin writing suggesting a frantic cadenza with fiendish double stops and runs. These passages probably are indebted to Berg’s having asked Krasner to spend hours improvising for him during the early stages of composing the concerto.4 The chaotic and out-of-control feeling paints a psychic vision of Manon’s catastrophic illness and death. A triple forte climax quickly dissolves into the Adagio, which welcomes death and afterlife by quoting Bach’s chorale, “Es ist genug!” (It is enough! . . . I travel to my heavenly home. I travel surely and in peace. My great distress remains below. It is enough!). Berg claimed that it was only after formulating the basic set, the last four notes of which are whole tones apart, that he discovered this textually appropriate chorale with its whole-tone opening (see ex. 7.2). The chorale melody is presented phrase by phrase, first by the solo violin with Berg’s harmonization, and then with Bach’s harmonies, but scored for four clarinets. The remainder of the movement is permeated by fragments of the chorale. Transcendence is achieved at the end with the soloist sustaining a stratospheric g4, pianissimo, under which the muted orchestral violins softly intone the open-string arpeggio with which the concerto began. In addition to its significance as a requiem, Berg also imbued the concerto with a “secret program,” not discovered until 1977, associated with two other women in his life: his first love as a teenager; and Hanna Fuchs-Robbetin, a married woman with whom he had begun an intense relationship in 1925.5 Near the end of both the Allegretto and the Allegro, a brief tonal melody is discreetly introduced. It has been identified as a Carinthian folk song, the text of which is a subtle reference to the early romance. Berg wove Fuchs-Robbetin into the concerto by using a musical cypher consisting of motivic cells derived, using German musical terminology, from their initials: Hanna Fuchs = B♮, F; and Alban Berg = A, B♭.6 Berg died soon after completing the concerto and never heard it performed. Therefore, it is triply charged with autobiographical content: as a public requiem for Manon; as his own unintended requiem; and—as we now know—as a private tribute to two women whom he loved.7

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Arnold Schoenberg (1874–1951) After being dismissed from his professorship in Berlin in 1933 because of his Jewish heritage, Schoenberg immigrated to the United States and settled in Los Angeles for the rest of his life. His Violin Concerto (1936), one of his first compositions in America, is scored for a very large orchestra with winds and brass in threes (but with four bassoons and four horns) and a battery of percussion. But Schoenberg virtually never deploys the tutti forces simultaneously, preferring instead to explore myriad combinations of small groups, thereby creating a phantasmagoria of timbres. This style of orchestration was determined partially by Schoenberg’s decision to avoid octave doublings, meaning that in chords, each pitch occurs in only one octave. The pitch may be doubled at the unison by two or more instruments, but not at the octave. This voluntary restriction results in a transparent texture that allows the intricate counterpoint and the soloist to be heard clearly at all times, minimizing the problem of balance found in many violin concertos. The entire concerto is based on a single tone row (see table 7.1). The first ten measures illustrate several of Schoenberg’s most characteristic twelve-tone techniques (see ex. 7.3). Utilizing the principal form of the row, the initial two-measure idea employs pitches 1 and 2 in the solo violin and pitches 3 through 6 in the violas and cellos; the following two measures complete the row in an analogous manner with pitches from the second hexachord. The next phrase continues the same partitioning into hexachords, but it is based on a transformation of the original row known as inversion 5 (or I5), meaning the inversion of the row starting on a pitch five half steps higher than the first pitch of the original row. Therefore, it begins on D instead of A, and inverting each of the successive intervals produces the row shown as inversion 5. The following phrase, measures 8 (beat 2) through 11, illustrates another method of deploying a row. Here the complete principal form of the row serves as the melody in the violin. The pitches of the second hexachord accompany the first half of the melody and those of the first hexachord accompany the melody’s second half. Thus, complete circulation of all twelve tones is achieved within each half of the phrase. This type of analysis is interesting and relatively easy to do—although many passages are more complex than this one—but it is of limited

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194 ❧ Chapter Seven Table 7.1. Arnold Schoenberg, Violin Concerto, tone rows Hexachord

I

II

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

A

B♭

E♭

B

E

F♯

C

C♯

G

A♭

D

F

Inversion 5 (I5) D

C♯

A♭

C

G

F

B

B♭

E

D♯

A

F♯

Principal (P)

Example 7.3. Arnold Schoenberg, Violin Concerto, op. 36, mvt. 1, mm. 1–10.

value for coming to terms with Schoenberg’s twelve-tone works as musical compositions. Schoenberg was a great innovator, but he also maintained strong ties to tradition and always emphasized that understanding the expressive content of his music was more important than uncovering the technical details of how it was constructed. With this in mind, we can recognize that in the first measures of the concerto the solo violin emphasizes a half-step appoggiatura or sighing figure familiar from tonal music. Using traditional concepts of variation and development, the first eight measures evolve from this initial idea. Moreover, this period clearly subdivides into classically symmetrical antecedent and consequent halves. Therefore, the serial technique

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coexists with earlier principles of phrase structure, motivic development, and expressive values. Analogous observations can be made about the entire concerto, which follows the familiar fast-slow-fast movement design. The first movement has sonata-form features, including a development section, a greatly varied recapitulation, a virtuoso cadenza followed by a coda, and a concluding tag that quotes the opening sigh motive. The second movement, Andante grazioso, highlights lyrical presentations of the row, but with octave transpositions of half steps, which create extremely expressive major sevenths and minor ninths. This beautiful theme has been characterized as a “delicate song without words,”8 and Schoenberg himself referred to it as one of the melodies that disprove the claim that his late-period works “are produced exclusively by the brain without the slightest participation of something like a human heart.”9 Hugh Collins Rice goes farther and maintains that the disturbing transformations and disruptions of this lyric theme challenge its status as a naive evocation of tradition. According to Rice, this movement “reflects the 1930s and the biographical, political and cultural themes of the time are expressed as urgently here as in any other music written at the time.”10 The final movement, Allegro, transforms the character of the row by imposing a square march rhythm onto it, which, along with the prominent introduction of the percussion section, establishes a military topic. There are hints of both sonata and rondo forms, but it is the dramatic orchestration and violin virtuosity that dominate. The formidable technical demands on the soloist include numerous multiple stops, harmonics (both single and double), fast alternations between pizzicato and arco, and frequent shifts of register demanded by the wide intervals of the highly disjunct lines. A lengthy cadenza, with the orchestra providing intermittent accompaniment, creates cyclic closure by bringing back material from the first two movements. Despite the concerto’s traditional compositional elements and expressive content, it has proved notoriously difficult for audiences and performers to accept because the surface often consists of highly contrasting ideas, the logic and organization of which is challenging to perceive. For many, it leaves a fragmented and harsh impression. Numerous studies have sought to explain Schoenberg’s late music to the concertgoing public and even to popularize it, but with limited success.11 His Violin Concerto remains a complex work that blends innovation with tradition. For those prepared to devote the necessary

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effort to understanding the former and who can develop sensitivity to the presence of the latter, Schoenberg’s Violin Concerto ranks with the greatest of the genre.12

Benjamin Britten (1913–76) In April 1936 Britten, an outstanding pianist, performed his Suite for Violin and Piano with Spanish violinist Antonio Brosa (1894–1979) at the International Society for Contemporary Music Festival in Barcelona, Spain. At the Festival Britten heard Louis Krasner give the premiere of Berg’s Violin Concerto, which planted the idea that a violin concerto could be a requiem. Shortly after the festival, the Spanish Civil War broke out, and Britten became an avid supporter of the Republicans, who fought against General Franco and the Fascists. Britten was so distraught over the British government’s appeasement policies with Hitler and Mussolini that he (along with his friends, writers W. H. Auden and Christopher Isherwood) left England and immigrated to the United States. Britten began his Violin Concerto in England in 1938 and completed it in New York State in 1939. It was premiered by Brosa with the New York Philharmonic in 1940. Britten evokes the martial opening of Beethoven’s Violin Concerto by beginning his concerto with a timpani solo (see ex. 7.4). This motive then functions as an ostinato accompaniment to the haunting and chromatically evolving principal theme, high on the soloist’s E string. The combination of the theme’s stepwise legato lyricism with the clipped staccato of the timpani motive creates a sense of conflict between the soloist and the orchestra, a prominent trait throughout the concerto. Conflict is also present in Britten’s extensive use of bitonality, with the orchestra and soloist sometimes in different keys. For example, the soloist’s tattoos and mock-military fanfares in the A-major secondary theme clash with the orchestra’s F♮ pedal point in a pointed staccato rhythm. The first stable appearance of the concerto’s tonic, D, is delayed until the climactic arrival at the recapitulation, where the original roles are reversed: the orchestral violins and violas carry the principal theme while the soloist (buttressed by basses, percussion, and harp) accompanies with the timpani motive. The movement ends pianissimo with eerie double harmonics in the solo violin.

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Example 7.4. Benjamin Britten, Violin Concerto, op. 15, mvt. 1, mm. 1–2.

The concerto’s large-scale design is indebted to Prokofiev’s Violin Concerto no. 1, and the kinship between the two Scherzos is particularly strong. Britten’s Scherzo is a frantic 83 dance in E minor that also thrives on scales and short rhythmic motives. An augmented second connected by a glissando lends an exotic Middle Eastern flavor to the theme of the A-minor Trio. With its grotesque instrumentation, especially a passage for solo tuba and two piccolos, and screeching octaves, tenths, double-stop harmonics, and glissandos for the soloist, the scherzo suggests a Dance of Death. It is connected to the finale by a bravura cadenza, which brings back material from the first movement. In the Baroque tradition of using ground basses for laments, the finale is a passacaglia. While the soloist sustains the high final note (c♭4) of the cadenza, three trombones—making their first appearance in the concerto and exploiting their traditional funereal associations— intone the passacaglia theme. The initial variation is organized as a fugal exposition with each successive entry of the theme beginning a half step lower, which results in “roving tonality.” The following nine variations explore a wide range of techniques and affects, including pesante, tranquillo, molto animato, and largamente. The orchestra usually presents the theme, with the soloist providing embellishing commentary, but in variation 5 the violin is given a transformation of the theme in inversion, and in variation 7 the soloist’s three- and four-note chords re-create the original theme with its harmonies. In the final variation (Lento e solenne) the orchestra intones the theme in noble chantlike chords over which the violin adds an impassioned and dissonantly clashing “fantasy.” The resulting mood of intense anguish is maintained to the end. The final chord is an open fifth, D–A, with the violin trilling F to F♯, thereby leaving the question of mode, which has never been settled, unanswered. With its many programmatic stylistic references,

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Britten’s Violin Concerto makes a powerful antiwar statement, and at the same time it succeeds as a traditional concerto that delights in exploring and expanding the violin’s potential for virtuoso display.13

Béla Bartók (1881–1945) Bartók’s prowess as a concert pianist informed his large oeuvre for that instrument, but he was not a string player. Nevertheless, he developed an impressive command of the violin’s technical and expressive potential, which he exploited in major works composed for distinguished violinists, most of whom were his friends and recital partners, including: Stefi Geyer (Violin Concerto no. 1); Zoltán Székely (Violin Concerto no. 2 and Rhapsody no. 2); Joseph Szigeti (Rhapsody no. 1); Jelly Arányi (Sonatas for Violin and Piano nos. 1 and 2); and Yehudi Menuhin (Sonata for Solo Violin). Although these violinists sometimes served as advisers on technical details, Bartók’s compositional style for the violin was influenced primarily by the peasant fiddling that he experienced while doing field research for his ethnographic studies of East European folk music. The violin proved to be a particularly felicitous medium for realizing his vision of integrating elements of folk music with the traditions of concert music. The Violin Concerto no. 2 (1938) is a virtuoso work with structures, large proportions, and expressive ambitions comparable to those of its great nineteenth-century predecessors, while much of its content is indebted to Hungarian folk music. The first movement’s principal theme, stated by the soloist after only six measures of introduction that establish “B” as the tonal center, is a warmly lyrical but commanding melody with syncopations in the manner of the verbunkos, a Hungarian soldiers’ dance, often performed by Roma (“Gypsies”), with a heroic, marchlike character (see ex. 7.5). The rhythmic and metric profile (repeated quarter-note chords in 44 meter) and unusual instrumentation (harp supported by pizzicato strings) of the introduction and accompaniment help to establish the march topic.14 The theme has a four-line structure typical of many folk tunes (aaʹbaʺ), in which the “a” phrases share the same rhythmic pattern and melodic outline. Moreover, the frequent alternation throughout the movement between slow and fast tempos references another salient characteristic of the verbunkos. The tempo changes also contribute to the clear articulation of

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Example 7.5. Béla Bartók, Violin Concerto, no. 2, mvt. 1, mm. 1–14.

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the sonata-form structure, as does the prominent return of the harp at each appearance of the main theme. The twelve-tone secondary theme (m. 73) stands out because of its mysteriously delicate orchestration and pianissimo dynamic. But it is treated in a very un-Schoenbergian manner: it has a tonal center resulting from a thirteenth note that repeats its first pitch, “A.” Moreover, this pitch is present throughout as a pedal point. This row is repeated several times in free inversions and transpositions. Shortly before composing the concerto, Bartók commented: “I do not like to repeat a musical thought unchanged, and I never repeat a detail unchanged. This practice of mine arises from my inclination for variation and for transforming themes.”15 The recapitulation exemplifies this trait. The principal theme returns in inversion and the accompaniment is radically changed. It still features the harp, which is now given rapid arpeggios, and a new contrapuntal line is added for the violas. The transitional and secondary ideas are transformed by combining and interleaving phrases from each. The coda features a cadenza with a few quarter tones and many fiercely difficult double and triple stops, and it leads to an apotheosis of the principal theme for the orchestra and soloist. The remaining two movements are likewise permeated by the principles of variation and transformation. The slow second movement is a traditionally structured theme with six variations that explore a wide range of techniques and expression with inventiveness reminiscent of Beethoven’s achievements with variations in his late works. The third movement is constructed with themes from the first movement, which appear in transformed versions and are used to create a rondo structure. The kinship with the first movement is clearly audible, but the transformations and new features (including prominent dance rhythms, consistently fast tempos, and innovative orchestration) inject fresh elements of playfulness and parody that energize the finale.

Samuel Barber (1910–81) Barber began his Violin Concerto in 1938 while living in Europe and completed it the following year in the United States, after having been forced to flee Europe because of the impending war. However, unlike Britten’s Violin Concerto, Barber’s concerto bears no trace of having

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been conceived during such troubled times, nor does it incorporate programmatic features. Rather, it exhibits the vocally inspired lyricism and late nineteenth-century stylistic orientation that are hallmarks of Barber’s style. The solo violin enters immediately on the downbeat of the first movement with the principal theme, a serene and elegant melody in G major, which evolves unpredictably for twenty-four measures. The sonata-form structure utilizes two additional themes, a skipping idea with a prominent “scotch snap” rhythm during the transition, and an idea marked grazioso e scherzando, which stands out with dactylic figures and spiccato articulation, in the E-major/minor secondary group. Frequent changes of mode occur throughout the concerto. Along with changes of texture, instrumentation, and thematic material, the formal structure is clearly articulated with strong cadences. Following earlier tradition, the major climax occurs at the recapitulation, where the principal theme is given a grand fortissimo presentation by the entire orchestra. This movement eschews virtuoso acrobatics. Thus, instead of a cadenza before the coda, Barber inserted a brief unmeasured passage—unaccompanied except for a held pedal tone—which has the character of a vocally embellished cadence. The second movement, Andante, has a ternary design with the outer sections in E major framing a middle section in E minor. Perhaps inspired by the slow movement of Brahms’s Violin Concerto, the entire long-lined conjunct theme of the A section is given to the oboe. Not until the last chord of the cadence, which is prolonged for seven measures, does the violin enter with an ascending melisma that leads smoothly to the B section, marked Più mosso and later, Un poco agitato. Wide “Mahlerian” leaps heighten the impassioned and rhapsodic solo line. When the A section returns, the violin is assigned the theme, now placed an octave lower than when played by the oboe in order to exploit the powerful sonority of the G string. The third movement—Presto in moto perpetuo (quarter note = 192)—stands in sharp contrast to its predecessors. The soloist’s nonstop deluge of triplets, which are replaced by sixteenth notes in the brief coda, fulfill the expectations raised by its heading. With only a few measures’ rest, during which the orchestra continues the triplet motion, the soloist must display great stamina. Occasional meter changes, irregularly placed accents, and a more liberal use of dissonance reveal Barber’s interest in striking out on new, less conservative

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paths. Due to its pronounced contrast in tempo and character with the previous movements, the suitability of this movement as the finale has been questioned.16 In an interview from 1960, Barber expressed the wish for a good recording of his “Violin Concerto in which the first movement is not taken too slowly.”17 The lyrical, dreamy quality of the first movement’s principal theme seduces many violinists to play this movement considerably slower than Barber’s indication of quarter note = 100. Barber scholar Barbara Heyman notes that the “only way the last movement can be regarded as an integrated part of the whole concerto . . . is if the first movement is played as a true allegro, as indicated in the score. That way the two outer movements are balanced.”18

Dmitri Shostakovich (1906–75) Shostakovich completed his Violin Concerto no. 1 in 1948, but it was not premiered—by David Oistrakh (1908–74), to whom it was dedicated—until 1955.19 The Cold War policies of Soviet dictator Joseph Stalin (1878–1953) were responsible for this delay. During political hearings on the arts held early in 1948, Shostakovich and other leading composers were accused of “formalism . . . an esthetic conception proceeding from an affirmation of the self-sufficiency of form in art, and its independence from ideological or pictorial content.”20 “Formalism” was essentially a code word for elite modernism. Although Shostakovich appeared in person at the hearings and even accepted the criticisms, he was still branded an enemy of the people and fired from his professorship at the Moscow Conservatory. Bowing to pressure to favor vocal over instrumental music, and program music over absolute music, to avoid modernist techniques, and to incorporate folk elements, Shostakovich shelved the violin concerto and focused his attention on new works that embodied these characteristics, including an oratorio, a cantata, and music for several films. It was not until after Stalin’s death in 1953 that a more favorable political climate granted greater freedom of expression to artists, which allowed Shostakovich to resume his distinguished cultivation of instrumental music. The Violin Concerto no. 1 is a large four-movement work, the first of which, Nocturne (Moderato), is a brooding and mostly quiet aria. The soloist’s cantilena is a seamless series of developing variations on motives stated in the first period. The full range of the violin is explored, and

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several passages in double stops inject biting dissonances. The nocturnal effect is enhanced by occasionally muting the solo violin and by sensitive strokes of orchestral color, including mysterious bell-like sounds from the celesta and harp, the latter playing harmonics. The second movement, Scherzo (Allegro), has much in common with the corresponding movement of Prokofiev’s Violin Concerto no. 1. Shostakovich uses many closely related rhythmic gestures and violinistic effects, but his scherzo is even more driving, savage, and sardonic. The duple-meter middle section has the character of “an unruly, vodkafueled country dance.”21 It has been suggested that this movement contains Shostakovich’s first use of the musical motive, DSCH, derived from the initial letters of his name in German spelling, Dmitri SCHostakovich, which in German transliteration produces the pitches: D–E♭ [i.e., “Es”]– C–B. However, this pitch set only appears transposed and in different permutations. Therefore, the motives in the concerto should probably just be considered “prominent near-miss DSCH signatures.”22 The third movement, Passacaglia (Andante), is the expressive center of the concerto. Composer and pianist Mikhail Meyerovich (1920–93) reported that Shostakovich showed him the “exact spot” he was working on when the government’s condemnation of him was published: “The violin played [sixteenth notes] before and after it. There was no change evident in the music.”23 In Baroque fashion the F-minor passacaglia theme, seventeen measures in a severe rhythm of quarter and half notes, initially appears in the low strings. It is accompanied by a distinctive fanfare-like counterpoint in the horns, and thus this statement is already the first variation. In the course of eight further variations, the theme moves to other registers and instruments, including various combinations of winds, and timpani doubled by pizzicato strings. The solo violin makes its first entrance in the third variation and, as in most of the variations, provides impassioned counterpoint, although in the seventh variation it states the passacaglia theme, fortissimo, in octaves. A lengthy cadenza forms a bridge between the third and fourth movements. Lasting four to five minutes, the cadenza is a brilliant tour de force launched with ruminations on the fanfare-like counterpoint from the passacaglia. As the tempo and intensity increase, ideas from the first two movements are also incorporated. Shostakovich’s choice of a passacaglia for the slow movement, as well as his placement of such a massive cadenza after it, suggest possible influence from Britten’s Violin Concerto: the two composers knew and admired each other greatly.

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After the monumental third movement and cadenza, the brief Burlesque (Allegro con brio, Presto) is a contrasting and upbeat finale. The expected elements of parody and exaggeration are used to great effect, and there is a cyclic return in the orchestra of the passacaglia theme, the character of which is transformed through a faster tempo, imitative textures, and cascades of arpeggios by the soloist.

Philip Glass (b. 1937) The minimalist aesthetic with which Glass is closely associated has little in common with traditional musical narrative. It focuses instead on creating broad vistas and sonic space. Alex Ross suggests that minimalists see and hear in relation to the modern technology of speed: “They evoke the experience of driving in a car across empty desert, the layered repetitions in the music mirroring the changes that the eye perceives—road signs flashing by, a mountain range shifting on the horizon, a pedal point of asphalt underneath.”24 These metaphors provide useful points of entry into Glass’s Violin Concerto no. 1 (1987).25 As one of several significant references to tradition, Glass adopted the conventional three-movement design. The orchestra begins the concerto with pulsing chords in constant eighth notes but with frequently changing and asymmetric meters. When the motion settles into a regular 43 meter, the violin enters with repetitive sixteenth-note arpeggios, which stand out because they are slurred either as four groups of three notes or as two groups of six notes per measure. Thus, the surface motion is intensely active. But these patterns are maintained over long stretches with very slow harmonic motion—never faster than one chord per measure—and there are extended pedal points. These factors create a sense of stasis and inertia. New patterns are gradually introduced: Ross’s “a mountain range shifting on the horizon.” The soloist either soars with high arching lines or comments with repetitive rolled chords or double stops over the orchestra’s relentlessly pulsing chords. The constant surface motion never lets up; it even accelerates to sixteenth notes at the climax. When the movement concludes with a fade-out, there is a sense of having traversed only a fraction of an endless musical landscape that could continue indefinitely. Minimalists have an innate affinity for traditional techniques based on repetition. The second movement is built over a ground bass with

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distinctly Baroque outlines: the cellos and basses stride slowly down the C-minor scale from C to F three times in whole and half notes, followed by a typical eighteenth-century cadence formula. The other strings harmonize this ironclad structure with two-note oscillations, either in eighth notes or triplets, producing steady vibrations. Over this repeating bass pattern, the solo violin and various winds take turns presenting two contrasting ideas, a broad cantabile and a triplet ostinato. The pitch G, the cantabile’s center of gravity, is gradually singled out and eventually repeated in different octaves and rhythms for fifty-two measures until the motion simply stops on the dominant-seventh chord, unable to cadence on the tonic, C minor, again implying that the movement is merely a segment of an infinite sonic eternity. The concerto is scored for a standard orchestra without the electronics that Glass frequently employs, but the score requires five players for a battery of percussion to project the dance rhythms of the last movement. The presto tempo (43, quarter note = 150) and complex meshing of syncopated rhythms create an exhilarating finale, in which some of the soloist’s figurations are identical with those in the first movement. Instead of maintaining the excitement to the end, there is a slow coda that revisits the pulsing chords from the first movement and integrates them with the cantabile from the second movement. Thus the concerto ends with a bow to the nineteenth-century cyclical method of unifying multimovement works. Glass’s music, which for some listeners creates a mind-freeing trancelike state, has become a crossover success that attracts diverse audiences. This popular appeal is intentional. Glass states that he composed the concerto “thinking, let me write a piece that my father would have liked. . . . A very smart nice man who had no education in music whatsoever, but the kind of person who fills up concert halls. . . . [The concerto is] popular, it’s supposed to be—it’s for my Dad.”26

Elliott Carter (1908–2012) In his Violin Concerto (1990), which was commissioned jointly by the Norwegian violinist, Ole Böhn (b. 1945), and the San Francisco Symphony, Carter adopted the traditional three-movement plan but otherwise makes little reference to the conventions of earlier concertos. Wanting to capitalize on the instrument’s innate cantabile

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qualities, Carter decided that the violin should eschew bravura display and passage work in favor of highly lyrical and expressive utterances. Although scored for a very large orchestra, including a substantial percussion section, the nearly continuous solo part dominates the work. The absence of all but a few brief passages for the entire orchestra and the delicate, transparent orchestration enable the soloist to assume this position of leadership, which creates continuity. Instead of themes and their development, there is a highly emancipated discourse between the soloist and orchestra that is unified by the characteristic roles prescribed for them. The concerto begins with a fortissimo explosion of frenzied activity from the orchestra out of which the soloist emerges in the seventh measure like a subduing protagonist bringing order to the threatened chaos. The ensuing relationship between the orchestra and soloist illustrates Carter’s preoccupation with opposition. In this movement, marked “Impulsive,” the opposition is between the fragmented and sometimes aggressive orchestral interjections that comment on and punctuate the violin’s lyrical, legato phrases. In addition to their expressive functions, the forces are individualized further by their unique rhythmic and intervallic profiles. In contrast to the duple rhythmic motion in the orchestra, the violin’s widely arching phrases unfold in broad triplets, thus imbuing the solo line with a sense of freedom, rubato, and improvisation. And while the orchestra’s intervallic vocabulary consists of major intervals and the perfect fourth, the solo violin features their inversions: minor intervals and the perfect fifth. The three movements are linked, but the boundaries between them are clear because they are connected with precisely notated measures of rest. As an enigmatic touch of humor, these moments of silence are briefly pierced by aural references to the soloist tuning between movements: an open A between movements 1 and 2, and the double-stop D–A between movements 2 and 3. The second movement, marked “Angosciato, esitando” (anguished, hesitating) for the soloist and “Tranquillo” for the orchestra, presents a different opposition. In a reversal of their roles from those in the first movement, the solo part, instead of long lines, is now fragmented into brief recitative-like single notes and isolated phrases with intensely passionate and elegiac expression. The orchestra, on the other hand, has sustained and somber chords, which seem ironic, even hopeless, in the context of the soloist’s extravagant emotion. This movement, like

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the first, is monolithic. It maintains the same antagonistic relationship between forces throughout and does not introduce any new or contrasting material. The heading of the last movement, Scherzando, its rapid off-thestring bowings, and its more relaxed, even playful expression suggest that it is Carter’s vision of a Mendelssohnian rondo. Although overt thematic distinctions and clear formal boundaries are lacking, contrasting motives, tempos, and moods create some individualization of sections: heavy and dramatic versus light and playful. There is more cooperative interplay between the soloist and the orchestra than in the earlier movements. Shortly before the end the orchestra halts the proceedings with a fermata on a massive triple forte twelve-note chord that is reminiscent of the chaotic gambit with which the concerto began. When the orchestra terminates this chord, its highest note is sustained by the soloist, who continues with a three-measure, exceedingly dramatic cadenza, after which the playful material returns in the strings for two pianissimo measures that “evaporate” in a final cadence. In summarizing the essence of the concerto, David Schiff notes that it “moves beyond conflict even as it schematizes contrast. The solo line is endlessly resilient; moving from song to lament to unburdened flight it becomes an emblem of the musical imagination. The orchestra seems no longer a threatening adversary, but a scattered landscape brought together and redeemed by the solo protagonist’s lyrical propositions.”27

John Adams (b. 1947) During the early phase of his career John Adams was associated with strict minimalism, although his compositions were always characterized by a pronounced sense of forward motion and growth. Beginning in the early 1990s he began incorporating more complex harmonic elements and contrapuntal textures and thus entered a “postminimalist” period to which the Violin Concerto (1992) belongs. The first movement illustrates Adams’s fascination with the resonant power of consonance and with the energetic drive achieved by rhythmic and harmonic movement. The orchestra immediately establishes an irregular pattern of ascending eighth notes that begins on the “and” of one and concludes on the downbeat of the next measure, only to leap down and begin its ascent again (see ex. 7.6). With constant changes of pitch, instrumentation,

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and counterpoint, transformations of this ascending eighth-note motion continue unabated for more than three hundred measures. The contrapuntal voices gradually make increasing use of sixteenth notes, thereby amplifying the surface activity. Throughout the entire concerto the virtually nonstop solo part—Adams calls it a “hyper-melody”—is layered on top of the orchestra and retains autonomy from it.28 The violin’s rhapsodic line is rich with irregular rhythms, syncopations, and large leaps. Thus, totally departing from tradition, the solo and orchestral forces never share ideas, nor do they complement each other by taking turns functioning as accompaniment or leading voice. They simply coexist, generally in a state of tension. A brief cadenza shortly before the conclusion is the only reference to earlier concerto practice. The title of the second movement, “Chaconne: Body through which the dream flows,” announces its retrospective orientation. For his chaconne Adams borrowed, with only slight alteration, the bass from Pachelbel’s famous Canon in D, thereby paying homage to the common Baroque practice of creating original music with bass lines and chord progressions that are common property. As in some earlier chaconnes, Adams’s bass migrates to the upper voices and is subjected to augmentation and diminution. The subtitle, “Body through which the dream flows,” which is from a poem by American poet laureate, Robert Hass (b. 1941), is a metaphor for the movement’s basic concept. The orchestra, with its stable chaconne structure, is the body, while the solo violin, which floats above and penetrates through it, is the dream. The last movement, Toccare (Italian: to touch, hit, or tap), references the Baroque toccata, usually a keyboard work demanding great speed and virtuosity. The soloist’s high-energy and extroverted moto perpetuo race throughout this movement illustrates Adams’s belief that the violin is capable of commanding “incredible lyric intensity and has a fantastic capacity to deliver a white-hot message.”29 Some of the bravura passages were inspired by Carnatic Indian violin playing, which he studied in preparation for composing the concerto. Adams ensured that the solo part was idiomatic by consulting with violinists, especially Jorja Fleezanis, who first approached him about composing the work. The concerto was ultimately commissioned by the Minnesota Orchestra, the London Symphony Orchestra, and the New York City Ballet. Fleezanis gave the premiere with the Minnesota Orchestra, and Gidon Kremer, who also provided input, premiered it in London. At the premiere by the New York City

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Example 7.6. John Adams, Violin Concerto, mvt. 1, mm. 1–5.

Ballet, with choreography by Peter Martins, concertmaster Guillermo Figueroa was the soloist. Adams commented that his knowing that the concerto would be both a concert and a dance work had a profound influence on its style, especially the pronounced independence of the solo and orchestral forces: “Although pulsation in this work is far more attenuated and contradicted than in my older Minimalist pieces, the underlying grid of rhythmic regularity is never completely obscured, even in the long chaconne movement with its glacier-paced unfolding of the familiar ground bass. ‘Sung’ (the violin) and ‘danced’ (the ballet): this was the primary image.”30

György Ligeti (1923–2006) Hungarian composer György Ligeti came of age in the immediate post–World War II era and thus faced the creative dilemma either of retreating to earlier styles or following the path of avant-garde modernism, where there were no taboos. He decided to “find a way of neither going back nor continuing the avant-garde; I am in a prison; one wall is

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the avant-garde, the other wall is the past, and I want to escape.”31 His way out was to study and absorb a vast range of musical styles, past, present, folk, and non-European, and to merge them in his compositions. Ligeti’s Violin Concerto (1989–93) illustrates these eclectic sources of inspiration. It is scored for a chamber orchestra that includes a small contingent of all the standard woodwinds, brass, percussion, and strings, but Ligeti augments this palette of timbres by having the flutes double on recorders and the other woodwinds double on ocarinas. He also explores mixed tuning systems. Scordatura tuning derived from just intonation for one violin and one viola, along with natural overtones for the horns, add an abnormal, mystical, and dreamlike quality to the orchestral sound. The five movements follow an alternating fastslow-fast-slow-fast sequence. In the “Praeludium: Vivacissimo luminoso,” Ligeti employs his characteristic technique of “micropolyphony,” in which a movement grows from an “insectoid buzz of activity.”32 Each instrument plays fragments of the same material at different times, producing a chaotic sonic haze. A glistening swirl of open strings and harmonics creates the “luminoso” effect. As found in many eighteenth-century preludes, constant and rapid rhythmic motion is maintained throughout. The solo part stands out by virtue of its extreme dynamic contrasts. There are frequent alternations between fortissimo and pianissimo, even on individual notes in chains of consecutive sixteenths, which stretch the limits of what is possible on the violin. The title, “Aria, Hoquetus, Choral: Andante con moto,” announces the eclecticism of the second movement. The soloist presents the aria on the sonorous G string without accompaniment. With its comfortable vocal range of an octave, this diatonic tune evokes folk song, but the tonality and meter are ambiguous. Contrapuntal voices are gradually added, and the tune migrates to different instruments, with some variations suggesting the hocket technique of the Middle Ages. The ocarinas play the tune in diminution, using the rhythmic gestures of a chorale by Bach, while the soloist accompanies with pizzicato chords. In his draft for this movement, Ligeti noted that his sources for the extreme autonomy of the contrapuntal lines were Machaut and pygmy music.33 The third movement, “Intermezzo: Presto fluido,” also exploits micropolyphony. The orchestral strings create a background blur of nonstop descending chromatic scales over which the soloist floats with a lyrical, ecstatic melody, entirely oblivious of the underlying meter.

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The movement progresses in one long crescendo, beginning pppp and culminating in ffffff. The ground bass of the fourth movement, “Passacaglia: Lento intense,” is a slowly ascending chromatic scale, five half steps spanning a major third. The soloist forcefully interjects irregular, strident, fortissimo phrases into the soft, legato regularity of the orchestra’s inexorable passacaglia theme. The finale, “Appassionato: Agitato molto,” begins by contrasting a sustained melody in the flute and oboe with the soloist’s irregular, explosive interruptions in virtuosic double stops and chords. This battle between opposing forces culminates in a virtuoso cadenza. The score contains a cadenza by German violinist, Saschko Gawriloff (b. 1929), who premiered the concerto and is its dedicatee. However, in a footnote Ligeti states that soloists are free to compose their own cadenza, which “can last up to 1–2 minutes. It should be hectic throughout, but can incorporate melodic material ad lib. from all five movements. Towards the end, the tempo should be prestissimo with alternating arco and left hand pizzicato in mad virtuosity.”34 ❧ ❧ ❧

In the twenty-first century, composers, soloists, and orchestras have continued active cultivation of violin concertos. The German violinist Anne-Sophie Mutter, for example, has commissioned or been the dedicatee of concertos by Henri Dutilleux, Krzysztof Penderecki, Witold Lutoslawski, Wolfgang Rihm, and Sofia Gubaidulina. Philip Glass composed his Violin Concerto no. 2 “The American Seasons” (2009) for Robert McDuffie. The Finnish composer Magnus Lindberg has enriched the repertoire with two concertos (no. 1 [2006] for Lisa Batiashvili and no. 2 [2015] for Frank Peter Zimmermann), and his countryman, Esa-Pekka Salonen, composed a violin concerto (2009) for Leila Josefowicz. The exploration of this exciting new repertoire, which undoubtedly will continue to grow, must await its own chapter in a hypothetical second edition of this book.

Notes 1.

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Igor Stravinsky and Robert Craft, Dialogues and a Diary (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1982), 77.

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7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12.

13.

14. 15. 16.

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Samuel Dushkin, “Working with Stravinsky,” in Igor Stravinsky, ed. Edwin Corle (New York: Duell, Sloan and Pearce, 1949), 182. See Michael Steinberg, The Concerto: A Listener’s Guide (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000), 472. Louis Krasner, “The Origins of the Alban Berg Violin Concerto,” Alban Berg Studien (Vienna: Universal Edition, 1981), 2:107–17. George Perle, “The Secret Program of the Lyric Suite,” International Alban Berg Society Newsletter 5 (1977): 4–12. Further, see Douglas Jarman, “Alban Berg, Wilhelm Fleiss and the Secret Programme of the Violin Concerto,” in The Berg Companion, ed. Douglas Jarman (Houndmills: Macmillan, 1989), 181–94. Further, see Anthony Pople, Berg: Violin Concerto (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1991). Steinberg, The Concerto, 403. Arnold Schoenberg, Style and Idea, ed. Leonard Stein, trans. Leo Black (London: Faber, 1984), 69–71, 73–75. Hugh Collins Rice, “Serial Expression in Schoenberg’s Violin Concerto, op. 36,” Tempo 63 (2009): 43. See Ben Earle, “Taste, Power, and Trying to Understand Op. 36: British Attempts to Popularize Schoenberg,” Music and Letters 84 (2003): 608–43. Schoenberg’s last instrumental work, the Phantasy for Violin with Piano Accompaniment op. 47 (1949), has proved to be more accessible than the concerto and consequently is performed more often. David Schneider (“Contrasts and Common Concerns in the Concerto 1900–1945,” in Keefe, Cambridge Companion to the Concerto, 145–47) draws attention to Hindemith’s Trauermusik (Funeral music, 1936) for viola and string orchestra as an earlier concerto that addresses death and mourning. Schneider also notes that both Karl Amadeus Hartmann’s Musik der Trauer (Mourning music, 1939), a four-movement violin concerto, and Britten’s Violin Concerto could be considered “concertos as conscientious objectors.” The brief introduction may represent a veiled reference to the opening timpani strokes of Beethoven’s Violin Concerto. Quoted in Bence Szabolcsi, “Bartók’s Principles of Composition,” in Bartók Studies, ed. Todd Crow (Detroit: Information Coordinators, 1976), 19. Barber was commissioned by Samuel Fels, a wealthy businessman, to compose the concerto for Fels’s adopted son, violinist Iso Briselli. Because of Briselli’s dissatisfaction with the third movement, the concerto was ultimately premiered in 1941 by Albert Spalding with the Philadelphia Orchestra under Eugene Ormandy. Further, see Steinberg, The Concerto, 27–31.

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17. John Ardoin, “Samuel Barber at Capricorn,” Musical America (March 1960): 5. 18. As quoted in Samuel Barber Remembered: A Centenary Tribute, ed. Peter Dickinson (Rochester, NY: University of Rochester Press, 2010), 19n13. 19. Shostakovich’s Violin Concerto no. 2 (1967) also was dedicated to and premiered by David Oistrakh. 20. See Richard Taruskin, Music in the Late Twentieth Century, vol. 5 of The Oxford History of Western Music (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010), 9. 21. Steinberg, The Concerto, 441. 22. See David Fanning, “Shostakovich and His Pupils,” in Shostakovich and His World, ed. Laurel E. Fay (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2004), 292. 23. Quoted in Elizabeth Wilson, Shostakovich: A Life Remembered (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1994), 191–92. 24. Alex Ross, The Rest Is Noise (New York: Picador, 2007), 518. 25. The concerto was commissioned by the American Composers Orchestra for Paul Zukofsky. 26. As quoted in Robert Maycock, Glass: A Portrait (London: Sanctuary, 2002), 105. 27. David Schiff, “Carter’s Violin Concerto,” Tempo 174 (1990): 24. 28. John Adams, Hallelujah Junction (New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2008), 174. 29. As quoted in Steinberg, The Concerto, 7. 30. As quoted in the notes (p. 6) by Richard E. Rodda for the Telarc recording (CD-80494) of the Adams Violin Concerto. Further, see Rebecca Jemian and Anne Marie de Zeeuw, “An Interview with John Adams,” Perspectives of New Music 34, no. 2 (1996): 88–104. 31. Ligeti, lecture at the New England Conservatory (March 10, 1993) as quoted in Ross, The Rest Is Noise, 506. 32. Ibid., 508. 33. See Richard Steinitz, György Ligeti: Music of the Imagination (London: Faber and Faber, 2003), 335. 34. György Ligeti, Konzert für Violine und Orchester (Mainz: Schott, 1992), 92.

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8

THE MASTERS’ VOICE

Recordings as Documentation of Performance Practice Eitan Ornoy

M

ore than 130 years after Edison’s invention of the phonograph cylinder, recorded music has attained overwhelming dominance in our cultural life and unprecedentedly changed the very nature of our musical experience. In addition to transforming our listening habits, the recording industry has called into question our very perception of sounded music as a transient, ephemeral art form. Contemporary musicology has increasingly employed recordings as evidence of interpretation and performance style. Researchers possess an abundance of well-documented data with which to identify prevailing norms of performance practice, influential personalities, and changes of style. In this chapter I will address violin performance practice, starting from very early acoustic recordings and continuing up to recent contemporary performances, with the goal of outlining trends and changes from a broad perspective.

Constraints of Recording Technology During the “acoustic” era (ca. 1877 to 1925), limited disc size dictated the length of works that could be recorded, affecting not only the

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choice of repertoire but also decisions about repeats and cuts, and at times tempo. The limited frequency range and high distortion resulted in somewhat flat, narrow, and unvaried dynamics, which may not reflect what was done in live performance. The arrival of “electric” recording around 1925 enabled a fuller and clearer sound, and more importantly, a wider range of dynamics. Nevertheless, analyzing dynamics and timbre in recordings made between the two world wars can be problematic. In the 1940s, the development of tape recorders and the introduction of the cut-edit process transformed recording and editing. Although this certainly brought about higher standards of technical perfection, it almost eliminated the “one take” single performance except for those labeled “live.” Establishing models of interpretation based on recordings from this period onward should take into account the performers’ ability to create a somewhat artificially “upgraded” product, which does not necessarily correspond to what they could achieve in a public concert. During the 1980s, editing became even easier with the introduction of compact disc technology in which analog waves are converted into digital information. This development gave recording engineers increased capability to intervene in the recording process. In the early stages of the acoustic recording era, occasional crowding of the musicians into the studio—sitting or standing packed together, as they were in some cases, in front of the recording horn—may have restricted right-arm movement and hence had a negative influence on articulation and tone production. The need to move toward the horn during soft phrases, or to step back in loud passages or high registers in order to avoid distortion, may at times have hampered intonation or bowing. The horn violin, patented by the British electrical engineer August Stroh (1828–1914) in 1900, was an important alternative in use for both solo and orchestral recordings until the end of the acoustic era. This “Stroh violin” dispensed with the wooden body and instead amplified the sound with an aluminum diaphragm attached to a metal horn that jutted out to the left of the fingerboard. It must have felt quite awkward to violinists accustomed to the shape and weight of the traditional instrument. The Stroh violin’s lack of a sounding board must have reduced the player’s ability to produce nuanced dynamics and timbres. The gradual abandonment of gut strings in favor of metal ones likewise influenced both dynamics and timbre. Wound G strings (usually made by wrapping a gut core with fine silver wire) were introduced in the early eighteenth century, and in the nineteenth century unwrapped,

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all-metal E strings came into use. By the early twentieth century, some violinists played on full sets made of solid strands of steel, while others still preferred gut or “Acribelle” silk strings. String manufacturers subsequently developed more flexible, woven-core metal strings, which added greater variety of color, followed in the 1950s by the popular synthetic-core strings, which produced a softer timbre. There are additional considerations, seemingly unrelated to the recording process, but nevertheless significant. They include the performer’s age, overall physical condition during recording (notable for its influence on intonation and tone production), and psychological state, both inside and outside the studio.1

Methods of Analysis Early attempts at analyzing violin recordings used repeated aural scrutiny, aided by the most basic equipment, such as a metronome and stopwatch. Later developments, aimed at a somewhat more “objective” analytical approach, included tapping on a computer to mark beats, measures, or other pivotal points, primarily as a method of determining tempo. Other methods included the use of a melograph, a tool previously employed in ethnomusicological research, which provides information about the pitch standard and intonation, and also records tempo fluctuations. Similar capabilities are found in the spectrograph, which represents sounds as three-dimensional waveforms: time (displayed on the horizontal axis), frequency (i.e., pitch, displayed vertically), and amplitude (i.e., dynamics, displayed by the extensiveness of color). Therefore, in addition to information about a note’s basic frequency and length, with the spectrograph, researchers can also make deductions about other features, including timbre, dynamics, and articulation. However, while both aforementioned tools proved valuable in extracting subtle information from brief musical fragments, deciphering the features of larger musical sections was difficult and extremely laborious. Moreover, useful information could be detected more easily in relatively slow, monophonic repertoire with a small range than from polyphonic music with varied textures. This difficulty was partially resolved by the development of Sonic Visualiser software, which enables several musical features (i.e., spectrograph, tempo graph,

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dynamics delineation, and beat number) to be displayed synchronously and integrally visualized. At present, employing the Sonic Visualiser, or any other digital-waveform editor, for long musical segments is still rather arduous; such devices thus tend to supplement but not to supplant direct listening.2 In light of the significant influence of technological developments on recordings, it is useful to divide the discussion of them into three phases or periods: early (1898 [the date of the earliest documented violin recordings]–1930); intermediate (1930–70); and recent (1970–present).

Recordings of the Early Period (1898–1930) Early recordings often sound peculiar to modern listeners. The overwhelming impression of tempo and rhythmic instability, apparent evenness of dynamics, and rather “dry” and “thin” tone quality can be odd and bewildering. Faced with such uncharted land, the first and natural reaction is to make broad generalizations or to rely on fixed images (“mechanical,” “tinny,” etc.). However, close listening and keen observation reveal distinctions and idiosyncrasies that challenge such simple stereotypes. While acknowledging the danger of oversimplification, we can cautiously propose some general characteristics about performance trends in the early decades of the twentieth century. Portamento (the audible sliding between two notes) in varying amounts is clearly present in many recordings from this time. It serves both as an expressive device and as a technical aid during position shifts. Violinists render portamento in various ways with regard to duration (elapsed time between notes of departure and arrival), range (of pitch within the interval of the slur), direction (ascending or descending), intensity (i.e., volume), and fingering (which determines the type of portamento3). The manner in which violinists execute portamento is a significant factor in deciphering their individual imprint and style. Because of its widespread acceptance in nineteenth- and early twentieth-century performances, portamento has generated much conjecture concerning its origin, ascendance, and relative decline in the second half of the twentieth century. Some scholars propose that portamento is intrinsic to the vocal mechanism and hence is related to the emotional

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inflections in speech prosody. Others link its use to technical demands, such as the increased use of position shifts made possible by raising the violin to the chin during the Baroque period. Still others emphasize its function as a marker of specific styles due to its associations with folk music (for example, Brahms’s works in Hungarian style), or even consider it a feature that suggests vulgarity or farce.4 Studies point to the relatively limited use of this device by violinists active at the end of the nineteenth century, such as Joseph Joachim (1831–1907) and Leopold Auer (1845–1930), compared to those recording during the following decades, such as Arnold Rosé (1863– 1946) and Jenő Hubay (1858–1937), who used it quite extensively. Researchers have also determined that string players active in the first half of the twentieth century used portamento more frequently than did their younger peers.5 Due to its fundamental expressive function, vibrato has also been thoroughly investigated. The method of producing vibrato—whether by finger, hand, wrist, or full arm motions, or a combination of these— varies greatly from performer to performer. Regardless of the method used, the crucial aspects of vibrato are its width (between .2 and .35 semitones for string players), speed (number of oscillations per second, and whether constant or changing), point of onset within a note, and continuity (i.e., the duration of vibrato during a note, and whether it widens or tightens toward the end of the note). Vibrato is affected by technical and interpretive factors, including: choice of fingering, articulation (a direct linkage can be found between the type of bow stroke produced by the right hand and the nature of vibrato executed by the left hand), tessitura, and dynamics. Finally, another important variable is whether the pitch center is located at the top, bottom, or middle of the vibrato’s “wave” motion.6 In general, researchers have found a limited use of vibrato in early recordings, and they note a radical change in practice over the course of the decades. While originally employed as just one of various means to achieve emotional expression, vibrato has become a primal and virtually omnipresent idiomatic feature. One of the main contributors to this change in aesthetics was the Austrian violinist Fritz Kreisler (1875– 1962), whose playing was characterized by continuous wide and even vibrato. Kreisler’s older contemporaries—for example, Eugène Ysaÿe (1858–1931), Paul Viardot (1857–1941), Hubay, and Auer—certainly employed vibrato, some even quite liberally. Yet, as has been suggested

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by Daniel Leech-Wilkinson, while these “older style” performers, also including Joachim and Rosé, employed vibrato in varying degrees, they modified its width and speed with only minor consideration of the compositional context. During the 1920s, the younger generation of players (Kreisler, Jascha Heifetz [1901–87], Mischa Elman [1891–1967], Efrem Zimbalist [1889–1985], and Bronisław Huberman [1882–1947]) intensified its use. For them, vibrato became a nearly constant and carefully tailored means for shaping expressive phrases.7 Violinists exploited harmonics more frequently during this era than in later decades. Along with different string choices and fingerings, they frequently employed harmonics as a method of emphasizing varied reiterations of phrases, sometimes producing an “echo” effect. Harmonics are also effective for the delineation of special musical characters (e.g., to highlight gentle, soft passages), or for sheer diversity of timbre. The prominence of harmonics in early recordings may also be associated with the tone quality of gut strings: since the somewhat eerie coloration of harmonics is less pronounced on gut than on modern metal strings, performers may have felt freer to use harmonics more often without fear of seeming mannered.8 During this period, tempo fluctuations and rhythmic unevenness are particularly prominent. This includes the employment of inner phrase modifications (accelerando and rallentando), lengthening or shortening of notes (agogic accents), and “melodic rubato,” that is, flexible melody over a solid and strictly pulsed accompaniment. These factors evolved from a rhetorical approach to musical language and also from the rather improvisational and informal quality characteristic of early playing styles. For example, in dotted figures the long notes are often overdotted, with their adjacent short notes played in a light and somewhat flippant manner. Linked to this aspect is the casual application of notes inégales, that is, the practice of playing a series of fast notes with equal time values as if they are unequal, alternating between long and short durations.9 In this early period, researchers note significant differences between “schools” of violin playing. Two main educational centers, the “German” and the “Franco-Belgian,” are widely accepted as distinct in terms of performance style. Broadly speaking, violinists belonging to the “German” school (such as Joachim, Auer, Rosé, Franz Drdla [1868–1944], and Hubay) employ sparse portamento, free and expansive rhythmic alterations, prudent use of vibrato, and an overall “legato

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approach” achieved with constant, even bow pressure throughout long phrases. Whereas violinists associated with the “Franco-Belgian” school (such as Pablo de Sarasate [1844–1908], Viardot, Ysaÿe, Jacques Thibaud [1880–1953], and Kreisler) employ portamento and vibrato more liberally; a greater variety of bow strokes and articulation made possible by the player’s distinctive right-arm posture (in which the elbow is raised high and the hand canted toward the index finger); and a conservative approach to rhythmic modifications.10 Nevertheless, violinists explicitly associated with either school do not strictly adhere to the foregoing generalizations. Ysaÿe displays extensive tempo rubato in his 1912 recording of Henri Vieuxtemps’s Rondino, in spite of the general tendency for stability of tempo among his fellow Franco-Belgian peers.11 Hubay, a student of Joachim, uses frequent and continuous vibrato in his 1929 recording of J. S. Bach’s “Air on the G string,” contrary to the sparse and narrow vibrato found on his teacher’s recording of the Adagio from Bach’s Sonata in G Minor, BWV 1001. Similarly, Hugo Heermann (1844–1935), a representative of the Franco-Belgian school, exhibits discernible vibrato in his 1909 recording of the Nocturne in E Major by Heinrich Wilhelm Ernst, countering the assumed characteristics of his lineage.12 Naturally, performers have always modified the nuances of their playing according to their repertoire. Early recordings document that violinists varied their approach to portamento, vibrato, dynamic shadings, and articulation in response to distinctive musical styles. A case in point is Joachim’s moderate use of portamento in his 1903 recording of the Adagio from Bach’s Sonata in G Minor, in contrast to its extensive use in his recording of his own Romance in C Major, made at the same time.13 Another example is Kreisler’s light vibrato in his 1910 recording of the Gavotte from Bach’s Partita no. 3 in E Major, BWV 1006, as opposed to his wide and fast vibrato in his recording of Bed÷ich Smetana’s Bohemian Fantasie, made two weeks earlier.14 Much of the music recorded during this period consisted of short nineteenth-century virtuosic works by violinist/composers, for example, Wieniawski, Sarasate, and Vieuxtemps. Contrary to the current situation of modern violin playing and recording, it seems that violinists still belonged to a rather intimate and closed circle, sharing a much circulated repertoire created by their peers. In some cases, the specific works chosen for recording attest to the performer’s artistic

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background. This can be observed in the tribute paid by violinists to representatives of their formative tradition (e.g., Joseph Szigeti’s 1909 recording of Ákos László’s Ungarische Weisen op. 5; and Maud Powell’s 1909 recording of Vieuxtemps’s La Fête de St. Patrice (Saint Patrick’s Day) from Bouquet américain op. 33) or to their immediate teachers (e.g., Dora Valesca-Becker’s 1898 recording of Joachim’s arrangement of Brahms’s Hungarian Dance no. 2; and Franz von Vecsey’s 1904 recording of Hubay’s Carmen fantaisie brillante op. 3). Limited disc size undoubtedly was a significant factor in selecting short, spectacular compositions, but their idiomatic nature and bravura also reflected the desire for marketable products that addressed popular preferences. This was in accord with prevailing nineteenth-century concert programming in which arrangements of single concerto movements, operatic airs, and short virtuosic curiosities constituted an ample share. The second decade of the twentieth century witnessed the rise of chamber music and orchestral recordings, including string quartets and violin concertos. These recordings represented a shift from the short and somewhat lighter solo repertoire to chamber and orchestral masterpieces, some of which were recorded in their entirety by using several discs.15 Recordings of the German violinist Willy Burmester (1869–1933) illustrate the features discussed above. A former student of Joachim, his arrangements of minuets by Dussek and Handel, recorded in 1909, exemplify some of the main characteristics of the so-called Joachim-Berlin school. Burmester subdivides phrases by means of subtle tempo fluctuations and different bow strokes. For example, he uses longer strokes in order to broaden the tempo toward the middle of a phrase, and then plays faster and lighter in its second half. He highlights significant thematic and harmonic events with rubato, aided by agogic accents. He rarely employs portamento, except for passages of enhanced emotional gravity, such as during the trio sections. On many long notes Burmester uses a rather narrow finger vibrato. However, he varies his vibrato and articulation in order to differentiate between the compositional styles of Handel’s early eighteenth-century minuet and Dussek’s from almost a century later. In the Handel, Burmester employs light, off-the-string bowings and very little vibrato, while in the Dussek he exploits long, détaché strokes and more prominent vibrato.16

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Recordings of the Intermediate Period (1930–70) Early writings about historic recordings tended to characterize recent performances as less idiosyncratic than earlier ones because of influence from the flourishing recording industry. Commentators blamed the growing impact of the recording industry for bringing about canonization and authoritative norms of practice and for glorifying technical proficiency over originality and personal imprint. This view gained widespread acceptance by the time the first systematic research based on actual recorded evidence was undertaken.17 Recent investigators, however, have questioned these views and found that they are not supported by the evidence. Janet M. Levy analyzed recordings by Heifetz, Zino Francescatti (1902–91), and Yehudi Menuhin (1916–99) of Beethoven’s Violin Concerto (first movement, mm. 331–65: the famous “G-minor episode” with its pianissimo dynamics and roving modulations, usually played by most violinists at a much slower tempo than the rest of the movement). Levy found clear differences in their choice of tempo, their use of rubato, and their nuanced treatment of internal articulations.18 Mark Katz also focused on Beethoven’s Violin Concerto. He analyzed thirty-three recordings from different periods and determined that, regardless of recording date, the violinists executed vibrato in various ways, on different notes, and in differing amounts, ranging from sparse to nearly omnipresent. Moreover, he found similar diversity in regard to articulation and tone color (as determined by bowing styles), fingerings (including the use of harmonics and different string choices), accentuation, and timbre coloration.19 Heejung Lee analyzed portamento in recordings by Heifetz, Huberman, Kreisler, and David Oistrakh (1908–74) of several violin concertos and noted strikingly disparate styles with respect to type, pitch range, and dynamics.20 In research targeted at determining the personal traits and styles of Heifetz and Nathan Milstein (1904–92) through in-depth examination of their recordings of Bach’s Sonatas and Partitas, BWV 1001–6, Dorottya Fabian and Eitan Ornoy discovered great variety in their approaches to phrasing, dynamics, bowing, tempo, rhythm, vibrato, and portamento. This diversity obfuscates period trends or school affiliations. Both Heifetz and Milstein recorded multiple versions of this repertoire, and comparison of their different performances revealed their adoption over the years of new interpretive choices in many

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parameters.21 Tomislav Dimov examined the width and rate of vibrato in forty violinists’ recordings of Bach’s Sonatas and Partitas. The average width and rate varied significantly, although, beginning in the mid1950s, there was a general tendency to narrow the width.22 Further studies of string recordings made during the intermediate period have yielded similar findings.23 Nevertheless, amid this welter of often highly individual approaches, some general characteristics can be established. Compared to the first of our three periods, performers in the intermediate period tend to be more restrained with regard to tempo fluctuations within single phrases and to avoid rhythmic alterations that depart sharply from the printed score. Local rubato, which contributes to the somewhat improvisatory character of the early period recordings, gradually gravitates toward the use of accelerandos and ritardandos over longer musical sections, thereby creating a sense of systematization and intentional strategic ordering. While rubato is clearly present in many of the recordings, it is less intrusive and prominent. Dotted rhythms, previously articulated in a liberated fashion, are treated with more concern for their notated values, although there is still variety in this regard. Coordination in ensemble repertoire between the melodic line and its accompaniment is more synchronized, and the performers value and achieve increased homogeneity in their interpretations. However, the basic tempo of movements and inner sections varies widely from recording to recording, and performers by no means entirely abandon the fashion of tempo and rhythmic modifications, which continue to distinguish their individual playing styles. This relative stabilization of tempo and rhythm has often been attributed to the rise of the recording industry, which supposedly downplayed artistic extraversion and eccentric mannerism for the sake of propriety and decorum better suited to repeated hearings. Post–World War II aesthetics have also been interpreted as reflecting a striving for “objectivism,” while rejecting subjectivity and individual permissiveness.24 These and other early observations regarding tempo have been refuted, or at least greatly qualified, in recent research. For example, scholars no longer subscribe to the widespread claims that pre–World War II recordings display greater tempo contrast between slow and fast movements than their modern counterparts, that post–World War II performances present a more moderate pace for fast movements and exhibit restraint in acceleration during intense phrases, or the

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contrasting view that newer recordings display faster tempos than older ones. Tempo and rhythmic variability is certainly a key factor in early twentieth-century performance aesthetics, and the inclination toward a more controlled and rhythmically accurate rendition can, to a certain degree, be identified in later decades. Nevertheless, extensive analysis has demonstrated the great diversity, from the earliest significant recordings to the most recent ones, in the treatment of tempo and rhythm.25 Violinists have always developed and valued personal styles of vibrato, as determined by its width, speed, onset, and duration. Although vibrato became more prominent after World War II, its prudent and sparse use was certainly not uncommon. Distinctive execution of vibrato contributes to the molding of phrases and shaping of highly expressive contours. Whether intentional or evolving out of physical tendency, violinists tend to increase pitch width and speed for conspicuous, intense passages, and to use narrower and calmer vibrato for more relaxed situations. Katz suggests that the increased use of vibrato during the second half of the twentieth century is connected with the expansion of the recording industry. He notes that vibrato can: (1) compensate for emotional gestures otherwise visually displayed in live performance, for example, body language and facial expressions; (2) conceal technical deficiencies, such as bad intonation or unintentional bow strokes, potentially heard during repeated listening; (3) single out a soloist from the accompanying ensemble, a strategy frequently used by opera singers; and (4) establish an artist’s individuality in an inflated period of massproduced recordings.26 Leech-Wilkinson, taking a different approach, has linked vibrato’s increased usage to the gradual decline of portamento, whose traditional expressive role it assumed.27 It was formerly believed that the use of portamento as an intentional means of expressivity, rather than as a technical aid during position shifts, largely declined after 1930. But its ostensible falling into disuse should be regarded with caution. Closer observations have traced its presence throughout the entire twentieth century and up to the present. This dissonance between perception and reality may be connected to portamento’s range and duration, both of which were reduced, sometimes up to the point of rendering it inaudible.28 Nevertheless, violinists began assigning a more restricted role to portamento, for which several explanations have been offered. Similar to

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his proposals regarding vibrato, Katz connects portamento’s decline to the rise of the recording industry by suggesting that it seems exaggerated and artificial when heard repeatedly on recordings. LeechWilkinson links its prudent use to the overall downgrading of emotional utterance following World War II, whereas Emery Schubert and Joe Wolfe note portamento’s association with inelegance and crudeness of style due to its prominence in popular music. They also posit a technological factor: the development of artificial instruments that produce stable pitch and thus suppress such a distinctive feature as portamento, which is associated with the human voice.29 During this period, violinists greatly reduced their use of harmonics and usually avoided open strings by fingering the pitch on its adjacent lower string. In addition to circumventing the somewhat grating sound of metal strings, this practice facilitates the constant use of vibrato. Together with extensive use of higher positions, it fosters expressivity and a greater variety of timbre. Violinists continued to vary their articulation, but they favored tenuto for detached notes, seamless bowings that produce long and smooth legato lines, even portato strokes, and pointed enunciation of staccato notes, which boosts brilliant virtuosic display and requires superb technical command. However, there are many exceptions to these generalizations. In earlier decades, violinists’ “school” and “pedagogical lineage” may have played a limited role in determining their performance styles, but in the intermediate period players who share a similar background do not necessarily exhibit common trends. Traditional school distinctions disappear in our jet age in which musicians regularly travel from one pedagogical center to another. The standard route taken by modern violin students before launching their careers involves instruction with several major teachers with different backgrounds, and participation in numerous masterclasses with established artists. This process obliterates common characteristics and pedagogical trademarks. The emphasis on developing individual artistic profiles also obscures shared identities of performers who have studied under the same teacher. The easy accessibility of recordings made by influential artists of diverse heritage, which students study as models for imitation, also blurs commonalities. Moreover, the overwhelming expansion of recorded sources during this era enables the investigation of multiple recordings of the same repertoire by individual violinists at different points in their

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careers. Interestingly, performers frequently develop and modify their interpretation, which suggests the restricted significance and impermanence of early models and ideals. Recordings of Belgian violinist Arthur Grumiaux (1921–86) illustrate typical characteristics of this period. In his 1956 recording (with pianist Clara Haskil [1895–1960) of the first movement of Mozart’s Violin Sonata in A Major, K. 526, the stable tempo and solid pulse during long sections give the impression of orderliness and constant flow. The performers base their articulation, which is coordinated and well matched between instruments, on light, off-the-string, exuberant strokes produced in the middle of the bow, on clear enunciation of slurred note groupings (with slight accentuation on the first note), and on occasional detached portato strokes that emphasize charged notes of high significance. Grumiaux eliminates audible portamento, and his fast constant vibrato is prominent throughout. He occasionally employs open strings, favors first position fingerings, and never seems to be using harmonics.30 However, in his recording of the second movement of the Tchaikovsky Violin Concerto, also released in 1956, Grumiaux employs a wide variety of different interpretive strategies suited to its compositional style.31 Although there is a general impression of steady pulse and long-arched phrases, he achieves salient rhythmic freedom by means of agogic accents and melodic rubato. In order to enhance expressivity, along with the occasional use of portamento, he constantly varies nuances of timbre and dynamics. He also adjusts the quality of his vibrato according to the degree of expressivity within individual phrases, even including the deliberate absence of vibrato on appropriate notes. Grumiaux’s recordings attest to the variety of interpretive options available in an era once assumed to be monolithic and undiversified.

Recordings of Recent Decades (1970–Present) One groundbreaking recording epitomizes recordings of recent decades: the 1977 recording by Sergiu Luca (1943–2010) on a period instrument of Bach’s solo violin works.32 Although perhaps overlooked today, it holds special significance as a harbinger of the overwhelming impact that the then somewhat marginal “historically informed performance” (HIP) movement would have on violin performance aesthetics.

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The influence of HIP should not be underestimated. Its goal of reconstructing a multitude of seemingly obsolete performance practices led to an increased awareness and legitimization of numerous possibilities for rendering the written text. Luca was the first in a long line of violinists performing on period instruments who have brought to life many aspects of bygone traditions. They include the use of: much less vibrato; tuning to lower Baroque pitch standards (A = ca. 380–415); frequent arpeggiation of chords along with execution of multiple stops in a soft, light, and “airy” manner in order to clarify the voice leading; explicit tempo modifications; clear rhythmic groupings to project dancelike characteristics; occasional added ornamentation; flexible realization of dotted figures, including notes inégales; open gut strings; fingerings that remain in the lower positions; messa di voce (the “swell” effect, i.e., the increase and decrease in dynamic intensity on long notes); and a wide spectrum of articulation. Although tentative earlier attempts at assumed Baroque practices (e.g., the “Vega” bow33) had the same goal, the combination of such a broad array of HIP techniques and aesthetics constituted a striking innovation. Initially, Luca’s recording prompted reticent reviews, but it soon attracted a large following of performers and music lovers. William Primrose (1904–82), the renowned “mainstream” (MS) violist, wrote to Luca in 1978 and praised his pioneering recording for “sweetness of tone, the cunning avoidance of vibrato in the twentieth century manner, your charming use of ‘notes inégales’ especially in the opening of the Chaconne, and your healthy tempi, and avoidance of undue sentimentality, and hortatory declaration. It is a presentation of everything I have looked for so long in Bach performance.”34 Later violinists who also cultivated HIP conventions soon flourished and actively revived long-neglected Baroque compositions through extensive recording projects. Despite much skepticism from within the community of early music connoisseurs, some of whom challenged aspects of this movement,35 several fundamental characteristics of HIP emerged, foremost of which was the prerequisite of using the Baroque violin, strung with gut strings, and played with a bow appropriate to the period and style of the composition being performed. The period instruments fostered a wide variety of new possibilities for articulation, timbre, and dynamics. They also encouraged violinists to take the historically sanctioned liberty of employing idiomatic techniques

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and additional ornamentation throughout sections of an improvised nature. A more restrained and sparing use of vibrato and the adoption of the lower pitch standards that prevailed in the eighteenth century also became trademarks for an ever-growing body of HIP performers. A case in point is HIP violinist Fabio Biondi (b. 1961), whose 1991 recording of Vivaldi’s “Four Seasons,” with its acrobatic display of a broad spectrum of idiomatic techniques, was unparalleled by any of the numerous previous recordings of this work. Two years later Biondi was trumped by Enrico Onofri (b. 1967), whose recording of the “Four Seasons” is characterized by an almost provocative extravaganza of instrumental effects.36 These violinists achieved fresh and tantalizing performances of one of the most popular works in the violin literature by exploiting extreme tempo changes, expanded use of rubato, elaborate embellishments, special sound effects made with extended bowing techniques, and an overwhelming variety of dynamics and timbres. While HIP performers might still seem bound to certain group classifications when observed in light of various performance features, they also exhibit many aspects that are similar to those of their MS peers, suggesting mutual influences as well as shared canonical interpretations. For example, researchers have documented a close relationship between the tempo choices made by all performers, HIP and MS alike, for various movements of Bach’s Sonatas and Partitas for solo violin. Most important, also in regard to this repertoire, the majority of violinists, regardless of biographical background or stylistic orientation, employ the same interpretive strategies for significant thematic, harmonic, and structural events, and they also share the same idiomatic techniques.37 Yet the impact of HIP on contemporary performance has gradually become all-embracing, even affecting the style and aesthetics of MS players who have adopted some of its intrinsic features. In his study of an excerpt from the Adagio of Bach’s Sonata in G Minor, BWV 1001, Ornoy found significant commonalities between HIP practices and the style of the younger generation of MS players associated with the “American/Galamian” school, including: their adherence to the bowings that Bach notated in his autograph score; their preference for lower positions; and their generous addition of a wide palette of articulation and dynamic nuances not notated by Bach.38 Fabian reported similar findings in her analysis of both HIP and MS recordings of other Bach movements. In both camps she found a

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decline in the use of vibrato, increased use of open strings and lower positions, rhythmic flexibility linked to assumed note hierarchies within phrases, and similarities in the treatment of dotted rhythms.39 Moreover, in research focused on ornamentation in Bach recordings (by both MS and HIP violinists) from recent decades, Fabian found an increased presence of added embellishments and an overall improvisational attitude toward the written score, manifested, for example, by interpreting runs and arpeggios in short note values as ornamental flourishes connecting notes of thematic, harmonic, or structural significance. Most noteworthy, however, she discovered a greater use of these practices by contemporary MS violinists than by their “historically informed” peers.40 The HIP movement has also broadened to embrace late eighteenthand nineteenth-century repertoire. Richard J. Turner noted a partial return to the use of portamento after the 1980s in performances of Beethoven’s String Quartet Op. 131.41 In Beethoven recordings by the newer generation of string quartets, Nancy November observed an “urge toward innovation” created by a variety of bow strokes and articulation devices.42 And in a study aimed at identifying reciprocity and mutual influences between violinists varying in age and school/ stylistic affiliation, Liebman, Ornoy, and Chor found no single performance parameter to be decisively sensitive to either HIP or non-HIP interpretation. Their “phylogenetic” tree, constructed by using several algorithmic methods, yielded the clustering of young MS players together with their HIP colleagues. This suggests the latter’s influence on many aspects of performance as well as shared interpretation identities between the two groups.43 Although additional research on the extent of HIP influence on contemporary MS violinists is needed, the blend of stylistic approaches has fostered a huge palette of performance options, widening the spectrum to include bygone idiomatic features together with a constant search for innovations. Recordings from the early and intermediate periods certainly displayed heterogeneity and variety of syntax. However, the legitimization, and even the current etiquette, of being able to select freely from an overwhelming number of interpretive alternatives makes the recordings of earlier periods seem pale by comparison. As any random selection of contemporary recordings clearly illustrates, violinists now utilize vast options regarding dynamics, articulation, rhythm, fingerings, bowings, portamento, and so forth, to arrive at unique and highly individual interpretations.

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That said, certain characteristics still serve as clear-cut parameters in an era of seeming stylistic inflation and unrestrained exuberance. Both overall and inner-phrase tempo fluctuations are more restrained than during the first of our three periods. This limitation serves to delineate a sense of temporal stability and large-scale structure, as opposed to the localized, “note-to-note” delivery. The improvisational and uneven treatment of tempo and rhythm, so conspicuous in recordings of the acoustic era, might still seem erratic even to the most eccentric performers today. In fact, as identified in several studies, large-scale, “architectural” phrase shaping (created, e.g., by employing tempo and dynamics to project formal structure) has become the norm in recordings made during this period.44 Technical command of the instrument is still a compulsory premise dictating the performer’s status, for which steadfast intonation (regardless of the pitch standard or temperament model used), acrobatic virtuosity, and flawless bowing control remain prerequisites. While school affiliation is no longer relevant for predicting an artist’s idiosyncratic signature, association with either HIP or MS—commonly demarcated by the use of either period or modern instruments—still serves as an established denominator regarding performance style and interpretation. However, the reconstruction of historical performance practices has fostered, as we have seen, various approaches that were soon adopted by “mainstream” violinists. Hence, it may not be farfetched to speculate that current differences between the two camps may soon disappear. The vast catalog of recordings by German violinist Christian Tetzlaff (b. 1966) represents the epitome of contemporary performance style. In his 2011 recording (with pianist Lars Vogt [b. 1970]) of Schumann’s Violin Sonata No. 2 in D Minor, op. 121, Tetzlaff takes great liberties with many aspects of interpretation.45 In the third movement, he realizes the chords and double stops, whether pizzicato or arco, in various manners. His vast range of bowing effects (sul tasto, sul ponticello, and subtle variations of bow speed, pressure, and point of contact) lends zest, expressivity, and multifarious dynamic shadings to the different textures. Open strings and unusual fingerings in various positions highlight note repetitions and phrases of special significance. Tetzlaff varies his vibrato in a plethora of ways, including the occasional use of both the “swell” effect (messa di voce) and, in sharp contrast, the total absence of vibrato (non vibrato).

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The 2009 recording by Russian violinist Viktoria Mullova (b. 1959) of Beethoven’s Sonata for Violin and Piano in A Major, op. 47 (“Kreutzer”), with Kristian Bezuidenhout (b. 1979), fortepiano, is another excellent exemplar of current performance vogue.46 As a mainstream violinist, Mullova has performed and recorded a vast and wide-ranging repertoire. Thus, her usage on this recording of gut strings, period bow, and low pitch makes it impossible to categorize this multifaceted violinist. A former student of Leonid Kogan, Mullova’s playing stands out as a unique fusion of the modern Russian school with HIP features. Her MS traits include: sustained and firm bow pressure, intensive sound production coupled with resolute marcato attacks, simultaneously played triple stops executed with great vigor, fast vibrato, and dazzling trills. But she enriches her playing by also infusing it with HIP characteristics, including: an ethereal rendering of slender tones produced by light bow pressure and minimal vibrato, resonating open strings, ample timbre shading, and occasional improvised ornamentation. Although turning back the wheel of time to our starting point seems unlikely, future interpretations might well exhibit early twentieth-century performance characteristics as part of a quasi-postmodern quest for pluralism and elimination of hierarchical classifications. One can easily visualize a future in which performances that revive old German school aesthetics are merged with artistic innovations that represent quite different stylistic ideals. Swingy, jazzy rhythms, various electronic effects, and striking new orchestrations are just a few of the unlimited options that are easily imaginable, which leaves us with a most promising future . . .

Notes 1.

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Further, see John Culshaw, “The Role of the Producer,” in Sound Recording Practice, ed. John Borwick (New York: Oxford University Press, 1980), 320–26; Andre Millard, America on Record: A History of Recorded Sound (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995), 17–96; Timothy Day, A Century of Recorded Music: Listening to Musical History (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2000); Peter Johnson, “The Legacy of Recordings,” in Musical Performance: A Guide to Understanding, ed. John Rink (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002), 197–212; Risto Pekka Pennanen, “Commercial Recordings and Source Criticism in Music Research: Some Methodological Views,” Svensk Tidskrift för Musikforskning 87 (2005): 81–98;

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2.

3.

4.

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and Roger Beardsley and Daniel Leech-Wilkinson, “A Brief History of Recording to ca. 1950” (London: CHARM [Center for the History and Analysis of Recorded Music], 2009), http://www.charm.rhul.ac.uk/history/p20_4_1.html. Other digital waveform editors include: MathWorks’s “Matlab” program; Rational Acoustic’s “System Measurement Acoustic Analysis Real-time Tool (SMAART)”; Apple’s “Final Cut Pro”; the “R” programming environment software tool; and Boersma and Weenink’s PRAAT Software. Further, see Nicholas Cook, “Methods for Analyzing Recordings,” in The Cambridge Companion to Recorded Music, ed. Nicholas Cook, Eric Clarke, Daniel LeechWilkinson, and John Rink (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009), 221–45. The violinist and pedagogue Carl Flesch (1873–1944) describes three types of portamento: the B-portamento in which the sliding is made with the finger that played the note of departure, a type usually associated with the French violin school; the L-portamento in which the sliding is made with the finger intended for the target note, a type associated with the Russian violin school; and portamento executed with a combination of these two. The term “glissando” usually refers to the practice of gliding up or down the string using the same finger for the notes of departure and arrival. In older recordings, B-type portamento is more common than its counterpart. See Carl Flesch, The Art of Violin Playing: Book 1, trans. and ed. Eric Rosenblith (New York: Carl Fischer, 2000; orig. pub. 1924); Richard Turner, “Style and Tradition in String Quartet Performance: A Study of 32 Recordings of Beethoven’s Op. 131 Quartet” (PhD diss., University of Sheffield, 2004); Heejung Lee, “Violin Portamento: An Analysis of Its Use by Master Violinists in Selected Nineteenth-Century Concerti,” Proceedings of the Ninth International Conference on Music Perception and Cognition (2006), 1888–1914, http://www.marcocosta.it/icmpc2006/pdfs/339. pdf; and Nancy November, “Commonality and Diversity in Recordings of Beethoven’s Middle-Period String Quartets,” Performance Practice Review 15, no. 1 (2010), doi:10.5642/perfpr.201015.01.04. See Clive Brown, “Bowing Styles, Vibrato and Portamento in NineteenthCentury Violin Playing,” Journal of the Royal Musical Association 113 (1988): 98–128; Jonathan Bellman, “Performing Brahms in the Style Hongrois,” in Performing Brahms: Early Evidence of Performing Style, ed. Michael Musgrave and Bernard D. Sherman (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2003), 327–48; Raymond Monelle, “The Orchestral String Portamento as Expressive Topic,” Journal of Musicological Research 31 (2012): 138–46; and Emery Schubert and Joe Wolfe, “The Rise of Fixed Pitch Systems and the Slide of Continuous Pitch: A Note for Emotion in Music Research about

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5.

6.

7.

8. 9.

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Portamento,” Journal of Interdisciplinary Music Studies 7, nos. 2–3 (2013): 1–28, doi:10.4407/jims.2014.06.001. See David Milsom, Theory and Practice in Late Nineteenth-Century Violin Performance (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2003); Mark Katz, “Beethoven in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction: The Violin Concerto on Record,” Beethoven Forum 10, no. 1 (2003): 38–54; Turner, “Style and Tradition”; Marie Sumner Lott, “Iron Hand with a Velvet Glove? String Quartet Performance in the Late Nineteenth and Early-Twentieth Centuries,” Journal of Musicological Research 25 (2006): 263–89; Lee, “Violin portamento”; and Eitan Ornoy, “Recording Analysis of J. S. Bach’s G Minor Adagio for Solo Violin (Excerpt): A Case Study,” Journal of Music and Meaning 6 (2008), section 2, http://www.musicandmeaning.net/issues/showArticle.php?artID=6.2. Further, see Rebecca B. MacLeod, “Influences of Dynamic Level and Pitch Register on the Vibrato Rates and Widths of Violin and Viola Players,” Journal of Research in Music Education 56, no. 1 (2008): 43–54; John M. Geringer, Michael L. Allen, and Rebecca B. MacLeod, “String Vibrato: Research Related to Performance and Perception,” String Research Journal 1 (2010): 7–23; and Jennifer Cahill Clark, “A Pilot Study of Relationships between Pitch Register and Dynamic Level and Vibrato Rate and Width in Professional Violinists,” String Research Journal 1 (2010): 75–85. See Daniel Leech-Wilkinson, The Changing Sound of Music: Approaches to Studying Recorded Musical Performance (London: CHARM, 2009). For additional information on vibrato in the early period, see Milsom, Theory and Practice; Stijn Mattheij, “String Vibrato in the Age of Recording: A Wavelet Study,” in Proceedings of the NAG/DAGA International Conference on Acoustics, ed. Marinus M. Boone (New York: Curran Associates, 2009), 1490–93; Tomislav Dimov, “Short Historical Overview and Comparison of the Pitch Width and Speed Rates of the Vibrato Used in Sonatas and Partitas for Solo Violin by Johann Sebastian Bach as Found in Recordings of Famous Violinists of the Twentieth and the Twenty-First Centuries” (PhD diss., University of West Virginia, 2010); Mark Katz, Capturing Sound: How Technology Has Changed Music (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2010); and Clive Brown, “The Decline of the 19th-century German School of Violin Playing,” in CHASE [Collection of Historical Annotated String Editions] (2011), http://chase.leeds.ac.uk/article/the-decline-ofthe-19th-century-german-school-of-violin-playing-clive-brown/. See Katz, “Beethoven in the Age”; and Ornoy, “Recording Analysis.” See Robert Philip, Early Recordings and Musical Style: Changing Tastes in Instrumental Performance, 1950–1990 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993); and Katz, “Beethoven in the Age”; Milsom, Theory and Practice; and November, “Commonality and Diversity.”

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234 ❧ Chapter Eight 10. See Milsom, Theory and Practice; and Robert Philip, Performing Music in the Age of Recording (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2004). 11. See Milsom, Theory and Practice; and Philip, Performing Music. 12. See Milsom, Theory and Practice. 13. See Clive Brown, “Joachim’s Violin Playing and the Performance of Brahms’s String Music,” in Musgrave and Sherman, Performing Brahms, 48–98. 14. See Leech-Wilkinson, The Changing Sound of Music. 15. Further, see James Creighton, Discopaedia of the Violin 1889–1971 (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1975). 16. Burmester’s 1909 recording of the Rondo from Dussek’s Piano Sonatina in G Major, op. 20, no. 1 (arr. vln. and pf.) and the Menuetto from Handel’s Sonata in F Major, HWV 363a (arr. vln. and pf.) were released on Gramophone and Typewriter 47979 and 47985, respectively. 17. See Laurence Dreyfus, “Early Music Defended Against Its Devotees: A Theory of Historical Performance in the Twentieth Century,” Musical Quarterly 69 (1983): 297–322; Philip, Early Recordings; Michael Chanan, Repeated Takes: A Short History of Recording and Its Effects on Music (London: Verso, 1995); Day, A Century of Recorded Music; and Katz, “Beethoven in the Age.” 18. See Janet M. Levy, “The Power of the Performer: Interpreting Beethoven,” Journal of Musicology 18 (2001): 31–55. 19. See Katz, “Beethoven in the Age.” 20. See Lee, “Violin Portamento.” 21. See Dorottya Fabian and Eitan Ornoy, “Identity in Violin Playing on Records: Interpretation Profiles in Recordings of Solo Bach by Early 20th-century Violinists,” Performance Practice Review 14, no. 1 (2009), doi:10.5642/perfpr.200914.01.03. This study tracked performers’ idiosyncrasies and personal attributes in a manner similar to traditional attempts at deciphering a composer’s style or the specific characteristics of a musical piece. It involved analysis of recordings by Heifetz, Milstein, and their contemporaries. 22. See Dimov, “Short Historical Overview.” 23. Other studies of recordings of Bach’s solo violin works include: Richard Pulley, “A Statistical Analysis of Tempi in Bach’s D Minor Partita,” in Proceedings of the Seventh International Conference on Music Perception and Cognition, ed. Catherine Stevens, Denis Burnham, Gary McPherson, Emery Schubert, and James Renwick (Adelaide: Causal Productions, 2002), 108– 11; Dorottya Fabian, “Towards a Performance History of Bach’s Sonatas and Partitas for Solo Violin: Preliminary Investigations,” in Essays in Honor of László Somfai: Studies in the Sources and the Interpretation of Music, ed. László Vikárius and Vera Lampert (Lanham, MD: Scarecrow Press,

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24. 25.

26. 27. 28. 29.

30. 31.

32. 33.

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2005), 87–108; Montserrat Puiggròs i Maldonado, “Comparative Analysis of Expressivity in Recorded Violin Performances: Study of the Sonatas and Partitas for Solo Violin by J. S. Bach” (MA thesis, Universitat Pompeu Fabra, 2007); Eric Cheng and Elaine Chew, “Quantitative Analysis of Phrasing Strategies in Expressive Performance: Computational Methods and Analysis of Performances of Unaccompanied Bach for Solo Violin,” Journal of New Music Research 37 (2008): 325–38; Ornoy, “Recording Analysis”; Mattheij, “String Vibrato”; and Sarlo Dario, “Investigating Performer Uniqueness: The Case of Jascha Heifetz” (PhD diss., University of London, 2010). Studies focusing on recordings made by string instrumentalists of other repertoire include: Lee, “Violin Portamento”; Turner, “Style and Tradition”; November, “Commonality and Diversity”; Milan Milisavljevic, “The Evolution of Viola Playing as Heard in Recordings of William Walton’s Viola Concerto” (PhD diss., Rice University, 2011); and Ju-Lee Hong, “An Empirical Analysis of Musical Expression in Recordings by Selected Cellists” (MA thesis., University of London, 2014). See Leech-Wilkinson, The Changing Sound of Music. Further, see Fabian, “Towards a Performance History”; and Dorottya Fabian, “Is Diversity in Musical Performance Truly in Decline? The Evidence of Sound Recordings,” Context: A Journal of Music Research 31 (2006): 165–80. See Katz, Capturing Sound. See Leech-Wilkinson, The Changing Sound of Music. See Katz, “Beethoven in the Age”; Turner, “Style and Tradition”; Fabian, “Towards a Performance History”; and Hong, “An Empirical Analysis.” See Mark Katz, “Portamento and the Phonograph Effect,” Journal of Musicological Research 25 (2006): 211–32; Leech-Wilkinson, The Changing Sound of Music; and Schubert and Wolfe, “The Rise of Fixed Pitch.” Released on Philips L 00.338. Grumiaux’s recording of Tchaikovsky’s Violin Concerto, released on Epic LC2265, is with the Vienna Symphony Orchestra conducted by Bogo Leskovic. Released on Nonesuch HC 73030. The so-called Vega (or Bach) bow has a round shape and an easily maneuvered mechanism for adjusting tautness of the hair that enables the simultaneous sounding of all notes of a chord. Apart from relatively few proponents—such as violinists Rolph Schroeder, Emil Telmányi, Otto Büchner, and Rudolf Gähler who have praised its use for Bach— it has failed to gain popularity over the years. See Albert Schweitzer, “Reconstructing the Bach Violin Bow,” Musical America 70 (1950): 5–13; David D. Boyden, The History of Violin Playing from Its Origins to 1761 and Its Relationship to the Violin and Violin Music (London: Oxford University Press,

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34. 35.

36.

37.

38. 39.

40.

41. 42.

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1965); Tossy Spivakovsky, “Polyphony in Bach’s Works for Solo Violin,” Music Review 28, no. 4 (1967): 277–88; and Rudolf Gähler, Der Rundbogen für die Violine: ein Phantom? (Regensburg: ConBrio, 1997). Special thanks to Susan Archibald for providing the letter and allowing it to be quoted. It is beyond the scope of this chapter to address the broad issue of ideological attitudes connected with the HIP agenda. Suffice it to mention the increasing skepticism emerging from around the mid-1970s concerning: the authoritative status of musicological research in deciphering composers’ intentions and meaning; the performers’ individual discourse as being equal to that of the composer; and the legitimization of using “modern” instruments in early music repertoire. Further, see Nicholas Kenyon, ed., Authenticity and Early Music: A Symposium (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1988); Richard Taruskin, Text and Act: Essays on Music and Performance (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1995); John Butt, Playing with History: The Historical Approach to Musical Performance (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002); Peter Walls, History, Imagination and the Performance of Music (Rochester, NY: Boydell Press, 2003); Bruce Haynes, The End of Early Music: A Period Performer’s History of Music for the Twenty-First Century (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007); and Barthold Kuijken, The Notation Is Not the Music: Reflections on Early Music Practice and Performance (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2013). Fabio Biondi’s recording (with “Europa Galante”) was released on Opus 111, 56-9120. Enrico Onofri’s recording (with “Il Giardino Armonico”) was released on Teldec, 4509-97671-2. See Pulley, “A Statistical Analysis”; Eitan Ornoy, “Between Theory and Practice: Comparative Study of Early Music Performances,” Early Music 34 (2006): 233–47; and Dario, “Investigating Performer Uniqueness.” See Ornoy, “Recording Analysis.” See Dorottya Fabian, “Diversity and Homogeneity in Contemporary Violin Recordings of Solo Bach,” in Proceedings of the International Symposium on Performance Science 2009, ed. Aaron Williamon, Sharman Pretty, and Ralph Buck (Utrecht: Association européenne des conservatoires, académies de musique et Musikhochschulen, 2009), http://www.legacyweb.rcm.ac.uk/ cache/fl0019947.pdf. See Dorottya Fabian, “Ornamentation in Recent Recordings of J. S. Bach’s Solo Sonatas and Partitas for Violin,” Min-Ad: Israel Studies in Musicology Online 11, no. 2 (2013): 1–21, http://www.biu.ac.il/hu/mu/min-ad/. See Turner, “Style and Tradition.” See Nancy November, “Performance History and Beethoven’s String Quartets: Setting the Record Crooked,” Journal of Musicological Research 30 (2011): 1–22.

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43. See Elad Liebman, Eitan Ornoy, and Benny Chor, “A Phylogenetic Approach to Music Performance Analysis,” Journal of New Music Research 41 (2012): 195–222. 44. See Lott, “Iron Hand”; November, “Performance History”; and Dorottya Fabian, “Commercial Sound Recordings and Trends in Expressive Music Performance: Why Should Experimental Researchers Pay Attention?” in Expressiveness in Music Performance, ed. Dorottya Fabian, Renee Timmers, and Emery Schubert (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2014), 58–79. 45. Released in 2013 on Ondine, ODE 1205-2. 46. Released in 2010 on ONYX, 4050.

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Part Three Across the Continents

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9

THE PERIPATETIC VIOLIN

Chris Goertzen

T

he violin has traveled and flourished all over the world. This chapter will sample just four very different uses of the violin outside of western art music. First, in the musically most elementary example, the Tarahumara Indians of Mexico’s northwestern mountains carve crude, large violins for accompaniment of the ancient matachines dances. Second, in dramatic contrast, the violin has become one of the main art music instruments of South India. Characteristic tunings, an idiosyncratic way of holding the instrument, and a variety of techniques related to those of other South Asian stringed instruments allow this relatively recent import to explore ragas at least as expressively as any other performance medium. Third will be a brief visit to a genre of popular music, one known worldwide. In tango ensembles born in Buenos Aires and Montevideo but exported repeatedly, violin technique has changed to suit the evolving nature of this genre, and now includes timbres and attacks that allow it to imitate or answer the bandoneón (the piercing tango accordion), the voice, and even percussion. The violin has thus served as an acoustic ambassador, helping to export this Rio de Plata pop music genre and to expand the reach of the tango from mass culture into a special niche within art music. Fourth, in an example of “folk music” that is as introverted and culturally delimited as the tango is exuberant and international, the Norwegian vanlig fele (normal fiddle, i.e., violin) is played in many parts of Norway, while the western mountains are the primary home of the hardingfele (Hardanger fiddle), a highly decorated instrument that, unusually, contains a second set of

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strings under the fingerboard that vibrate sympathetically when their pitches are played on the strings above. Because Norwegians conceive of national culture as a mosaic of carefully maintained microcultures, players of the vanlig fele or of the hardingfele not only cleave to the fiddle type dominant in their home village, but also to their home’s specific style and repertoire. In sum, the versatility and consequent geographic and cultural reach of the violin is breathtaking.

The Tarahumara Fiddle: A Star in the Materially Sparse Lives of the Mountain “Runners” The Tarahumara (who call themselves Rarámuri, meaning runners) have occupied mountainous territory in western Mexico since centuries before contact with Europeans. They cultivate corn, beans, and squash (the age-old rural Mexican farming formula), raise a few goats and chickens, and hunt rabbits and deer, the latter often by running them down slowly but inexorably. When the Spanish arrived, their military might served both greed and cultural aggressiveness. Jesuit priests proselytized in the Sierra Madre from roughly 1610 until their expulsion in 1767, maintaining some thirty missions and fifty mission outposts in Tarahumara territory. Franciscans followed, but were less energetic; many missions were abandoned.1 A few Jesuits are back now, with philanthropic (mostly medical) efforts centered on the mission in Creel, Chihuahua, the small mestizo town that remains the most accessible population center in the Tarahumara area. Tarahumara territory has diminished steadily since the Spanish arrived, and now constitutes only about twenty thousand square miles of the economically least-viable parts of the Sierra Madre. Mining, logging, and, today, drug lords (narcotraficantes) seeking farmland continue to carve away chunks of Indian land, with these outsider-run enterprises ending up employing some Tarahumara, thus offering the mixed blessing of episodes of acculturation. Modern tourism offers similarly mixed blessings—employment for a few Indians as guides, laborers, and as craftsmen who make souvenirs, though most profits go to outsider entrepreneurs. The lack of sanitation and the consequent prevalence of disease, which constricts the lifespans of the Tarahumara, are also the main factors that discourage growth in tourism.2

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Outsiders often romanticize Tarahumara life because it remains streamlined in terms of belongings—this being willfully interpreted as laudable asceticism rather than abject poverty—and because the Indians’ extraordinary ability to run long distances offers a physical manifestation of what some idealize as special spiritual advantages of peasant life. For instance, pianist and frequent visitor Romayne Wheeler wrote that “the aim of [his] quest” among this population was to “discover anew the naturalness of man,” and to draw enlightenment from “a fortress of ancient customs.”3 In the end, marginal subsistence agriculture in small ribbons of arable land, supplemented with hunting, leaves these Indians in straitened circumstances in tiny communities. They live in caves, stone huts, or, with the arrival of the axe, wood cabins. Typical families own little or no furniture beyond planks on which to sleep, a blanket or two per person, a change or two of practical clothing, and a few plain clay pots and unadorned baskets (almost everything made by family members). Some families own a gourd rattle—a pre-Columbian instrument used in a few ceremonies—and a significant minority even have a violin. Making a Tarahumara violin requires some skill, but wood is free and the minimal complement of tools (a knife, an axe with a head that can double as a hammer, and perhaps a chisel) are ones already needed for daily life. When a family possesses a violin as the star among their few belongings not linked with the physical necessities of life, that instrument is truly important. Although the violin music of the Tarahumara Indians remains simple (in terms of pitches, phrasing, musical forms, and size of repertoire), it nevertheless constitutes the main musical ingredient of an auditory environment of whispers of wind, water, animals, and conversation. This music means as much to its makers as music does to members of any society. Some Tarahumara play the fiddle for their personal enjoyment, and funerals are not complete without violin music. But the main performance venue for Tarahumara violinists is the matachines dance. The best appraisal of this widespread and varied genre was penned by Sylvia Rodriguez: The matachines dance is a ritual drama performed on certain saint’s days in Pueblo Indian and Mexicano/Hispano communities along the upper Rio Grande valley and elsewhere in the greater Southwest. The dance is characterized by two rows of masked male dancers wearing mitre-like

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244 ❧ Chapter Nine hats with long, multi-colored ribbons down the back. In the upper Rio Grande valley of New Mexico, these ten or twelve masked figures are accompanied by a young girl in white who is paired with an adult male dancer wearing a floral corona. They are joined by another man or boy dressed as a bull and by two clowns. The crowned man dressed like the other dancers is known as Montezuma, or El Monarca.4

A double purpose is served, to praise the Virgin Mary (made clear by the dates on which the dance is done in Tarahumara territory, including Our Lady of Guadalupe day), and to illustrate ritual conflict and victory. The basic setup and array of moves resembles an Anglo-American line dance, the Virginia reel. Facing lines of male dancers represent negative and positive forces, as in the widespread dance genre called “Moors and Christians,” which originated in Spain, but now can be found here and there in Latin America.5 The Tarahumara version of the matachines dance remains simple. Neither line of dancers represents identities obviously more virtuous than the other, and the only regularly appearing “named” characters are a pair of monarchas who double as booking agents and on-the-spot directors of the dance. This omission of the supplementary characters found in most regional manifestations of the matachines dance (i.e., limiting the personnel almost entirely to the two lines of dancers) tilts the meaning away from ritual drama toward nonspecific celebration.6 The accompanying violin tunes and techniques also remain schematic. The melodies—in major, largely conjunct, in simple or compound duple time (sometimes combined with triple time in local versions of the pan–rural Mexican sesquialtera)—consist of a few short, parallel phrases. These tunes repeat for long periods and are played in characteristic sequences for dances that can last for hours. Usually, several violins play in a unison decorated with occasional parallel thirds; larger ensembles may also include Tarahumara guitars strumming chords, usually just two chords a fifth apart in alternation. Though these musical ingredients remain slender, the total sound is enriched by the mix of timbres produced by the variation in violin sizes and shapes, by the lack of standardization of string brands and thicknesses, by variations in intonation and by poorly synchronized physical bow strokes. Since melodies never require the left hand to exceed first position, performers can hold their instruments as do many fiddlers worldwide, with the palm of the left hand against the neck of the violin; the fiddle

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usually rests against the player’s chest rather than being gripped by chin and left shoulder. Bows are short and simple, with no curve. The players present the melodies with clean, unaccented strokes, with the bow always remaining on the strings. This author purchased the two Tarahumara violins pictured in figure 9.1 in the mission store in Creel in the summer of 1990. The nun in charge asserted that each instrument took a full day to make, perhaps even two, so that they were reasonably priced at about fifteen dollars each. The more conventional-looking one on the left is a little smaller than is the norm, but is otherwise typical; most Tarahumara violins resemble violas in size and heft, and tend to be tuned at about a viola’s pitch level. Both instruments pictured were hand-carved from local woods, with the fingerboard of this one made of a hardwood, as are the tailpieces and bridges of both. Only the wire serving as tailgut and the steel guitar strings are purchased. This exemplar matches local norms in that the lower bout is large in comparison to that of a standard violin (perhaps to echo the proportions of a guitar—the Tarahumara make a few of these, too). Overall, the construction is rough and hasty—for instance, no effort went into ornamenting the scroll—but it is playable, and it produces the moderate volume and tinny timbre expected. It is in fact a functional Tarahumara violin. The instrument on the right was intended for the tourist trade from the start. It is small and not felicitously shaped for sound projection. Also, the softwood fingerboard lacks any curvature to accommodate actual performance; this fiddle was designed to catch a visitor’s eye and then to ornament a wall back in Milwaukee or Munich. However, the rudimentary horse’s head serving as a scroll (the most common decorative option on Tarahumara violins) and the level of finish (i.e., careful sanding) on this instrument’s top represent more effort than was expended in making those parts of the more functional companion instrument. But rather than this extra work presenting a puzzle, it offers balance: when music-making potential is not part of the equation, more attention is devoted to appearance. Why has the top been shaped to represent a human face? There is no highly developed mask craft in Tarahumara territory, even though the monarkas directing the Tarahumara matachines dance do sport wooden masks representing a deer’s head. However, contact with neighboring indigenous groups who carve masks may have suggested the human face as a salable design option. The fact that neither instrument is varnished—Tarahumara

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Figure 9.1. Two Tarahumara fiddles.

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fiddles never are—suits outsiders’ concept of authenticity as including a basic roughness or simplicity and also the craftsman’s need to complete an instrument quickly and put it up for sale. Just as violins are at the center of music making for the Tarahumara, handmade violins as salable objects are at the financial center of their tourist trade. They dominate the souvenir offerings at the Mission store and in all other craft outlets in Creel. Tours to the area involve much more money than do crafts, but the income resulting from the transportation and housing of tourists goes to outsiders. Admittedly, some Indians earn money and interact with outsiders as guides, but the most prominent violin makers may be the Tarahumara whose lives are changed the most. Some of their profits go back into tools that can streamline their craft, such as task-specific chisels and luthiers’ clamps. These violin makers are becoming professional specialists to a degree rare here, and they have more contact with non-Indians than do all but a few members of their tribe. The modern Tarahumara violins continue to represent a bridge to the outside world, just as the violins brought by Jesuits built a musical bridge centuries ago. The violin was adopted for vernacular use in many parts of Mexico at about the same time. Even the Zapotec Indians in Mexico’s second poorest state, Oaxaca, have seen the violin reach out in many directions over the centuries. In the Guelaguetza—the giant, mostly indigenous-based annual festival in which over a dozen communities show off their dances each year to locals and to both Mexican and foreign tourists—a few populaces still employ violins in the ensembles that accompany dances. However, community brass bands are much more common in that role; such bands have become emblems of education and of glacially growing prosperity. On the Oaxaca city square, three or four mariachi ensembles—each with two violins shrilling out melodies in parallel thirds along with the trumpets—seek opportunities to play for tips at sumptuous open-air restaurants. That same city square is frequently home to concerts of the state orchestra. All this has been made possible by a dense population, a well-developed class system, and a thriving tourist industry. But what we see in Tarahumara culture may be even more remarkable. There, where progress-stifling geography has kept the population tiny and the economy marginal, where all aspects of culture seem stripped down to essentials, the core of musical life is the violin.

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Singing with Strings in Courts and on Concert Stages: The Violin Makes South India Its Own Just as the violin reached Tarahumara country and the rest of Mexico through Spanish colonization, it came to India as part of the British influx. But apart from the simple parallel of an instrument traveling along with other elements of an imperializing culture, the situation could not have been more different. Part of the contrast concerned the attitudes and actions of the colonists. The British, along with representatives of other European nations, arrived in small numbers early in the seventeenth century in order to corner a share of the lucrative spice trade. The British became the dominant force among these colonists because they were perceived as relatively benign trading partners, and also due to canny military alliances with various Indian princes. The power of the British East India Company grew gradually. Following a rebellion of company-financed Indian troops, the company’s authority yielded to that of the Crown in 1857; the British Raj lasted until independence in 1947. The territory of the Raj included land under direct control of the British, plus numerous princely states having varying degrees of independence. This presented quite a complicated picture. In short, the Europeans who took power in India did so relatively gradually and gently. While administration and the top layers of the economy devolved overall to the new overlords, social systems and the arts remained locally shaped. The arts were indeed flourishing. Most of India, North and South, had been under the sway of empires—embattled or not— and had a long enough history of social stratification to nurture a complex of both peasant cultures and less varied high cultures, and thus India could accept foreign influences in a measured way. As a simple consequence of geography, the northern cultures, which came to be grouped under the rubric Hindustani, had already absorbed more outside influences than had the southern, Carnatic cultures. The duration and strength of upper-class and religious support for art music throughout India had been no less than in Europe, and the artistic results no less powerful and layered. But while European art music developed by welcoming the linked factors of notation, the tonal system, and the option of fixed and thus repeatable large-scale compositions played by large ensembles, India’s musicians eschewed notation and the possibility of unvarying compositions, retaining instead a focus

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on improvisation and, conjoined with that important decision, chamber ensembles. Also, rather than emphasizing a mere pair of musical modes, as in Europe (major and minor) and just a handful of meters, the Indian system retained dozens of ragas (pitch/scale/melodic complexes) and of talas (metrical complexes). A typical Indian art music ensemble includes a melody instrument (perhaps plus a “shadowing” instrument—a topic to be explored below) or, more rarely, a duet of melodists, a drone instrument, and one or two percussion instruments. The musicians generally sit cross-legged on a stage or platform. The way the violin is held fits into, indeed, takes advantage of this environment: the body of the instrument rests against the player’s shoulder or chest, and the scroll nestles in the curve of his or her right heel, so that the left hand no longer bears any of the weight of the instrument and is especially free to move along the neck. In the touchstone type of art music performance, this small ensemble explores a raga, first in an unmetered section, then, with the entrance of the percussion, with tala imposed and featuring a gradual push in both speed and melodic complexity. When the British settled in India, each of these musical functions— melody (perhaps plus a shadowing line), drone, and rhythm—was well-served by several different instruments, with some broad divisions between Hindustani and Carnatic practice. Among producers of melody, elaborate fretted stringed instruments such as the sitar and sarod dominated in the North. In Carnatic areas, the bamboo flute and vina (a fretted string instrument related to and functioning like the sitar and sarod, and a form of which also flourished in the North) were numbered among the melody instruments. Both were important and well-cultivated; both received considerable respect in terms of integration in religious lore and history. David Reck notes: A rich literature and mythology relate to the vina. According to legend, the instrument symbolizes the body of the goddess Sarasvati (the frets representing her ribs, for example), and specific points on the instrument are connected with each cakra “psychic center” of yoga meditation. In a connection with Hindu mythology, the monkey god Hanuman and the demon king Ravana (the villain of the epic Ramayana) are believed to have been great virtuosi.7

As the instrument routinely associated with the god Krishna, the bamboo flute has even more inherited religious associations.8 The

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historical weight of such links put the parvenu violin at a considerable disadvantage, one that its novelty and its arguably prestigious European associations could not be imagined to offset. Nevertheless, it found a ready home in India because of its musical qualities. The southern tradition was especially welcoming to the violin due to the most salient feature of Carnatic art music, which is that the human voice is the main bearer of melody because of its ability to fully express devotional poetry and its extreme flexibility in pitch, volume, timbre, and attacks. The human voice is the performance medium that all other Carnatic melodists strive to emulate. The violin cannot produce either lexical syllables or the sounds making up Indian solfège (sa, ga, ma, etc.; these syllables are often used by instrumentalists in pedagogical situations and by singers in performance), but it can ape the voice in most ways. It can vary dynamics (sustaining pitches as long as needed), produce ornaments with even more agility than the voice, and, in connection with that feature, offer modified pitches ad infinitum. Several venerable South Indian instruments could do many of these things fairly well, but none quite as fluently as the violin. Adopting the violin entailed adjustments in performance practice, demanding stark contrasts from what was required of the instrument in western art music. As a general principle, the new member of the South Indian performance phalanx would only retain techniques that make it expressive in ways characteristic of the human voice. Thus, there was no longer a need for bouncing the bow, pizzicato, harmonics, or arpeggios. The bow is held slightly toward the middle from the frog, and almost all performers play largely in the upper two-thirds of the bow. The desired tone—more nasal and piercing than that of the European art violin—is attained in part through deliberate pressure on the bow. The tessitura also shrinks. Since the human voice is at its best in a range of about two octaves, the violin is not asked to reach much further. As a result, the left hand mostly uses first and third positions (and occasionally fourth position on the highest string). Double stops are quite rare, although open strings are occasionally touched along with the melody line. The South Indian violin is normally tuned in octaves and fifths; thus, rather than GDAE, the violin would by tuned by either raising the bottom two strings up a major second, resulting in a tuning of AEAE, or lowering the top two, yielding GDGD. Other parallel tunings are also possible. Since the tonic is the pitch of the lowest and third strings, with the other two strings tuned

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to the fifth degree, inserting an open-string double stop simply supports one or the other of the drone pitches. Moreover, since the open strings are tuned to the drone pitches, the tuning itself contributes to the drone effect by facilitating sympathetic vibration. If the South Indian violin does less than its European sibling in certain spheres, where is it asked to do more? Broadly speaking, the answer is in the near-constant production of a wide variety of gamakas. This term translates loosely as “ornaments,” but the Indian gamaka bears more musical responsibility than does the western ornament. We must remember that both the Hindustani and Carnatic musical systems are as rich as the European, and, in particular, that the lack of vertical richness offered by harmony in the West is balanced in India by greater attention to subtleties of rhythm and by exploring those melodic complexes called ragas in the North and ragams in the South. A raga(m) is not just a set of pitches, but also a matrix of melodic expectations. In many cases, one or several melodic details are regularly and reliably associated with certain pitches in a given raga, so that a first layer of elaboration beyond a bare scale is actually intrinsic to the behavior of the set of pitches. Then, in performance, an added battery of gamakas enters the picture. This flows easily in performance, but is difficult to analyze; the borderline between melodic nuance essential to a raga and added gamakas remains hazy. In his pioneering discussion of South Indian gamakas, Gordon Swift explored how the general types of gamakas fit techniques that have long been part of European violin performance. This is more than an abstract demonstration of compatibility of physical motions, since many South Indian violinists are also competent as Western violinists, which has been true throughout the history of the instrument in South India. Swift notes the following commonalities between Indian and European violin technique: (1) upward and downward slides (often of a third or so), which also entail moving the thumb, are parallel to shifts; (2) various types of “deflections” (a term originally derived from playing the vina, where many ornaments are created by pushing a fretted string sideways) entail motions related to the oscillations constituting vibrato; and (3) various “fingered stresses,” which are executed by lifting or planting fingers rapidly, are related to western violin ornaments.9 The choice and placement of gamakas within given performances of a raga vary from performer to performer and from occasion to occasion. The most detailed description of how a violinist might realize a

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South Indian ragam is found in Muthuswamy Lalitha’s Violin Techniques in Western and South Indian Classical Music.10 Lalitha draws directly and exclusively on her own playing, and emphasizes repeatedly that she is doing this. How is such personalization of musical choices legitimized? Each fine Indian violinist—for that matter, each respected Indian musician—is a “disciple” of a “guru,” which means that students are dedicated to faithfully preserving and then carefully contributing to a specific consecrated legacy.11 Lalitha goes to some length to list lines of discipleship for both South Indian violinists and European violinists. But there is more to the guru system. Although the mix of technique and interpretation characteristic of western violin lineages is mirrored in India, the Indian lineages are also enriched with manners of improvising, and thus include additional creative responsibility. The South Indian violin can be the primary melodist in a performance of a raga, or it can act as secondary melodist. This role of “shadowing” is quite fascinating; there is nothing quite like it elsewhere, though African and African American call-and-response technique is a distant relative. Some Indian melodic instruments require shadow melodists, while others do not. The ones that do not are very prominent: the plucked stringed instruments such as the sitar and sarod in the North, and the vina in the South, and the immediate relatives of those instruments. I believe that the key element that allows these instruments to do without a shadow is timbral. They possess both melody and drone strings; the latter contribute significantly to the drone that is mainly produced by the tambura or drone box. In addition, the melody notes are themselves timbrally very rich. A note is not just a sequence of attack, continued pitch with stable timbre, and decay. A ringing note on these plucked string instruments goes through waves of timbral change as it fades out. Instruments that actually sustain better—the voice, bowed strings, winds—are timbrally less exciting; no spare drone notes emanate from these instruments, and each held note contains a sparser and more stable admixture of upper partials than is produced by the large plucked stringed instruments. Shadowing involves a mixture of echo and answer during the unmeasured first part of a performance of a ragam; the shadow is quieter than the main melody. Then, when the talam kicks in with the entrance of the South Indian drum, the mridangam (plus perhaps a clay pot), the shadow instrument often shifts to being in unison with the star. It is not known whether the violin spent more time as main melodist or shadow melodist

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when it entered the South Indian performance world, but it certainly became the favorite shadow both for the voice and for other melody instruments welcoming that function. The violin has a thinner presence than the voice—no consonants or vowels, though articulations can bring it close—and infinitely gradable volume; it is perfect for the shadowing role. Even the most famous South Indian violinists are trained to shadow, and they spend significant time shadowing voices—and each other. The shadowing function is one ingredient in the thoughtful tentativeness of structure that is characteristic of the first, unmeasured part of a performance. Then, the resolution of that shadowing into a unison contributes to the remainder of the performance assuming a resolute, forward-pushing character. This is nicely demonstrated in the performances of violin duets, which are often played by siblings. Should we be surprised that a performance technique founded on improvisation can include climactic sections in unison? Of course, improvisation and composition are not absolutes, but rather offer a continuum; many an “improvised” jazz performance has crystalized into a stable, repeatable entity through choices made in hundreds of successive performances, each less literally improvised, but retaining an effect of spontaneity. One imagines siblings such as Muthuswamy Lalitha and her sister, during morning after morning of practice, gradually working through possibilities for the last part of a performance. When the violin itself is not shadowed, alternative means may be sought to keep the timbral palette rich. One highly skilled and respected violinist, L. Lalitha, does this by augmenting the percussion and drone functions. In several video recordings that are available as of this writing on YouTube, she plays accompanied by drone box (a mechanized form of the reed box that serves as the main alternative to the South Indian tambura), mridangam (the main South Indian drum, which is two-headed, with one head tuned and one not), and ghatam (large clay water pot, played in elaborate rhythms in interplay with the mridangam, and, in timbral terms, reinforcing the untuned head of the mridangam). She also adds a morsing, a metal mouth harp, the sound of which reinforces the timbre of the tuned head of the mridangam, adds to the drone, and, when a performer modifies the shape of his or her mouth, offers an additional semipitched element through the resultant emphases on different sets of upper partials.12 Many books could be written on such subtleties. The main point is that South Indian violin performance, while both musically and

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technically very different from European violin performance, is equally rich and nuanced.

Explosive Passions and Expanded Techniques: The Tango Violin Violins have always been part of the ensembles that perform tangos, a still vital genre that came into being in the slums on the south side of Buenos Aires and similar neighborhoods in Montevideo in the 1880s and 1890s. These were immigrant communities, and the gene pool of Argentina rapidly became at least as Italian as Spanish. By 1914, three out of four adult males in Buenos Aires were foreignborn.13 These immigrants joined an ethnically mixed array of native Argentines displaced from a countryside plagued by unemployment, which was already a problem due to the national army having been shrunk by peace. The syncopated underpinning of the tango is generally attributed to a black population of which few discernible traces remain, with other elements assigned to the other Argentine ethnic and racial groups.14 Today, the dance and its music remain emblematic of the essence of Argentine identity: elegant, passionate, and embodying a complex postmodern acceptance of its long history of physical and psychological dislocations. In other words, the nation of Argentina and the tango both radiate a special combination of vivid emotion, of urbane pessimism, and of persistence, all adding up to a heart-on-theformal-sleeve intensity. Initially, most members of the Argentine upper class disdained the tango. After all, it was the turn-of-the-century Buenos Aires underculture of the dispossessed and disillusioned who first shaped the tango’s sensual choreography, many of its forceful musical characteristics, some of its textual themes, and its linguistic texture (i.e., the peppering of lyrics with lunfardo, a lower-class dialect of Buenos Aires and Montevideo in use early in the twentieth century15). But the tango was soon also savored by affluent rakes who sought out whiffs of danger by rubbing shoulders with compadritos (stylish thugs with knives) in slum entertainment centers. These rakes would help transport the tango to Europe. Around 1910 the tango began a double journey. It shifted from tough slums to downtown cafés, and at roughly the same time became all the rage in Paris and soon London. In Europe, it was the latest incarnation

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of the daring dance that each generation adopts as part of a youthful identity, and as such, it provoked gratifying outrage from the Catholic hierarchy and the Argentine diplomatic corps. As the tango crossed perilous bridges between fad, fashion, and enduring style, its choreography was repeatedly tamed in order to find points of balance between being intriguing and being too wild. Although the tango moved under its own power from slum to downtown Buenos Aires in the early 1910s, its conquering of Paris accelerated this shift. This illustrates a process that Mark Slobin termed “validation through visibility . . . when a higher profile causes a local or regional population to reconsider its own traditions, and the occasion for this moment is usually outside prompting.”16 However, the original constituency of the tango was not affected here, but rather Buenos Aires’s upper crust, which routinely reinforced its status through adopting Parisian influences. Time after time, endorsement from abroad, especially from Paris, would boost upper-class domestic appreciation of the tango. After the tango’s transformation in the late 1910s and early 1920s into the tango-canción, which placed more emphasis on newly serious and usually sad texts, it experienced a second round of international popularization. Carlos Gardel (1890–1935), originally an urban singer of folklore genres that were brought to the city by immigrants from the countryside, transferred his attention to the tango, and, through skilled showmanship and fine singing, linked his name with the genre. This coupling of generic transformation with the acquisition of a signature performer marks the beginning of the tango’s Época de Oro (Golden age), which lasted into the 1940s. During this period, the violin’s role in the ensemble increased, changing from often simply expressing or doubling melodies to entering into dialogue with and occasionally imitating the bandoneón (a complex button accordion with an especially piercing and plaintive timbre, which became the tango’s signature instrument). The 1960s and 1970s witnessed a mild double-track revival. On the one hand, most tango fans and supporting institutions (from a government-sponsored radio station to record stores) focused their support on the tango as it had been cultivated between the world wars. On the other hand, a modest vogue grew for Astor Piazzolla (1921–92), whose concert tangos evidence much influence from jazz and art music, and who struggled in Argentina until becoming fashionable in Paris. The

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most recent international resurgence of the tango began in 1983 with the show Tango Argentino. Its organizers, set and costume designers Claudio Segovia (b. 1933) and Héctor Orezzoli (1953–91), worked on the show for years before its premiere during the Festival d’Automne in Paris. Initial support was minimal: the festival offered modest wages and lodging, but no airfare. The company hitched a ride from Buenos Aires on an old Argentine Air Force plane returning a defective Exocet missile to Paris.17 A run of six performances was intended, but the show caught fire and toured widely. The novelty of Tango Argentino was placing the dancers onstage; this revival focused on the virtuosic show dance. A reviewer for Variety described a swirling display of footwork, entangling legs, and skilled choreography, yielding an effect primarily sensual, secondarily elegant and fierce.18 The tango would continue to flourish on multiple tracks: (1) cultivated at home as an intense, symbolically important genre of popular music; (2) employed as the raw material for art music by Piazzolla and a handful of followers; and (3) featured piecemeal internationally in movies, ballroom dancing, and even ice dancing. And the historically critical symbiosis between home and international use persisted, too. That it maintained a stable respectable status abroad supported its status at home and, conversely, its stable potent contents and affect at home offered renewed fuel for keeping a strong and distinctive identity abroad. We must remember that the unabashed passion of the tango both attracted and repelled outsiders. This was both the intriguing diagnostic characteristic of the genre and a factor that, when perceived as being overwrought, inspired laughter or repugnance. This vivid expression of elegant emotion was tempered by many compromises, but the results were reliable: the tango as reshaped abroad remained— in the context of other dance genres—especially passionate, especially intimate, especially strong. Thus, if the passage of time produced international performers scaling back on the genre’s extravagant steps or making the music less aggressive, renewed contact with the tango as nurtured at home could replace the requisite amount of lost affect, so that the tango kept its niche as being emotionally, physically, and musically nearly over the top. Since the music of tangos when performed by instruments alone needed to match the tango as song in terms of intensity, performances featured instrumental dialogue and specific effects expressing strong passions. Violinist and band leader Julio de Caro (1899–1980) and his

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contemporaries filled orchestrations with broad and intimate rubato, and with generously peppered melodies with accents, a variety of acciaccaturas, and especially dramatic glissandos. The most common instrumental conversation, that between the bandoneón and the violin, did not achieve contrast by, for instance, juxtaposing urgent passion with reluctance, but rather alternated between equally ardent species of passion. Crisp, near-percussive effects, which come naturally to the bandoneón, literally represented forceful emotions. And powerful singing, innate to the violin, expressed urgent persuasion and overwhelming waves of seduction. In a natural corollary to that alliance of passions, it followed that these two instruments often exchanged roles. However, while the bandoneón could readily offer violinlike sustaining, the violin needed new techniques to match the bandoneón’s percussive proclivities. For this reason, new string techniques were invented and judiciously added to the mix. Both the dominant textures of instrument use in Golden Age tangos and the rationed punctuation by special effects can be heard in any sampling of tango recordings done by groups led by Julio de Caro or by his contemporaries working in the late 1920s through 1940s. Piazzolla experienced all this as a young bandoneón performer. When he created art music based on the tango, his style was thus more dense in terms of dissonance, of texture (including lots of counterpoint), and, of special significance here, of instrumental techniques. Indeed, shortly before the 1988 debut recording of his Four for Tango, Piazzolla was unable to explain adequately the special string techniques characteristic of tango performance to the members of the Kronos Quartet, for whom he had composed the piece. Piazzolla, who had studied composition with Ginastera and Boulanger, was a skilled player only of the signature tango instrument, the bandoneón. Therefore, he convinced tango violinist Fernando Suárez Paz (b. 1941) to fly from Buenos Aires to San Francisco to help out.19 In the lija (sandpaper) or chicharra (cicada), the most striking of the special effects invented during the tango’s Golden Age but systematically exploited by Piazzolla, the violinist bows on the D string at a point roughly equidistant between the bridge and tailpiece—the location best suited to “bringing out the subharmonics of the fundamental,”20 using flat hair at or near the frog. This technique lends extra crispness to offbeat accents. Drago characterizes this effect as “harsh, rough, even surly.”21 In an even more common effect, the látigo, or “whip,”

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a swift glissando upward on the E string—reaching from somewhere in first position to a high harmonic; this can also be done in double stops—points toward accented notes. The start of the látigo is undetermined in terms of pitch; it can end on one of several natural harmonics or at random.22 The tambor (drum) is a special kind of nonpitched pizzicato, and the octavado (octaving) imitates a bandoneón timbre (that instrument’s paired reeds are tuned in octaves).23 Rarer effects include the sirena (“siren,” a glissando up and down), the bajada (an inverted látigo), anillo (“ring,” tapping the scroll with a beringed finger of the left hand), knocks on the body of the instrument, and pizzicato behind the bridge.24 Drago summarized that “it was the extent and manner of use of these effects that was so modern, so revolutionary, so different from anything done before him and so important to [Piazzolla’s] innovative thrust.”25

Being National by Expressing a Mosaic of Microcultures: The Norwegian “Regular Fiddle” In midsummer, hundreds of Norwegian fiddlers, dancers, and dozens of other folk musicians gather for a week of ardent competition and constant, near-sleepless fellowship. The landskappleik (national folk music contest) reveals a tightly organized traditional music milieu that presents a parade of distinct local musical cultures, a patchwork of music and connected dance traditions reflecting a brand of nationalism based on inherited and meticulously preserved diversity. As a nation and as a prosperous society, Norway is a late bloomer. Its natural world is beautiful and treasured—the country is nearly all mountains, seashores, and narrow valleys—but it has not been kind in terms of daily life over the centuries. As late as 1875, hardscrabble subsistence agriculture, forestry, and fishing together employed three times as many people as did industry. Desperation inspired massive out-migration, much of it to the United States. Norway caught the second wave of the industrial revolution, the hydroelectric wave, at about the same time that it was getting used to being an independent country; it had been part of Denmark well into the Napoleonic era, and then belonged to Sweden until 1905. The discovery of the Ekofisk gas and oil fields in 1969 was a substantial windfall. Modernization came late enough that it could be thoughtfully accomplished, and rapidly enough that tradition

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had not been leached thin by decades of trying to abandon inherited customs. Well into the twentieth century, many Norwegians remembered times when communities were small and isolated for much of the year by long, severe winters. The picture of Norway that they treasured may have shed scars of economic desperation as part of inevitable nostalgic revision, but the belief that the essence of “home” was your own little valley persisted. As a result, much of the substance of traditional folkways stayed firmly attached to small geographic areas both in collective memory and as those folkways are cultivated today. Today, many Norwegians still choose to speak the dialect of their home hamlet. When one of these locally oriented citizens chats with someone from another locale—or, for that matter, with a Swede or a Dane—each holds to his or her own dialect, and each listener translates. Similarly, Norwegians involved in folk music are obliged by informal but unbending custom to cultivate the specific tradition of their home hamlet. That becomes tricky when professions necessitate relocating; some young Norwegians end up having a choice of playing the music of their ancestral hamlet or that of the location to which they or their parents have moved. The national folk music organization has numerous local chapters. And many tunes from a town’s repertoire of tunes are named after a famous source fiddler. For example, “Springleik etter Fel-Jakup” means simply a tune in that widespread old triple-time genre (called a springleik in some locations) played in the manner of the influential nineteenth-century fiddler with the nickname Fel-Jakup (Jakob Olsen Felodden, 1821–76), who is just a half dozen generations removed from many of today’s best fiddlers living in one lovely valley that is also a central fiddle area, the Gudbrandsdal. The broadest division in the Norwegian folk music world is that between fiddle types. The Hardanger fiddle (hardingfele; a folk instrument developed in recent centuries, being about the size of a violin but with resonating drone strings under the fingerboard, like those of a viola d’amore), is played in the western mountains and in some contiguous coastal areas, while the regular fiddle (vanlig fele) reigns in eastern and northern Norway. (A few areas, notably the coastal counties just north of Bergen, double up on fiddle types.) And with that division, the central paradox bedeviling Norwegian folk music first rears its head. On the one hand, Norwegians are adamantly egalitarian. On the other, not all musical styles that are held to be equal for ideological reasons prove to be equally appealing to the modern ear or outsider

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eye. Players of the regular fiddle (henceforth, simply “fiddle”), which is physically the same as the violin, seem to value the two fiddle types equally, but many hardingfele players believe that their instrument is better. It is, after all, more distinctively Norwegian. It is certainly more exotic, and more photogenic. For instance, during the 1994 winter Olympics, held in Lillehammer, Norway, fiddling was featured as an especially Norwegian folk art, and there was an official pledge to carefully balance presentation of the two types of fiddle. Nevertheless, it was not just CBS that aired much more footage of the hardingfele; Norwegian television did so too.26 The turfs of both the hardingfele and the fiddle are broken up into dozens of style areas. The egalitarian ethos breaks down further on this more intimate level; the best of the fiddlers in the local styles that are more musically detailed, more replete with ornaments, tend to get the better scores in both regional and national contests. Judges are chosen to represent several areas, and they try to be objective, but nevertheless the most generally appreciated performances remain those from the areas nurturing the most complicated styles. This same result holds true in the grassroots musical revivals of fiddling that have taken place in many countries bordering the North Atlantic. But, concerning Norway specifically, is it surprising to encounter contests as the central large event featuring traditional music in this purportedly egalitarian society? Perhaps, but perhaps not. For outsider audiences—both Norwegians lacking knowledge of older national culture, and tourists—competition adds both structure and drama to what might otherwise be a stultifying series of short performances. For the performers, the contest format is paradoxically egalitarian, because it offers a justification for both virtuosos and more plebeian players to be onstage as soloists. Two important features of these events keep contests the preferred venue for long performances in the Norwegian folk music milieu. First, fiddlers and dancers compete both as soloists (or pairs) and within entire folk music (and folk dance) clubs, thus allowing stage time to performers who cannot sustain even a minimal solo performance. Second, the scores are awarded as rather large numbers. When first and second and third place winners gain scores of, say, 248 versus 246 and 245, it is easy to imagine the results going another way on another day. The essence of a musical revival is return coupled with reorientation. Fiddling on both regular fiddle and hardingfele has been the meat and potatoes of Norwegian secular musical life for centuries, mainly in the

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function of dance accompaniment. The story of the Norwegian revival of folkemusikk (oral tradition genres well established by circa 1820) and later gammaldansmusikk (pan-European social dance genres, introduced in Norway from circa 1820 to 1915) is quite complicated. Already by the turn of the twentieth century, a few small contests for hardingfele had taken place both in Norway’s historical hardingfele areas (notably in Telemark, deep in the mountains) and in the United States (perhaps emigrants who returned to Norway stimulated the Norwegian vogue for contests). As the century proceeded, and new sorts of popular music became available to the general populace, the hardingfele retained pride of place in the growing official Norwegian folk music world and its contests, partly because it was especially vulnerable outside of that world, though the main motive was the unusual instrument’s value in terms of national symbolism. The regular fiddle began to gain a stable place in the national folk music system during a boost in interest during the 1950s, and its proponents began to demand parity during another spurt of growth in the 1980s. Today, the two fiddle types officially have equal standing. But this essay is in a book about the violin and thus will emphasize the story of the Norwegian normal fiddle. What is the music like? Most surviving pieces from both historical layers of oral tradition music are dance melodies, and most of these are bipartite, with the two sections exploiting contrasting tessituras (as is the norm throughout fiddle cultures in countries bordering the North Atlantic), and often featuring additional internal symmetries. The folkemusikk layer centers on a triple-time genre with certain striking rhythmic characteristics: there are numerous duplets (so many that this transcriber finds it a bit silly to toss the number “2” onto the page each time one occurs), and the second beat of each measure is slightly longer than are the other two (for a parallel, think of how the waltz is played in Vienna). This genre and associated dances have slightly different natures and certainly different names in different parts of Norway: springleik in the central Gudbrandsdal, pols or polsdans, and so on, elsewhere. The springleik transcribed as example 9.1 is as typical as a folkemusikk melody can be in the varied repertoires of the vanlig fele. This “Fel-Jakup Springleik” (several tunes share this name) is from the Gudbrandsdal; scholarship about the Norwegian regular fiddle concentrates on music from this valley, both for fiddle music played for dances and for tunes played for their own sake.27 The most common

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key in Norwegian fiddling is D major, and the tuning employed here (GDAE) is the usual tuning for the key. Tunes in G major also employ normal violin tuning, and those in A major use either AEAE or AEAC♯. Typical for this repertoire, this is a straightforward bipartite dance tune, with phrases that cadence alternately on the fifth degree and on the tonic, and with one strain extended (as in a substantial minority of these tunes). In a typical contest performance, the form would be AABBAABB or AABBAABBAABB. Performances that accompany

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dances replicate this alternation of strain pairs, but are longer. The rhythmic density, ratio of conjunct and disjunct intervals, general nature of double stops, and frequency and types of ornaments in all three performances are typical. The three fiddlers whose performances are given in example 9.1 are Rikard Skjelkvåle (abbreviated RS in the example), Mari Eggen (ME), and Leif-Inge Schjølberg (LS). Their biographies aptly illustrate the lives of modern Norwegian fiddlers. All came from multiple generations of fiddlers, all learned to fiddle while quite young, and all have won the solo fiddle division of the landskappleik (Eggen was the first woman to do so, in 1992). All three heard plenty of both folkemusikk and gammaldansmusikk as they grew up, and have played in both repertoires for dances and in contests. This writer recorded their playing in Norway in 1990. Then in his fifties, Skjelkvåle, originally from Skjåk in the Gudbrandsdal, worked with cleanliness of water and food in Oslo. He has played with other Gudbrandsdal transplants to Oslo when possible. Eggen, then in her twenties, had moved from Sør-Fron in the Gudbrandsdal to teach violin and fiddle in Røros, far to the east and home to a different fiddle style; she became musically bilingual. LeifInge Schjølberg, then an electrical engineer in his twenties, is son to Ivar Schjølberg, a school principal from the Røros area who moved to Vågåmo in the Gudbrandsdal for reasons of health; Leif-Inge chose to play in the style of Vågåmo. Today, Norwegian fiddlers play as soloists (without accompaniment of any kind) in the main brackets of contests. Some also compete in duos, and everyone joins the lagspel, in which entire fiddle clubs play as ensembles. In an event similar in size and importance to the landskappleik, in the landsfestival, accordions, guitars, and basses are added to the mix for performances of gammaldansmusikk, which includes the waltzes, reinlenders, masurkas, and polkas that constitute the younger layer of Norwegian traditional music. Most fiddlers are conversant with both the older folkemusikk and gammaldansmusikk. The repertoires played by hundreds of Norwegian fiddlers exhibit remarkable continuity, though with some preference for complex pieces. Also, fiddlers are constantly becoming more skilled. Like many repertoires in which a venerable tradition is now often played for passive listening, and in which much of the impetus is nationalistic, this is a folk music revival that tilts traditional music toward art music.28 As in the three other cultures surveyed earlier in the chapter, the distinctive treatment of the

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violin in Norwegian traditional music shows how flexibly this remarkable instrument can be treated.

Notes 1.

J. Richard Haefer, “Tarahumara,” in The Garland Encyclopedia of World Music, vol. 2, South America, Central America, and the Caribbean, ed. Dale A. Olsen and Daniel S. Sheehy (New York: Garland, 1998), 582. 2. Bernard L. Fontana, Tarahumara: Where Night Is the Day of the Moon, 2nd ed. (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 1997), 19, 90. 3. Romayne Wheeler, Life through the Eyes of a Tarahumara (Chihuahua: Editorial Camino, 1993), 130–32. 4. Sylvia Rodriguez, The Matachines Dance: A Ritual Dance of the Indian Pueblos and Mexicano/Hispanic Communities (Santa Fe: Sunstone Press, 2009), 1. 5. “Moors and Christians” is actually a complex of genres cultivated in Spain and in the former Spanish colonies. In rural Mexico, there are still dances in which facing lines of young men represent Spaniards and Moorish invaders, but also forms in which those characters have been replaced. In the Oaxacan Danza de la Pluma, Cortez’s forces face the Aztecs; sentiment among Oaxaca’s Indians initially favored the Spanish invaders. Further, see Chris Goertzen, Made in Mexico: Tradition, Tourism, and Political Ferment in Oaxaca (Jackson: University Press of Mississippi, 2010). 6. Search “Tarahumara Matachines Dance” or “Matachines Raramuris” on YouTube. Audio recordings are available on Native Music of Northwest Mexico: Tarahumara, Warihio, and Mayo, Canyon Records CD CR-8001, 1998. 7. David Reck, “Musical Instruments: Southern Area,” in The Garland Encyclopedia of World Music, vol. 5, South Asia: The Indian Subcontinent, ed. Alison Arnold (New York: Garland, 2000), 353. 8. Ibid., 350. 9. Gordon N. Swift, “Ornamentation in South Indian Music and the Violin.” First published as “South Indian Gamaka and the Violin,” Asian Music, 21, no. 2 (1990): 71–89, summary tables, 75 and 83. 10. Muthuswamy Lalitha, Violin Techniques in Western and South Indian Classical Music (New Delhi: SunDeep Prakashan, 2004). 11. The guru and disciple system meshed well with music as a family profession but has grown more flexible over the centuries. 12. To find such examples, search YouTube, or whatever search engine succeeds YouTube, for “L Lalitha Carnatic violin.” Such searches will also bring up violin duet performances by Muthuswamy Lalitha and her sister.

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13. Simon Collier, The Life, Music, and Times of Carlos Gardel (Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press, 1986), 7. 14. See, for example, Oscar Natale, Buenos Aires, Negros y Tango (Buenos Aires: Peña Lillo, [1984]); and María Susana Azzi, Antropología del Tango: Los Protagonistas (Buenos Aires: Ediciones de Olavarria, 1991), 76. 15. See José Gobello, Nuevo Diccionario Lunfardo (Buenos Aires: Ediciones Corregidor, 1991). 16. Mark Slobin, “Micromusics of the West: A Comparative Approach,” Ethnomusicology 36, no. 1 (1992): 11. 17. Javier Arroyuelo and Rafael Lopez-Sanchez, “Tango Mania,” Vanity Fair 48 (October 1985): 97. 18. José [last name not given], review of Tango Argentino, Variety (October 16, 1985): 447. 19. Alejandro Marcelo Drago, “Instrumental Tango Idioms in the Symphonic Works and Orchestral Arrangements of Astor Piazzolla: Performance and Notational Problems; A Conductor’s Perspective” (DMA diss., University of Southern Mississippi, 2008), 127. This is the only careful prose discussion of the subject, though YouTube cuts demonstrating these effects fairly well abound (search “tango violin techniques”). 20. Drago, “Instrumental Tango Idioms,” 131. 21. Ibid., 129–43. 22. Ibid., 143–52. 23. Ibid., 152–56. 24. Ibid., 161–64. 25. Ibid., 127. 26. Arild Hoksnes, personal communication, September 1995. Hoksnes helped arrange the folk music for the 1984 winter Olympics. 27. The only extensive treatment in a language other than Norwegian of the vanlig fele is Chris Goertzen, Fiddling for Norway: Revival and Identity (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1997). 28. It was very hard to confine this chapter to just four violin traditions outside of the western art tradition! Violins turn up most places where music is energetically cultivated. For a few more fascinating traditions, this writer recommends: Jacqueline Cogdell DjeDje, Fiddling in West Africa: Touching the Spirit in Fulbe, Hausa, and Dagbamba Cultures (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2008); and a CD, Indonesian Popular Music: Krongkong, Dangdut & Langgam Java (Smithsonian Folkways B000001DIS, 1992). Approximately half of this CD presents krongcong, a venerable Javanese popular music genre in which western stringed instruments constitute unorthodox gamelans.

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10

THE DEVIL’S BOX NO MORE Fiddling in America Chris Goertzen

T

his final chapter concerns fiddling in North America (especially the southern United States), and to a lesser extent Scottish and Irish fiddling; these are the violin traditions outside of western art music that readers of this book will likely be able to sample in live performances most easily. American fiddling has a complicated history, focusing on oraltradition dance accompaniment, but also including several periods when fiddle tunes played an active role within American commercial popular music, plus relatively artistic phases, including the present; we now listen carefully to fiddling more often than we dance to it. During the past half century, fiddling has become “folk” instrumental music, an explicitly old repertoire self-consciously cultivated in the shadow of a pleasant haze of nostalgia, and publicly performed mainly in contests and other festivals. In that way, it is like the Norwegian fiddling discussed in the previous chapter. Indeed, several themes from that chapter and from this book as a whole reappear in connection with American fiddling.

Late Eighteenth-Century Scotland: Art and Dance Music, Virtuous and Rascally Associations The first substantial body of fiddle tunes in any North Atlantic repertoire coalesced in late eighteenth-century Scotland. Unfortunately, the

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nature of Scottish fiddling as directly transmitted by immigrants from Scotland or via Ireland (i.e., by the Scotch-Irish) remains hidden; early nineteenth-century American publications including fiddle tunes reflected relatively elementary English models. Therefore, in order to understand the very important Scottish element in early American fiddling, we must look at Scotland itself, and hypothesize that early Scottish fiddle-tune publications illustrate some fraction of Scottish immigrant practice that did not pass through the English filter. When the violin arrived in Scotland in the early 1600s, it came as a young instrument, newly fashionable for performing art music. Its versatility was immediately understood, and it was adopted as both city violin and country fiddle. We do not know how quickly the violin displaced earlier bowed stringed instruments there, but violins were being made in Scotland by the beginning of the eighteenth century. Dancing had been suppressed to a remarkable extent in Scotland in the seventeenth century, and so, of course, fiddling had been, too; this was one of the eras when the violin was considered the “devil’s box” in conservative religious circles. But Scottish suspicion of frivolity waned during the eighteenth century, enough so that dance could be considered the national pastime by about 1770.1 The burgeoning popularity of the violin/fiddle both paralleled and reinforced the reemergence of dancing as a popular entertainment. The violin became the primary instrument for dancing indoors, while the louder bagpipe retained this function outdoors. Dances for the gentry were normally held indoors, and thus the violin became linked with fashionable dances and printed collections of them. Also, the 1707 Act of Union (joining the Kingdoms of England and Scotland, with Scotland as the junior partner) continued to have an impact on Scottish psychology. With Edinburgh no longer a capital city, an increased inclination to cherish and foster symbols of Scottish distinctiveness found a ready partner in identifiably Scottish dance and its music. The common dance and dance-tune genres of strathspeys and reels were not just functional and aurally attractive. They were also “national.” Professionals and well-trained amateurs adapted hundreds of earlier tunes and composed thousands of new melodies. Most collections published during this era were issued by Scottish music merchants who also fiddled for dances.2 Concerning the larger body of fiddlers of various levels of accomplishment and of music-derived income, David Johnson states that “folk fiddlers or bagpipers were generally established, secure members of the community; they were school masters, tradesmen in

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country towns, managers on estates, and personal servants of the aristocracy. Most of them could read and write musical notation.”3 He knew that referring to a musically literate group, spearheaded by professionals, as “folk fiddlers” was problematic. But many of these “established, secure members of the community” were less than 100 percent respectable. Well-known fiddlers included Niel Gow (1727–1807), trained in weaving but so skilled as a fiddler that he made his living with music; his sons would continue in this field. Looking upward socially from Gow, there were nobles such as Sir Alexander MacDonald (1744–97), the powerful head of a rich family and an amateur fiddler who wrote several tunes. Looking down socially, there were scamps such as Pate Baillie (1774–ca. 1841), who made horn spoons as his day job. Baillie was known for variations and double stops, and also for heavy drinking and a ready temper. He was reputed to have once attempted to steal Niel Gow’s violin. He enjoyed competing, especially if he could bushwhack his opponent by appearing humble or frail, and then playing splendidly. According to tale collector Stuart McHardy, Baillie once triumphed in an informal standoff against a stranger in a tavern, who then exclaimed that he “must be either the de’il or Pate Baillie.”4 The close relationship between inherited (and new) Scottish dance tunes with the aesthetics of art music, coupled with the sheer compactness of the populations involved, meant that fiddle tunes were published generously; this was a world in which Niel Gow and Lord MacDonald and Pate Baillie rubbed elbows regularly. When this music exceeded the essential function and the inherited light aesthetic weight of the two-strain dance tunes and also became “national,” performers enriched their playing both to bear that increased ideological burden and to reward focused listening. Published incarnations of countless strathspeys and reels in what Johnson called “drawing-room style” took on a remarkable level of refinement.5 However, the transmission of this music also bore traces of the fluidity of oral tradition. This was true for two reasons: since books of tunes were expensive, few copies of each were issued (so that much playing had to be done in the absence of notated music); and most fiddler/editors had their own opinions about how best to play each tune. Many collections were published by subscription, and typical lists of subscribers included just a few hundred nobles, other landowners, professionals (teachers, architects, lawyers), and professional musicians. Music store owners ordered no more than four to seven copies.6 Selling

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Figure 10.1. “Lord MacDonald’s Reel” in a typical Scottish version. Gow, A Third Collection of Strathspey Reels, 9.

these collections stimulated sales of instruments and accessories, advertised the performance and teaching skills of the compilers, and in general constituted an indispensable facet of the local music business. One of the more common tunes in both early published and current Scottish fiddling would also flourish in America for centuries. This tune, known in Scotland and the young United States as “Lord MacDonald’s Reel” or simply “MacDonald’s Reel” would acquire the title “Leather Britches” in the southern United States during the nineteenth century. It was written by Lord Alexander MacDonald, and published by Niel Gow and others.7 Figure 10.1 reproduces a page of one of Gow’s widely distributed publications. This version can be played on a keyboard, or just the melody can be played on the violin, or it can be played by both instruments (the keyboard would fill in the chords which, in any case, offer a simple I–IV–V harmonization). The notation suggests that the violinist is expected to play separate bows cleanly, to slur, and to employ staccato, in addition to being able to interpolate simple ornaments (mordents, here marked “tr”) and dotted rhythms, including some in the short-long pattern that we now call Scotch snap. Rhythmic and melodic nuances would have been treated freely by experienced players; the sheer amount of detail illustrates an artistic approach to presenting this simple dance tune.

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As in the Norwegian examples in chapter 9, we see a bipartite form, here with each eight-measure section dividing into two four-measure phrases. The two strains illustrate a typical contrast in tessitura. This tune is a bit unusual in that the strain beginning halfway through the first line of music is also presented an octave up; this melody is starting to step outside the simple forms presented by most tunes in such collections. Such a tune in a version employed only for dancing would not need this extra feature, but the same piece, when requiring a level of aesthetic substance appropriate to “national” music, just might. If educated late eighteenth-century Scottish fiddlers were playing fancy versions of Scottish national dance music in formal settings, what kinds of performances were aired at dances? The short answer would be that the fiddling community was intimate, and that all agile fiddlers, literate or not, knew about and had the option of playing decorated forms of tunes. Indeed, since plenty of dance fiddling was done by the same men that published the drawing room collections, much informal playing was probably on a level of complexity approaching that of concert settings, and humbler fiddlers had the option of trying to follow suit. In fact, “humbler” may not be the right adjective, since countless anecdotes present Scottish fiddlers of this period as proud, aggressive extroverts—when fiddlers met, they routinely tried to top each other.8 The degree of elaboration seen in this version of “Lord MacDonald’s Reel” was typical of that era in published Scottish fiddling. Much less often, such tunes were presented in full-blown variation sets, generally Italianate (i.e., with stable harmonies but progressively denser rhythms). And many fiddlers improvised variations. For instance, Pate Baillie is said to have been traveling on a ferry when “a gentleman” promised him cash if he could immediately improvise ten variations on a tune, which Baillie easily exceeded.9 But what were the variations like? Perhaps they were indeed Italianate, but at least one Scottish fiddler made fun of the “hahas of Italian music,”10 so some other course may have been followed, one for which no published model exists. What was English fiddling like at this time? A long-lasting fashion for Scottish music influenced English practice. Some English fiddlers had the option of sharing Scottish stylistic proclivities, but they would not have felt the same push toward making traditional music sound artistic that Scots experienced as part of Scottish nationalism. Paul E. W. Roberts, in a recent essay on English fiddling, hypothesized that English fiddling at around the turn of the nineteenth century was quite

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varied in style, sometimes employing scordaturas (such as those mentioned in the previous chapter in connection with Norwegian fiddling), and with bowing ranging from fluent to hard-edged. Concerning ornaments, he mused that “the reality was probably a range from very plain to very elaborate, encompassing a variety of regional styles, themselves subject to family and individual preference.”11 But published forms of tunes remained simple in England.

Teenaged Fiddlers Playing Dance Tunes That Were Part of Early American Popular Music In the early nineteenth century, evidence mushrooms about fiddling in the United States. Many tunes that were already played and danced to in Scotland (or England) or that are now in American oral tradition appeared in the early American published popular-music compilations, collections differing little from their English models. Of course, “popular music” is a broad concept that needs to be shaded appropriately in different times and places. The best broad characterization of popular song as it flourished in early nineteenth-century America remains that given in the preface of Charles Hamm’s groundbreaking Yesterdays: Popular Song in America (1979). Hamm defined popular song as: (1) “written for, and most often performed by, a single voice or a small group of singers, accompanied by either a single chord-playing instrument or some sort of band, ensemble, or small orchestra,” (2) “usually first performed and popularized in some form of secular stage entertainment, and afterward consumed (performed or listened to) in the home,” (3) “composed and marketed with the goal of financial gain,” (4) “designed to be performed by and listened to by persons of limited musical training and ability,” and (5) “produced and disseminated in physical form—as sheet music in its early history, and in various forms of mechanical reproduction in the twentieth century.”12 Hamm derived this definition from the analysis of a substantial sample of commercial song, most of it published in the nineteenth century. He specifically excluded several categories of short pieces that shared the commercial life of popular song, including instrumental genres such as ragtime and band music.13 But, just as there is considerable overlap between band music and pop song today— for instance, movie themes and song arrangements are performed

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nowadays at football game halftimes by marching bands—early nineteenth-century dance tunes often traveled along with songs in both social and commercial situations. The contents of instructional books for instruments published in early nineteenth-century America illustrate this overlap between traditional dance tunes and pop music. A typical volume in character and size is Blake’s New and Complete Preceptor for the Violin, with a Favorite Selection of Airs, Marches &c. Fourth Edition [n.d.]. The title page indicates that it was assembled and published by one G[eorge] E. Blake in Philadelphia, and that Blake sold it at his store at No. 13 South Fifth Street, where one could also purchase flutes, clarinets, and “Violins of all Kinds from One Dollar to One Hundred Dollars.” The book is not dated, but the vast majority of the tunes in it had been entered in American manuscripts by the 1790s, and continued to be printed for decades. Just as one could buy the paraphernalia needed to become a musician in Blake’s establishment (instruments, accessories, published music with instructional content, and even live music lessons), this anthology of instrumental music is typical for its day. It was advertised as being able to explain the basics of music and of performing on one or several instruments. Allowing for the absence of a teacher, a common condition away from major cities, it also offered a satisfactory sample of melodies from all genres of secular popular music. Roughly three-fifths of Blake’s tunes are song airs (often ones premiered onstage, consistent with the trend noted by Hamm), a fifth are marches or otherwise patriotic, and the remaining fifth (the “&c” in the volume’s title) are dance melodies, including venerable fiddle tunes. There are a total of forty-four pieces; the three recognizable preexisting fiddle tunes (also surviving as such today) are “Speed the Plough,” “White Cockade,” and “Rose Tree” (which is both a song melody and a dance tune). They are printed as bare-bones melodies, but were they performed that way? The first twelve pages of the New and Complete Preceptor introduce the topics of—the reader should take a deep breath before continuing—holding the violin and the bow (one sentence each), tuning, accidentals, left-hand positions (second position, called “the half shift,” and third position, called “the whole shift”), the act of bowing, note lengths, marks such as repeat signs (and triplets and staccato wedges), various types of trills and other ornaments (“shakes”), transposition, keys, and meters. The introduction closes with a one-page “Short [!]

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Dictionary of Musical Terms.” Following the anthology of tunes, the last page of the volume features scales, arpeggios, and brief preludes in G, D, and C Major. Blake reproduced most of this pedagogical information verbatim in the first pages of his various anthologies, and parallel collections issued by his English and American contemporaries were similarly introduced. How much of this cursory instruction did the instrumentalist purchasing such an anthology need? In the New and Complete Preceptor, although most tunes look simple, five melodies venture into third position, ten employ grace notes, four feature trills, four—staccato markings, three—triplets, and three—tempo designations. But the fiddle tunes require absolutely none of this. This was normal; the author/arranger/editors of such publications occasionally added niceties to some of their printed tunes but left the fiddle tunes plain. This was not a matter of articulated or completely consistent policy, but rather a cumulative array of numerous parallel decisions made independently. In short, these professional musicians evinced through their notation of fiddle tunes that these melodies were to be played without ornamentation. Most of these musicians, including Blake, were also businessmen, who came from England and had been educated in both music and commerce there. In cultural terms, he might as well have been working in England: the young United States was largely an English backwater. But we can begin to identify emerging American taste through choices made when copying from British publications or from American collections that followed British models. Might there have been elements of American taste or practice that publishers did not fully understand? Publications like Blake’s New and Complete Preceptor were expensive enough that buying one was a serious decision, and many an aspiring musician chose instead to copy out his favorite melodies in music “commonplace books,” thus offering a picture of at least part of the copyist’s taste. Commonplace books are compilations of memorabilia (proverbs, poems, recipes, or, on occasion, pieces of music) recorded by hand in previously bound blank books. Many instrumentalists in Englishand German-speaking areas maintained melody-filled commonplace books during the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries; this was the heyday of the practice, the era when tune publications were available but neither ubiquitous nor cheap, so that copying excerpts from them was a reasonable thing to do. Such manuscripts echoed the

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flavor of the repertoire in the publications on which they drew, that is, they included song airs, marches, and dances, entered in no particular order. The tunes are usually notated in clear hands in instrumental (beamed) notation, reflecting the fact that the compilers were working directly from their friends’ or neighbors’ printed collections of instrumental music, like the one by Blake discussed above. “Lord MacDonald’s Reel” appears in many of these music commonplace books. Figure 10.2 reproduces one page from a book compiled by young Arthur MacArthur, who wrote in the book, starting in 1806 when he was enrolled at Fryeburg Academy (in western Maine) and ending in 1808 during his time at Bowdoin College.14 This page was penned in 1806, while MacArthur was still in boarding school; most of these commonplace books were maintained by teenagers learning music. MacArthur started his book with copies of instructional matter for violin and then for flute. All three tunes on the page pictured were common fiddle tunes at the time, and they remain warhorses in New England fiddling. I have examined many dozens of commonplace books and compared versions of the marches, songs, and fiddle tunes penned in them both with each other and with ones in the publications that the young compilers of these books were excerpting. Although most of the concordances were exactly the same as one another or contrasted only in their keys, a significant minority did differ repeatedly in matters of detail, while remaining in essence the same pieces. These changeable melodies included neither the marches nor the songs. Instead, the vast majority of them were fiddle tunes, ones widespread before and during MacArthur’s time. Many remain common in the American folk fiddle repertory today, including “Money Musk,” “Rickett’s Hornpipe,” “Devil’s Dream,” “Fisher’s Hornpipe,” “Flowers of Edinburgh,” “The Irish Washerwoman,” and the aforementioned “Lord MacDonald’s Reel.” General contours, diagnostic tones (notes that are metrically and harmonically prominent), and a few catchy melodic motives were stable from version to version of given tunes, but exact rhythms, passing tones, and other metrically weak notes were apt to vary. The ways that multiple versions of “Fisher’s Hornpipe,” “Money Musk,” and “Lord MacDonald’s Reel” fluctuated are largely the same as how versions of these tunes contrast in modern playing in New England, the region where these melodies under these titles are most at home today. The obvious conclusion is that these melodies were already in oral tradition in New England early in the nineteenth century.

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Figure 10.2. “Fisher’s Hornpipe,” “Lord MacDonald’s Reel,” and “Money Musk” as penned by Arthur MacArthur of western Maine in his commonplace book in 1806.

Whose oral tradition was this? It must have been that of the English immigrants who were the main performers, teachers, and publishers of the instrument compilations on which the American creators of music commonplace books drew. In the few cases where their identities can be established with reasonable certainty, those American violin students were, like MacArthur, teenagers in affluent, literate, and even musically literate families. Their music commonplace books—since

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these are inventories of pieces that they wished to learn, and since they copied out some but not all the contents of the publications—illustrate American taste in a small way. The publishers did seek out some American content when selecting marches and patriotic songs, which they arranged from American sheet music, and the teenagers did copy these. There were even a few Scottish or English fiddle tunes, renamed with American titles, such as the fairly common “Beaus of Albany” and the rare “New Haven Green” (respectively the “Braes of Auchtertyre” and “Johnny in the Nether Mains” in Scotland). However, the meat and potatoes of the repertoire remained pan-British, with the oral tradition fraction emphasizing Scottish melodies; all three tunes on the page from the MacArthur commonplace book (fig. 10.2) were well-known in late eighteenth-century Scotland. Therefore, we have notations (both published and manuscript) of a number of fiddle tunes that were in oral tradition in the young United States because and only because those tunes also traveled in the realm of popular music. The simplicity of the notation reflects a performance practice much less ambitious than that of the Scottish drawing-room versions of such tunes; note how much simpler MacArthur’s version of “Lord MacDonald’s Reel” is than Gow’s published example, both in form and in details. This is not surprising, since the ideological associations of Scottish fiddle tunes that invited content-rich versions in late eighteenth-century Scotland mattered as little in New England as they had in England. Straightforward notations like those of young MacArthur would have been fine for dance accompaniment. We are left to wonder what more ambitious fiddlers did when playing alone or for audiences who were listening closely rather than dancing.

The Rhythmic and Timbral Puzzles of Blackface Minstrelsy Fiddlers participated in the most distinctively American entertainment of the nineteenth century, blackface minstrelsy. Performers in blackface had worked as solo acts in circuses and similar composite entertainments for decades before four men created the first evening-long program in 1843. The Virginia Minstrels’ quartet instrumentation remained characteristic of the genre for some years: fiddle, banjo, and the percussion duo of tambourine and bones. Later in the century, when minstrel troupes became much larger, an old-fashioned quartet was often among the

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acts making up those shows. In the later nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, small minstrel ensembles and individual performers were still playing early minstrel tunes in old-fashioned ways in the context of medicine shows—musical acts intended to draw audiences who would remain to hear sales pitches of patent medicines. When white blackface minstrel performers partly copied and partly parodied African American practice, they drew on their impressions of several streams of black instrumental performance. Slave fiddlers were the most readily available black models for white entertainers, although this yielded the least specifically African American musical product, since slaves were taught to fiddle so that they could perform at whites’ dances. In the absence of hard evidence, my hypothesis is that slave fiddlers may have favored the Scottish component of British fiddling, since Scottish tunes and ways of performing seem to have been more rhythmically active. Supporting this plausible scenario is the fact that quite a few Scottish fiddle tunes turn up in minstrelsy. Also, some would-be minstrels visited slave quarters and became acquainted with banjo-like instruments. The banjo, with its distinctive look, sound, and playing technique, may have entered the minstrel quartet for symbolic and visual reasons as much as for its music. Last, the African and African American predilection for clapping and otherwise adding percussive effects to music was perpetuated in the incorporation of the tambourine and bones in the blackface ensemble. In antebellum blackface minstrel quartets, the fiddle and the banjo played in heterophony (approximate unison). Both are melody instruments—there are no indications that either also performed a harmonizing function—but the banjo is less flexible in terms of easy availability of pitches. Activating the banjo’s high, drone string on the fourth (and sometimes second) of many sets of four eighth notes would displace any melody notes that would otherwise sit at those positions in a given measure. Also, even when the fiddle and banjo were more or less in unison in terms of pitches produced, the general effect would still lean in the direction of heterophony, since the fiddle can sustain pitches at will, but notes played on the banjo quickly change in character as they pass from pungent attack through swift decay. It is difficult to fully imagine how blackface minstrel quartets sounded, but it is important to try. After all, current old-time fiddling in the Southeast typically takes place within quartets built around a fiddle and banjo duo, with the banjo playing in what are called “frailing”

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or “clawhammer” styles, techniques directly descended from minstrel banjo playing. However, there are critical differences: the tambourine and bones have been replaced by harmonizing instruments—the guitar and bass—and the banjo has evolved in the direction of Europeanderived construction techniques and thus has a less piercing and striking sound, but the link remains. The most remarkable characteristic of the notation of long-lasting fiddle tunes in publications purporting to represent the violin’s contribution to minstrel performances is paradoxical. At first glance, there may seem to be nothing special happening. Most inherited tunes are as plain in rhythm and as normal in contour as in nineteenth-century publications that have no special affiliation with minstrelsy; printed examples resemble the manuscript version penned earlier by Arthur MacArthur. Perhaps subtleties of attack, timing, and timbre were in place, and matters of performance practice not easy to indicate in traditional notation or not considered necessary to notate. This frustrates modern scholars who want to know more about musical change during this era. Minstrelsy must have been an indirect but powerful force for the infusion of African American influences into fiddling, and thus for the formation of distinctly American fiddle styles. Notations of tunes become even less helpful later. Unfortunately for the tracking of the history of fiddling in the United States, publishing became increasingly monolithic as the nineteenth century progressed, and the vagaries of fashion turned farther and farther away from fiddle tunes. The major publishers of collections of popular music for performance by individual instruments repeatedly printed about forty fiddle tunes. Many are still well-known today in New England, as well as across the northern United States, and in contradance circles nationwide, including: “College Hornpipe” (now generally called “Sailor’s Hornpipe,” the theme of the Popeye cartoons), “Devil’s Dream,” “Fisher’s Hornpipe,” “Flowers of Edinburgh,” “Liverpool Hornpipe,” “Money Musk,” and “Rickett’s Hornpipe.” A handful of these oftenanthologized tunes flourished in both the North and the South, including: “Durang’s Hornpipe,” “Miss Brown’s Reel” (now played more in the South, and retitled “Wagoner” or sometimes “Tennessee Wagoner”), “Old Zip Coon” (retitled “Turkey in the Straw”), “Soldier’s Joy,” and certainly “Lord MacDonald’s Reel” (that title is retained in the North, although the tune is now usually called “Leather Britches” in the South).

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A resurgence of interest in fiddling during the 1920s was not a genuine revival, but rather evidence of distress on the part of individuals like Henry Ford, people who did not like new popular music. Their activities occupied a moment of bold punctuation marking the completion of the shift of American fiddling from the center of musical life, which it had shared with popular song through the early nineteenth century, to the lively but smallish subculture of today. The nineteenth-century stream of publications that included fiddle tunes continued well into the twentieth century. But when the commercial recording of fiddle streams blossomed briefly in the 1920s, it became clear that most of what southern fiddlers played had little to do with those publications. We can, however, generalize about the average fiddlers’ activities by conflating published accounts. He (almost always “he”) played at all kinds of secular gatherings in rural areas, including “country socials, picnics, county fairs, country dances, and fiddlers’ conventions.”15 Though almost never a full-time professional musician, he frequently was paid something for his efforts.16 He might play alone, or with other fiddlers, guitarists, banjoists, keyboard players (especially of the reed organ), and so forth.17 Though he often picked up much of his repertoire from older male relatives who fiddled or from musical neighbors, tunes also were spread by fiddlers who entertained themselves while traveling on business.18 He might read music in a laborious fashion, probably being able to puzzle out pitches but not rhythms. And this profile would hold well into the twentieth century for plenty of older fiddlers, as is demonstrated in the fiddlers’ biographies assembled to accompany the best of the many academic, adamantly retrospective published tune collections, such as those by Bayard and Titon.19 The “hillbilly” recordings of the 1920s into the early 1930s, and parallel radio broadcasts, offered fiddlers larger audiences and greater geographic penetration. These new possibilities can be understood as an enhancement of a factor of long standing: many fiddlers’ tendency to travel coupled with curiosity about their peers. That venerable venue, the fiddle contest, took on increased popularity, new mechanisms, and adjusted emphases. An organization called the Georgia Old-Time Fiddlers Association sponsored a series of contests held in Atlanta that lasted from 1913 through 1935. It was significant that a formal organization was involved and that the press emphasized the age and countrified associations of fiddling in a favorable light; newspaper articles offer a picture of rusticity that was not deplorable, but rather charmingly

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frisky. The reporters sanitized contestants’ supposed histories of hellraising by looking through the rosy lens of nostalgia. In retrospect, we can see that this was fiddling in the process of exchanging an inherited (and not entirely unattractive) aura of moral danger for a nonstuffy wholesomeness. Another set of contests tilted even more in the direction of willful nostalgia. Rich automaker Henry Ford believed that what he saw as a pernicious eroding of moral standards by the 1920s was linked with prevailing musical taste, particularly with the popularity of jazz, which inspired him to finance an extensive series of fiddle contests and square dances at Ford dealerships nationwide. The breadth of interest in such contests, in commercial recordings of traditional music, and in live radio broadcasts of the same was both explicitly retrospective and temporary. But while this public efflorescence of fiddling in the 1920s drew on a vital but fading rural tradition, a somewhat parallel movement beginning in the 1950s and 1960s became more of a genuine revival, albeit on two tracks. Some of the new interest was one component of the folk revival fueled by the middle class, but some was more of a grassroots affair, blue-collar individuals reacting in their own ways to the streamlining of popular music. Contests such as the “convention” in Galax, Virginia grew healthily, a contest that would become quite influential started far away in Weiser, Idaho, in 1935 (the self-styled “national” contest), and what is now informally called “contest style” fiddling burgeoned in various events in Texas. In sum, all American fiddling joined in the continued transformation of what had once been part of mainstream culture into a vital subculture anchored by the institution of the fiddle contest.

American Fiddling Today The most significant sign that fiddling is now largely respectable is that fiddle-based festivals—especially contests—draw on all generations for both performers and audience members. When a child competes, the accompanist is often a parent or sibling. Indeed, some very conservative parents strongly encourage all of their many kids to join family bands in order to keep them from engaging in less salubrious hobbies. And senior fiddlers are celebrated as much for their age as for their often uneven skills.

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Although fiddle contests have been around for centuries, they were initially mostly small, local affairs. Now they come in all sizes, from little ones taking up a few hours at county or state fairs (or as small parts of other themed festivals—for instance, the annual Pecan Festival held in Richton, Mississippi), to independent annual affairs lasting about a week and welcoming hundreds of competitors. Most fiddle contests are sponsored by local governments or by fraternal service organizations (Elks Club, etc.) that generally overlap in membership with small town Chambers of Commerce; the profits go to good causes (scholarships or pet projects of the sponsoring organizations). Small or large, these events always provide for camping, feature at least as much informal jamming as formal competition, offer attendees many opportunities to buy food and crafts, and constitute occasions to celebrate family values and local patriotism. There are often separate competition brackets for the older and younger fiddlers (or players of allied instruments), but the focus in terms of excitement and prize money is always the “junior” category—at most contests, fiddlers between the ages of sixteen and sixty or so. The most popular styles played today are based on Texas style. These young closely related regional styles are generally grouped together with the parent Texas style under the rubric “contest style.” In the Northwest, the influence of the “national” contest in Weiser smooths out the rhythms and aggressive attacks characteristic of contest style a bit, and tight schedules allow less room for variation than is typical in Texas. And in the Tennessee Valley, some contest fiddlers subtly incorporate local ingredients. But the best Texas fiddling is in fact done by Texans playing at the Texas State Contest (“Fiddlers’ Frolics”), held late each April in Hallettsville, a town of about two thousand situated in farmland between Houston and San Antonio. This is one of several competitions sponsored by the local Knights of Columbus (KC), and held at their sprawling facility, which has been incrementally financed by this event; other annual KC fundraising events involve dominos, hunting, or cooking. The fiddle contest takes place in the main auditorium, while a song contest, enormous barbecue contest, and extensive craft sales go on outside. While most audience members come from within the state, competitors come from throughout the United States. The event takes place over the course of a weekend. Late Friday, there is an “anything goes” contest (trick tunes are OK then, as is holding the fiddle oddly, etc.);

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most competitions have an element of humor tucked in somewhere, even if only in jokes sprinkled into the emcee’s banter. On Saturday, the kids lead off; then the afternoon is filled with the “Gone to Texas” bracket, which is for competitors who play in Texas style but who have the misfortune of living elsewhere. Sunday morning includes the short senior and guitar accompanist brackets, plus an induction into the Texas Fiddlers Hall of Fame. Sunday afternoon features the central bracket, for adult fiddlers having Texas driver’s licenses, though a handful among the top competitors moved to Texas specifically for the fiddling. This bracket culminates in a round-robin during which the three top-scoring contestants remain on stage, each playing one tune in each of five genres: the breakdown (the name for melodies formerly called reels and similar tunes), hornpipe, waltz, polka, and western swing. In Texas style, a fiddler uses most of the bow, slurs fluently, adds subtle rhythmic accents, and treats melodies as points of departure for elaborate variation. Perhaps the variation technique reaches all the way back in some way to late eighteenth-century Scottish variation techniques, or, more likely, it is a matter of character, a general inclination to play in a flashy way that has persisted over the centuries. Fiddlers on the moving frontier of the South were bold and creative, and, like their Texas descendants, less apt to have many dances to accompany than were fiddlers in settled areas. Playing often for their own entertainment, early Texas fiddlers occasionally met in the context of weekend gatherings punctuated by rodeos and other competitions. It is no wonder that they favored and still favor contests, and that they cultivated a style heavily reliant on variation. Because of that orientation toward playing for listeners, it is equally unsurprising that their style became the favorite of fiddlers in much of the country. Example 10.1 is a transcription of “Leather Britches,” as played recently by Carl Hopkins, who has won the Texas State Contest several times, most recently in 2012. He is a welder in his early forties. His father, E. J. Hopkins, an important figure in the history of Texas fiddling, still wins prizes regularly in the senior division. Carl’s wife, Tonya, represents a prominent fiddle family based in Idaho, and their high-school-aged son is already one of the finest guitar accompanists for Texas-style performances. Carl is known for attracting crowds when he jams, and for barking out a laugh when his adventurous

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Example 10.1. “Leather Britches,” as performed by Carl Hopkins.

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improvising leads to making a mistake—errors that are generally audible only to him. This is a relatively brief Texas-style performance (ten strains rather than the more usual fourteen to sixteen). He played it during a contest weekend, but for a Hall of Fame induction rather than for the actual competition. It was chosen for this illustration because it is short, and thus able to fit gracefully on a single page, but it is otherwise typical. In a simple majority of such performances, pairs of strains alternate throughout, thus AABBAABBAABBAABB, with all versions of both strains being at least a little bit different, and some being especially distinctive, often due to exploring different tessituras. Texas style began to form relatively recently, arguably as late as in the 1910s, and has changed slowly but inexorably since, with average performances becoming progressively more complex over the decades. The inherited melodies were usually composed of two strains exploring contrasting tessituras; the Texas versions often added forms of each strain that were up or down an octave, wherever the violin’s range would permit (assuming that most fingering remains in first position, but with some use of third position for many tunes). “Lord MacDonald’s Reel” already included one such adjustment, which in this transcription of “Leather Britches” appears labeled “A high” (not requiring third position, which is a little unusual); a low B strain was added to fill out the picture. Hopkins’s form here was a simple variation on the usual set of paired strains (AABB; A high, A high, A; B low, B low, A), thus using the original A as a sort of rondo refrain. Even this elementary performance illustrates several elements typical of Texas fiddle variation technique. One is the “stretch,” the replacing of the initial gesture of a strain by held notes (compare the beginnings of the first two A strains); another is the free figuration in the second playing of the B strain, beginning in its third measure. While thorough analysis of this variation technique is beyond the scope of this essay, we can note that these two central ways to vary tunes recall variation techniques inherited from eighteenth-century Scottish fiddling, mixed with ones characteristic of early jazz.20 The starkest contrast with Texas contest style flourishes in the Upper South, particularly near the intersection of North Carolina, Virginia, and Tennessee. Numerous small contests plus two very large ones, Clifftop and Galax, take place annually within a few hundred miles of each other. Clifftop (officially called the Appalachian String Band

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Festival) focuses on old-time style, on competitions for individual instruments (especially fiddle, but also clawhammer-style banjo, etc.), and on old-time bands, which most typically include fiddle, banjo, guitar, and bass, but sometimes have more than one fiddle, or add a mandolin, autoharp, or washboard. The most distinctive feature of Clifftop is that the competitors divide between blue-collar local residents with direct links to playing in past generations (within their families or those of neighbors) and rather more urban revivalists, many of whom are white-collar workers whose romantic nostalgia is much more generalized in terms of geographic source, but often quite specific in terms of which tunes “fit” philosophically. The old-time bands at Galax and Clifftop, and at dozens of smaller annual contests in the Upper South, have parallel musical goals, but they balance ingredients of performances differently. Like the blackface minstrel bands described above, they consist of a fiddle and banjo playing in syncopation-enlivened heterophony, plus accompaniment, which has been changed from the minstrel percussion to the harmony produced by guitar and bass (though the crisp and clean performance practice of these secondary instruments remains rather percussive). Some current bands favor the headlong exuberance characteristic of many a string band recorded in the 1920s, much-recorded bands of the past such as Gid Tanner and the Skillet Lickers. Other contemporary ensembles emphasize an exquisite filigree of fiddle and banjo interaction supported by carefully crafted guitar and bass lines; these performances become as complex and lovely as the best Texas fiddling, although in a very different way. Most bands choose an idiosyncratic balance of approaches. Locally nurtured string bands are more apt to play meat-and-potatoes tunes, common ones with straightforward harmonies like “Leather Britches,” while urban revivalists seek out tunes with more exotic modal underpinnings or silly titles. Again, this does not result in a clean dichotomy in practice, but rather in ratios within total repertoires. Does the cultural backdrop of American fiddling still harbor traces of the ancient tension between conservative religion and the violin? We need to keep in mind that the dark side of the violin’s perceived identity has long fallen into two streams, which were not necessarily related . . . or were they? It was because of the violin’s versatility and multifaceted expressiveness that the demonic or otherwise supernatural associations of intense musical expression became more strongly attached to

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the violin than to other instruments. The other historically suspicious aspect of the use of the violin was more prosaic—its widespread and persistent linkage with that morally perilous secular activity, dancing. In America, many senior fiddlers can remember when fiddling was the expected music for neighborhood dances in their rural homes, chosen over other instruments because of, yes, the same versatility and multifaceted expressiveness. But both the former demonic and the simply sinfully secular qualities of the fiddle have been transferred to rock music and its signature instrument, the electric guitar! A few traces of the fiddle’s controversial past remain, especially the association of liquor with some groups of male fiddlers. This writer’s favorite anecdote illustrating this link concerns famous Texas fiddler Dale Morris Sr., and fiddlers who were his students at some point in the 1980s. When Morris was inducted into the Texas State Fiddlers’ Frolics Hall of Fame during the 2000 Texas State Contest, several of his friends who were onstage to praise (or roast) him simply said that they could not repeat their favorite stories about him in mixed company. But one old acquaintance reported the following event: We went to a contest in Langley, Oklahoma, and they had a little old motel there that would only hold about thirteen or fourteen people. So we all’d rented this room, and all went to sleep, bunked here and there. Dale got in late one time, and he just thought how funny it would be to pull a little joke. So he rounded up a bunch of cats, and put them in his car. And he stopped at the store and got about a half pound of bologna. He herded all those cats in the door so they couldn’t get out, then he went around and laid a piece of bologna on everybody’s chest. In a little while was the payoff.”21

While this event was certainly not one of unalloyed virtue, it descended only to the level of horseplay; during the remainder of Morris’s Hall of Fame induction, several other speakers identified themselves with rueful pride as having been among the inebriated and unconscious young fiddlers who were decorated with bologna that night. Such hijinks tend to be gender-specific; to the extent that patterns of such behavior intertwine with the process of learning to fiddle at a high level, this gives guys an advantage. Indeed, testosterone-fueled humor is a large enough ingredient in the witty shaping of performances—subtle rhythmic jokes are like winks among the performers and judges—that no woman has yet won the Texas State Contest.

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The atmosphere at the annual Tennessee Valley Old Time Fiddlers Convention is more typical. At this large annual event, held at Athens State University, in Athens, Alabama, only a few of the senior fiddlers remember when local fiddling was controversial on moral grounds.22 While plenty of flirting takes place on the grounds—lots of marriages result from shared interests in fiddling—the overall feel of the event is relentlessly wholesome. The design of the formal competition reflects the Tennessee Valley’s geographic position, between the Southeast, with that area’s emphasis on minstrel-descended old-time fiddling, and the larger Texas-derived contest-style fiddling turf. The weekend starts with competition brackets for various instruments—mandolin, dulcimer, clawhammer banjo, “classic old-time fiddle,” then old-time and bluegrass bands—then shifts to a western model to climax with contest-style fiddling. But the sum total of the events on stage pales in significance when compared to the dozens of crowded jams going on simultaneously on wide walkways, in fields near the craft exhibits, and inside several buildings. Finally, late Saturday night, a buck-dancing (similar to clogging) contest caps the formal competition while fiddle scores are being tallied. The individual dancers request given fiddle tunes for their turns on stage. Their intricate footwork is agile and exuberant rather than in any way sensual—that sort of association has been deeded to other venues. This is dancing in the service of good health, family values, and nostalgia, and the accompanying fiddle bears no trace of its past as the “devil’s box.” These days, interest in fiddling in the United States, as in most countries bordering the North Atlantic, is stable at the level of a healthy subculture. This means that even minimal media coverage materializes only in the small towns where contests or other festivals take place; few Americans (or Scots, or Norwegians) will hear about fiddle-based events by accident. However, the organizers of American fiddle contests of any size maintain websites, which can be located through online searches for “fiddle contest Hallettsville,” or “fiddle contest Weiser” (or Galax, or Clifftop, or, e.g., the name of any state). And anyone who attends one fiddle contest automatically enters the subculture’s informational loop. Emcee announcements and a table of flyers publicize many other contests. Residents of big cities can drive an hour or two to one or several of these annual fiddle contests, or can stay home and attend Irish music sessions (in which the melody’s near unisons between fiddle, tin whistle, and perhaps Irish bouzouki exhibit some

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kinship to the timbral richness of the fiddle and banjo partnership of old-time music). A few rare Scottish fiddle clubs flourish in some of the same big cities, and Scottish-derived practice and repertoires dominate fiddling in and near Nova Scotia. Also, bluegrass bands usually include a fiddle; bluegrass bands are common throughout North America and far from rare in other countries, including Germany and Japan. In short, the American fiddle world is quite healthy and varied. But why do some young people choose to fiddle rather than learn to play art music on the violin? There are many answers to this question, quite a few of which are based on circumstances—the presence or absence of a string program in given school systems, whether a friend plays the violin or the fiddle, and so on. Fiddlers interviewed by this writer were often interested in active participation in music and were intrigued by the sound of bowed strings, but were not academically inclined or were drawn to the social environment of fiddling and the possibility of playing onstage for an informal audience. Of course, modern American fiddling has become demanding enough to merit being considered a sort of nationalistic art music, rather like the late eighteenth-century Scottish fiddling discussed at the beginning of this chapter, or the Norwegian fiddling discussed at the end of the previous chapter. Current American fiddling requires carefully honed technique, some of the improvisational skills employed in jazz, and mastery of a repertoire composed of what an art musician might classify as character pieces. In any case, the fact that fiddling traditions that began in the Old World continue to flourish and develop in sometimes unforeseeable ways in North America is convincing testimony concerning the remarkable versatility of the violin—and the irrepressible desire of human beings to experience the pleasure of making music in familiar and sometimes slightly unfamiliar ways.

Notes 1. 2. 3. 4.

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David Johnson, Music and Society in Lowland Scotland in the Eighteenth Century (London: Oxford University Press, 1972), 120–21. Francis Collinson, The Traditional and National Music of Scotland (Nashville, TN: Vanderbilt University Press, 1966), 213. Johnson, Music and Society, 99. Stuart McHardy, MacPherson’s Rant and Other Tales of the Scottish Fiddle (Edinburgh: Birlinn, 2004), 56.

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The Devil’s Box No More 5. 6. 7.

8. 9. 10. 11.

12. 13. 14. 15. 16. 17.

18. 19.

20.

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David Johnson, Scottish Fiddle Music in the Eighteenth Century: A Music Collection and Historical Study (Edinburgh: John Donald, 1984), 34. See, for example, Niel Gow, A Collection of Strathspey Reels (Dunkeld: author, [1984]), [1–2]. Niel Gow, A Third Collection of Strathspey Reels &c. for the Piano-Forte, Violin, and Violoncello, Dedicated to the Most Noble The Marchioness of Tweeddale (Edinburgh: N. & M. Stewart, [1792]), 9. McHardy, MacPherson’s Rant. Ibid., 55. Ibid., 76. Paul E. W. Roberts, “English Fiddling 1650–1850: Reconstructing a Lost Idiom,” in Play It Like It Is: Fiddle and Dance Studies from around the North Atlantic, ed. Ian Russell and Mary Anne Alburger (Aberdeen: The Elphinstone Institute, University of Aberdeen, 2006), 25. Charles Hamm, Yesterdays: Popular Song in America (New York: Norton, 1979), xvii. Ibid., xviii. On deposit at the New York Public Library. Henry Young, “Narmour and Smith: A Brief Biography,” John Edwards Memorial Foundation Quarterly 7, pt. 1, no. 21 (1971): 31. William Henry Koon, “The Country Professional: Record Reviews,” Tennessee Folklore Bulletin 35, no. 2 (1969): 56. Vance Randolph, Ozark Mountain Folks (New York: Vanguard Press, 1932), 69; Simon J. Bronner, “‘I Kicked Three Slats Out of My Cradle First Time I Heard That’: Ken Kane, Country Musician, and American Folklife,” New York Folklore Quarterly 3, nos. 1–4 (1977): 63; Donald K. Wilgus, “Introduction” [to an issue devoted to the study of commercialized folk music in general and to hillbilly music in particular], Western Folklore 30, no. 3 (1971): 173. Philip Graham, Showboats: The History of an American Institution (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1951), 71. Samuel P. Bayard, Hill Country Tunes: Instrumental Folk Music of Southwestern Pennsylvania (Philadelphia: American Folklore Society, 1944); Bayard, Dance to the Fiddle, March to the Fife: Instrumental Folk Tunes in Pennsylvania (University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press, 1982); Jeff Todd Titon, Old-Time Kentucky Fiddle Tunes (Lexington: University Press of Kentucky, 2001). For more thorough treatments of Texas variation technique, see Chris Goertzen, “Texas Contest Fiddling: Moving the Focus of Contrast and Change to Inner Variations,” in Crossing Over: Fiddle and Dance Studies from around the North Atlantic 3, ed. Ian Russell and Anna Kearney Guigné (University of Aberdeen, Scotland, The Elphinstone Institute,

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290 ❧ Chapter Ten in association with the Department of Folklore, MMaP and the School of Music, Memorial University of Newfoundland, 2010), 239–49, and his “Texas Contest Fiddling: What Modern Variation Technique Tells Us,” in Routes and Roots: Fiddle and Dance Studies from around the North Atlantic 4, Ian Russell and Chris Goertzen (University of Aberdeen, Scotland, The Elphinstone Institute, 2012), 98–111. 21. This was the testimony of veteran Texas fiddle guitar accompanist Bobby Crispin. It was first printed in Chris Goertzen, Southern Fiddlers and Fiddle Contests (Jackson: University Press of Mississippi, 2008), 55–56. Pages 56–60 of that volume detail other humorous moments inserted into fiddle contests. 22. Just as the best printed anthologies of American fiddle tunes are regional, so are the most-thoroughly documented histories of fiddling. This writer’s favorite of these is Joyce H. Cauthen, With Fiddle and Well-Rosined Bow: OldTime Fiddling in Alabama (Tuscaloosa: University of Alabama Press, 1989). This book closes with an extremely entertaining chapter titled “Fiddling and Associated Sins” (201–14), which explores the interplay between fiddling, dancing, tall tales, and temptation in Alabama over centuries, but tails off early in the twentieth century.

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CONTRIBUTORS

Chris Goertzen, musicologist and ethnomusicologist, is professor of music at the University of Southern Mississippi. His publications include Fiddling for Norway: Revival and Identity (University of Chicago Press), Southern Fiddlers and Fiddle Contests (University of Mississippi Press), and Made in Mexico: Tradition, Tourism, and Political Ferment in Oaxaca (University of Mississippi Press). Eitan Ornoy is associate dean of the music faculty at the Levinsky College of Education in Tel Aviv and lecturer on music at the Zefat Academic College in Zefat, Israel. He is a professional violinist and musicologist, specializing in the analysis of recordings, performance practice, and the historically informed performance movement. He has published numerous studies in these fields. Robert Riggs is chair of the Music Department and professor at the University of Mississippi, where he teaches music history and violin, and performs with the Oxford Piano Trio. His publications include Leon Kirchner: Composer, Performer, and Teacher (University of Rochester Press) and articles on Mozart, performance practice, and aesthetics. Peter Walls, professor of music emeritus at Victoria University and former chief executive of the New Zealand Symphony Orchestra, is a musicologist, conductor, and violinist. He has published Music in the English Courtly Masque 1604–1640 (Clarendon Press) and History, Imagination and the Performance of Music (Boydell), as well as numerous book chapters and articles on seventeenth and eighteenth-century repertoire and performance practice. Peter Wollny, director of the Bach-Archiv in Leipzig, is a musicologist and violinist. He has published extensively on the music of J. S. Bach and his sons, and he is a member of the editorial boards of the Neue Bach-Ausgabe, the C. P. E. Bach Complete Edition, and the Bach-Jahrbuch. He is a member of the faculty at both the University of Leipzig and the Technical University in Dresden.

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INDEX

All works indicated here are for, or include, violin unless otherwise indicated: e.g., partitas and sonatas. A page number in italics indicates a musical example, illustration, or table.

Abel, Carl Friedrich, 124 accompanied keyboard sonatas, 124–25 Adam, Paul: Paganini’s Ghost, 58n4; The Rainaldi Quartet, 45 Adams, John, Concerto, 187, 207–9, 209 Adlung, Jacob, 105 Agricola, Johann Friedrich, 105, 113, 114 “alla turca” style, 128 Altnickol, Johann Christoph, 106, 114–15 Amati, Andrea, 10 Amati, Antonio, 63, 65, 90 Amati, Girolamo, 63, 65, 90 Amati, Nicolò, 63 anillo effect, 258 Appalachian String Band, 284–85 Arányi, Jelly, 198 arpeggiated passages: in Bach, 120, 227; in Italian Baroque music, 75, 81; in Shostakovich, 204 articulations: of Bach, 106, 115; of Beethoven, 141–43; as heard in recordings, 215–29; sautillé, 167; spiccato, 173, 201; of violinistcomposers, 163, 165 Auer, Leopold: Brodsky and, 185n30; as German school representative, 219; portamento used by, 218; Tchaikovsky and, 178; vibrato used by, 218

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Bach, Anna Magdalena, 106, 108 Bach, Barbara Margaretha, 96 Bach, Carl Philipp Emanuel, 95, 103, 112, 114; Trio Sonata in F Major, Wq 154, 114 Bach, Johann Christian, 126 Bach, Johann Christoph: “Ach, dass ich Wassers gnug hätte,” 96–97; “Meine Freundin, du bist schön,” 97; “Wie bist du denn, o Gott . . . ,” 97, 98 Bach, Johann Christoph Friedrich, 106, 114, 115 Bach, Johann Heinrich, 113, 116 Bach, Johann Sebastian, 124; The Art of Fugue, 38; Brandenburg Concertos, 102, 105, 117; cantata “In allen meinem Taten,” BWV 97, 118; Cello Suites, BWV 1007–12, 104; Concerto in A Minor, BWV 1041, 117–18; Concerto in E Major, BWV 1042, 118; Double Concerto in D Minor, BWV 1043, 117–18, 190; “Erfreut euch, ihr Herzen,” BWV 66, 105; “Es ist genug!,” 192; flute sonatas, BWV 1030–32, 112, 114; Fugue in G Minor, BWV 1026, 100–101, 101; “Der Himmel dacht auf Anhalts Ruhm und Glück,” BWV 66a, 105; historically informed performances of works, 226–29; keyboard arrangements of Vivaldi violin concertos, 75, 102; organ trios, BWV

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294 ❧ Index Bach, Johann Sebastian—(cont’d) 525–30, 112; Partita for Flute, BWV 1013, 104; Partita in E Minor, BWV 830, 116; St. Matthew Passion, 118; Sinfonia to lost cantata, BWV 1045, 119, 120; Sonata in E Minor, BWV 1023, 101–2; string instruments owned by, 96; viola da gamba sonatas, BWV 1027–29, 112; viola playing of, 137; violin in vocal works, 118–20; violin playing of, 95. See also categories below Bach, Johann Sebastian, sonatas, BWV 1014–19, 111–16; no. 1 in B Minor, BWV 1014, 115; no. 2 in A Major, BWV 1015, 115–16; no. 3 in E Major, BWV 1016, 116; no. 4 in C Minor, BWV 1017, 116; no. 5 in F Minor, BWV 1018, 116; no. 6 in G Major, BWV 1019, 116; no. 6 in G Major, BWV 1019a, 116; sources, 113–15 Bach, Johann Sebastian, sonatas and partitas, unaccompanied, BWV 1001–6, 102–11; keyboard arrangements, 105–6; Partita no. 1 in B Minor, BWV 1002, 99, 107, 109; Partita no. 2 in D Minor, BWV 1004, 110; Partita no. 3 in E Major, BWV 1006, 111, 220; recordings, 222–23, 228–29; Sonata no. 1 in G Minor, BWV 1001, 109, 220, 228; Sonata no. 2 in A Minor, BWV 1003, 110; Sonata no. 3 in C Major, BWV 1005, 33n16, 110–11, 175; surviving sources, 106, 108–9 Bach, Maria Barbara, 104 bagpipe, 267 Baillie, Pate, 268, 270 Baillot, Antoine, 46, 167 Baillot, Pierre, 157–58 bajada effect, 258 Baltzar, Thomas, 15 bamboo flute, 249–50 bandoneón, 241, 255, 257 banjo, 276–78, 279, 285, 287–88

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Barber, Samuel, Concerto, 186, 200– 202, 212n16 bariolage, 76 Baroque: as an era, 90; historically informed performance movement, 226–31; Italian performance practice in, 83–90; Italian violin music, 12, 65–78; Italian violins and violin makers, 63–65; pitch standards, 227, 228, 231; vanitas and memento mori visual depictions, 4, 12, 13–14, 15; violin performance at French court, 11–12, 83–84; virtuosity in, 15–16, 66, 70, 75–76, 78, 79, 81 Bartók, Béla, 46; Concerto no. 1, 186, 198; Concerto no. 2, 186, 198, 199, 200; Rhapsody no. 1, 198; Rhapsody no. 2, 198; sonatas, 198 Batiashvili, Lisa, 211 Beaujoyeux, Balthasar de, 11 “beautiful,” aesthetic of, 141–42 Beethoven, Ludwig van: Brahms influenced by, 173–74; Concerto in D Major, op. 61, 149, 157, 159–62, 166, 170, 175, 175, 177, 183n10, 184n20, 196, 212n14, 222; Grosse Fuge, op. 133, 155n32; Mozart’s influence on, 138; Piano Concerto in D Major, op. 61a, 183–84n15, 185n33; Piano Sonata in C Major, op. 53, 155n32; Piano Sonata in E-flat Major (“Lebewohl”), op. 81a, 151; piano sonatas, 142, 143; quartets for piano and strings, WoO 36, 138; Scottish folk-song settings, 179; Sonata in A Major, op. 30, no. 1, 144, 145; Sonata in A Major (“Kreutzer”), op. 47, 53, 144–45, 146, 147–49, 148, 170, 231; Sonata in A Minor, op. 23, 141; Sonata in C Minor, op. 30, no. 2, 143; Sonata in F Major (“Spring”), op. 24, 141–42, 155n28; Sonata in G Major, op. 30, no. 3, 143–44; Sonata in G Major, op. 96, 138, 142, 149–52, 151,

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Index 156n40; sonatas, op. 12, 139–40; sonatas, op. 30, 143–44; String Quartet C-sharp Minor, op. 131, 229; String Quartet in B-flat Major, op. 130, 155n32, 180; Symphony no. 3, “Eroica,” 173; Symphony no. 5, 165; Symphony no. 6, “Pastoral,” 150; Variations on “Se vuol ballare,” WoO 40, 138; Vieuxtemps influenced by, 165–66; viola playing of, 138 Beethoven Quartet Society, 170, 171 Berg, Alban, 46; Concerto, 186, 191, 191–92, 196 Berlioz, Hector: Symphonie fantastique, 28, 46; Vieuxtemps’s Concerto no. 4 viewed by, 165 Biber, Heinrich, 79 Biondi, Fabio, 228 blackface minstrelsy, fiddling and, 276–78 Blake, George E., 272–73 bluegrass bands, 288 Böcklin, Arnold, Self-portrait with Death Fiddling, 22, 23, 24, 29 Böhm, Joseph, 169 Böhn, Ole, 205 Bonaparte, Napoleon, 159 bones, 276, 277, 278 Bononcini, Giovanni, 90 bow designs, 65, 158, 231; Tarahumara, 245; “Vega,” 227, 235n33 bow grips, 85, 250 bowings: mixed, 75; ricochet, 17, 162, 188; sautillé, 167; spiccato, 173, 201; sul ponticello, 29, 188, 230; sul tasto, 230; Tartini on, 85–86 Boyer, Jean-Baptiste de, 90 Brahms, Johannes: Concerto in D Major, op. 77, 173–75, 176, 201; Hungarian Dance no. 2 arranged by Joachim, 221; Joachim and, 169, 170, 175; Variations on a Theme by Paganini, 22; works in Hungarian style, 218 Bridgetower, George Augustus Polgreen, 145

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❧ 295

Briselli, Iso, 212n16 Britten, Benjamin: Concerto, op. 15, 186, 196–98, 197, 200, 203, 212n13; Suite, 196 Brodsky, Adolf, 178, 185n30 Brosa, Antonio, 196 Bruch, Max: Concerto no. 1 in G Minor, op. 26, 172–73; Concerto no. 2 in D Minor, op. 44, 179; Joachim and, 169; Scottish Fantasy, 179 Brunetti, Antonio, 126, 134, 153n5, 154n18 Buonamente, Giovanni Battista, 79 Burmester, Willy, vibrato used by, 221 Burney, Charles, 84 Caccini, Giulio, Le nuove musiche, 87 cadenzas: in Baroque music, 89–90; by Beethoven, 161–62, 185n33; by Elgar, 182; by Italian composers, 75, 89; by Joachim, 175, 185n33; by Mendelssohn, 168–69, 177, 180; by Mozart, 127; by Shostakovich, 203; by Sibelius, 180; by Tchaikovsky, 177; by Vieuxtemps, 165 Camphausen, Wolfgang, Eine kleine Schachmusik, 42 cantabile, 163, 164 Carbonelli, Giovanni Stefano, Sonate da camera, 81 Carnatic Indian violin playing, 208, 241, 248–54 Caro, Julio de, 256–57 Carter, Elliott, Concerto, 187, 205–7 Cartier, Jean-Baptiste, L’art du violon, 16, 33n16 Castello, Dario, 66 Castrucci, Pietro, 81 Cazalis, Henry, 28 Cazzati, Maurizio, 66; Sonate a due violini, op. 18, 70 Chausson, Ernest, Poème, 59n7 Chekhov, Anton, 49; “Rothschild’s Fiddle,” 55 chicharra effect, 257 chin rests, 65, 163

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296 ❧ Index Clement, Franz, 124, 159, 183n12 Colista, Lelio, 81, 97 col legno, 86 commonplace books, 273–76 concertato, 91n12 concerto grosso, 73 concertos, violin: of Adams, 187, 207–9, 209; of Bach, 117–18; of Barber, 186, 200–202, 212n16; of Bartók, 186, 198, 199, 200; of Beethoven, 149, 157, 159–62, 166, 170, 175, 175, 177, 183n10, 184n20, 196, 212n14, 222; of Berg, 186, 191, 191–92, 196; of Brahms, 173–75, 176, 201; of Britten, 186, 196–98, 197, 200, 203, 212n13; of Bruch, 172–73, 179; of Carter, 187, 205–7; eighteenth-century Italian, 75–76; of Elgar, 181–82, 186; of Ernst, 164; first-movement martial character in, 158–59, 160–61, 183n10, 196; of Glass, 187, 204–5, 211; of Joachim, 170, 185n35; Joachim’s influence on, 169–70, 172–73, 175; of Ligeti, 187, 209–11; of Mendelssohn, 165, 168–69, 170, 177; of Mozart, 126–28; nineteenth-century French, 157–59; nineteenth-century violinistcomposers, 162–67; of Paganini, 162, 163–64, 182n1, 184n18; of Prokofiev, 186, 187–89, 197, 203; of Rode, 184n18; of Saint-Saëns, 179; of Schoenberg, 186, 193–96, 194; of Shostakovich, 186, 202–4, 213n19; of Sibelius, 180–81, 186, 187; of Spohr, 162–63, 173, 182n1; of Stravinsky, 186, 189–90, 190; of Tchaikovsky, 177–78, 226; twentieth-century, 186–213; twenty-first century, 211; of Vieuxtemps, 165; of Viotti, 185n25; of Vivaldi, 75, 102, 117; of Wieniawski, 166–67, 179. See also cadenzas Concerts Spiritual (Paris), 46 contests: American fiddle, 266, 279–87; Norwegian fiddle, 258–64

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Corelli, Arcangelo, 66, 90; bow used by, 65; Concerti grossi, op. 6, 71, 78; sonatas, op. 2, 71; sonatas, op. 4, 71; sonatas, op. 5, 70, 71, 72, 73–75, 74, 79, 81, 89–90, 94n56, 109; Veracini influenced by, 75–76 Corrette, Michel, 124; L’école d’Orphée, 85, 88 Cozio di Salabue, Ignazio, 64–65 Cremona, violin making in, 63–64, 65 Crumb, George, Black Angels, 29, 31 dance, devil’s association with, 8; during Middle Ages, 4–6, 30; Praetorius’s assertion, 48; Saint-Léon and, 16; in Scotland, 267 dance music, violin’s use in: during Baroque, 15; buck dancing, 287; fiddling tunes, British, 50; fiddling tunes, Scottish, 266–71; during Renaissance, 4, 10–12; tango ensembles, 241, 254–58; Tarahumara matachines, Mexico, 241, 243–45, 247 Dance of Death representations, 5–6; from Basel, 6, 7, 8; Knoblochtzer depictions, 8, 9, 10; in Paganini caricature, 18, 19; in Prokofiev Concerto, 197; Rethel depictions, 24, 25, 29 danse macabre, 3–4, 28, 29 David, Ferdinand, 168, 170 death and devil associations with violin, 3–35; during Baroque, 4, 12, 15–16, 78; Death and the Maiden topos, 25–27; as “devil’s box” in American fiddling traditions, 4, 30, 35n41, 285–86; as “devil’s box” in Scottish fiddling traditions, 267; factors in, 3–4; Faust legend and, 4, 19; during Middle Ages, 3–6, 8; musical “diablerie,” 28–29; during Renaissance, 4, 10–12; during Romantic era, 4, 22, 23, 24, 26–29, 50, 159; supernatural and, 4, 26–30, 56–58; virtuosity and, 4, 15–16, 159

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Index de Bériot, Charles-Auguste, 57, 164 de Moor, Margriet, Kreutzersonate, 53–54 Delius, Frederick, Concerto, 186 Dies Irae, 28, 29 Dodd, John, 65 dotted rhythms, 219, 223, 227, 229 double stopping, 70, 71, 73, 75, 76, 167, 173, 203 down-bow, rule of, 85–86 Doyle, Arthur Conan, “The RedHeaded League,” 43 Drdla, Franz, as German school representative, 219 drones, 249, 253, 259 Dushkin, Samuel, 189, 190 Dussek, Jan Ladislav, minuets, 221 Dutilleux, Henri, Concerto, 186, 211 Dvo÷ák, Antonín: Concerto in A Minor, op. 53, 184n22; Mazurek, op. 49, 179 Eberlin, Daniel, 96; “Ich will in aller Not auf meinem Jesum bauen,” 97; trio sonatas, 97, 99 Eckard, Johann Gottfried, 124 Elgar, Edward, Concerto in B Minor, op. 61, 181–82, 186 Elias, Gerald: Devil’s Trill, 44–45; mystery series, 58n3 Elman, Mischa, vibrato used by, 219 embellishment. See ornamentation and embellishment Ernst, Heinrich Wilhelm, 21; Beethoven Quartet Society and, 170, 171; Concerto pathétique, 164; “Lord Nelson” Stradivarius and, 46; Nocturne in E Major, 220; operatic fantasies, 178 Evelyn, John, 79 extended playing techniques: Paganini’s use of, 17–18; in tango music, 257–58; in twentieth-century music, 29 Falkner, John Meade, The Lost Stradivarius, 48

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Farina, Carlo, Capriccio stravagante, 79, 86 Felodden, Jakob Olsen “Fel-Jakup,” 259, 261–63, 262 fiddling traditions, American: 1920s resurgence of interest, 279–80; blackface minstrelsy and, 276–78; commonplace books, 273–76; contests, 279–87; current activities, 280–88; “devil’s box” appellation, 4, 30, 35n41, 285–86; gender bias, 286; nineteenth century, 271–76; Northwest-style, 281; popular-music collections, 278; Scottish influences and tunes, 269–70, 274, 276, 282, 284, 288; Tennessee Valley–style, 281, 287; Texas-style, 281–82, 284; Upper South, 284–85 fiddling traditions, English, 50, 270–71, 276 fiddling traditions, Norwegian, 241–42, 258–64 fiddling traditions, Scottish, 266–71, 282, 284, 288 Figueroa, Guillermo, 209 Finnish musical elements, 180–81 fistula, 4 Fleezanis, Jorja, 208 Flesch, Carl, 232n3 folia, La, variations on, 71, 74, 81 folkemusikk, 261, 263 Ford, Henry, 279, 280 France: dance music at court, 11–12; Franco-Belgian “school” of performance, 145, 219–20; nineteenth-century concertos, 157–59; violin performance practice, Baroque, 11–12, 83–84 Francescatti, Zino, recording of Beethoven Concerto, 222 French vs. Italian style, 83–84 Gabrieli, Giovanni, 78 Galamian, Ivan, 47, 228 galliard dance, 48 gamakas, 251–52

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298 ❧ Index gammaldansmusikk, 261, 263 Gardel, Carlos, 255 Gawriloff, Saschko, 211 Geminiani, Francesco, 90; Art of Playing on the Violin, 84, 85, 86, 86, 87–88, 93n33; sonatas, op. 1, 81, 82; A Treatise of Good Taste in the Art of Musick, 93n33 Georgia Old-Time Fiddlers Association, 279 German “school” of violin playing, 219–20, 221 Geyer, Stefi, 198 ghatam, 253 Giardini, Felice, 124 Glass, Philip: Concerto no. 1, 187, 204– 5; Concerto no. 2, 187, 211 Glazunov, Aleksandr, Concerto, 186 glissandos, 188, 197; portamento differentiated from, 232n3; in tango, 257 Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von, 141, 159; Faust, 19; Paganini viewed by, 19 Goltzius, Hendrik, engraving by, 12, 13 Gow, Niel, 268, 269, 276 Grancino, Giovanni, 63 Grillparzer, Franz, 49; “The Poor Fiddler,” 51–52 Gropius, Manon, 191 ground-bass laments, 197 Grumiaux, Arthur, 226 Guarneri, Andrea, 63 Guarneri del Gesù, Giuseppe, 45–46, 63, 90 Gubaidulina, Sofia, Concerto, 211 Guelaguetza festival, 247 guerre des bouffons, 83 guru-disciple system, 252, 264n11 Gypsy (or Roma) style or musical elements, 128, 167, 173, 178–79, 198, 200 Halir, Carl, 181 Handel, George Frideric: Corelli’s influence on, 73; minuets, 221

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hardingfele (Hardanger fiddle) playing, 241–42, 259–61 Hardy, Thomas, 49; “The Fiddler of the Reels,” 50 harmonics, 188; artificial, 179; double, 162, 164, 197; early twentiethcentury use of, 219; mid-twentiethcentury use of, 225; Paganini’s use of, 17 Hartmann, Karl Amadeus: Musik der Trauer, 212n13 Hawkins, Sir John, General History, 71, 73 Haydn, Franz Joseph, 138; Scottish folksong settings, 179 Haym, Nicola, 83 Heermann, Hugo, vibrato used by, 220 Heifetz, Jascha: performance style traits, 222–23, 234n21; portamento used by, 222; recording of Beethoven Concerto, 222; vibrato used by, 219 Heine, Heinrich: on cholera outbreak in Paris, 24; Florentine Nights, 20–21; Die Heimkehr, 25–26 Henze, Hans Werner: Concerto no. 1, 186; Concerto no. 2, 186 Hersey, John, Antonietta, 46–47 Hesse, Hermann, Gertrud, 37 “hillbilly” recordings, 279 Hindemith, Paul, 46; Concerto, 186; Trauermusik, 212n13 Hindustani music, 248 Hoffmann, E. T. A., Councilor Krespel, 26–27, 34n33, 49–50 Honauer, Leontzi, 124 Hopkins, Carl, 282, 283, 284 horn violin, 215 Hubay, Jenö: Carmen fantaisie brillante, op. 3, 221; as German school representative, 219; portamento used by, 218; vibrato used by, 218, 220 Huberman, Bronisław, 40; portamento used by, 222; vibrato used by, 219

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Index Hungarian musical elements, 198, 200, 218 Irish music sessions, 287–88 Italian diaspora, 78–83 Italy: violin music in eighteenth century, 71–78; violin music in seventeenth century, 12, 65–70, 71; violin performance practice, Baroque, 83–90; violins and violin makers in Baroque period, 63–65 “it-narrative,” 45–46 Jambe de Fer, Philibert, 11 Janáðek, Leoš, String Quartet no. 1, “Kreutzer Sonata,” 54 Javanese krongcong genre, 265n28 Joachim, Joseph, 162; arrangement of Brahms’s Hungarian Dance no. 2, 221; Beethoven Quartet Society and, 170, 171; cadenza for Brahms’s concerto, 175; as consultant, 169–70, 172–73, 184n22; as German school representative, 219, 221; Hubay as student of, 220; Kotek and, 177; portamento used by, 218, 220; Romance in C Major, 220; Variations, op. 11, 179; vibrato used by, 219; Violin Concerto no. 2 in D Minor, op. 11, 170, 185n33 Josefowicz, Leila, 211 Kant, Immanuel, 141 Kilroy, Claire, Tenderwire, 39 Kirnberger, Johann Philipp, 115; Die Kunst der reinen Satzes in der Musik, 103 kit, 15, 33n13 Knoblochtzer, Heinrich, woodcuts by, 8, 9, 10 Kochański, Pawel, 188 Korngold, Erich Wolfgang, Concerto, 186 Kotek, Iosif, 177 Krasner, Louis, 191–92, 196

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Kreisler, Fritz, 162, 181, 182; as FrancoBelgian school representative, 220; “Lord Nelson” Stradivarius and, 46; portamento used by, 222; vibrato used by, 218–19, 220 Kremer, Gidon, 208 Kreutzer, Rodolphe, 145, 147, 157–58 Kronos Quartet, 257 Kuhnau, Johann, 108 La Houssaye, Pierre-Nicolas, 46; “Hercules” Stradivarius and, 47 Ladew, Donald P., Stradivarius, 47–48 lagspel, 263 Lalande, Joseph-Jérôme de, 15–16 Lalitha, L., 253, 264n12 Lalitha, Muthuswamy, 264n12; Violin Techniques in Western and South Indian Classical Music, 252, 253 Lalo, Édouard: Concerto no. 1, 179; Symphonie espagnole, 177, 179 landsfestival, 263 landskappleik, 258, 263 László, Ákos, Ungarische Weisen, op. 5, 221 látigo (whip) effect, 257–58 “Leather Britches,” 269, 278, 282, 283, 284, 285 Lebrecht, Norman, The Song of Names, 40–41 Lecerf de la Viéville, Jean-Laurent, 11, 81 Leclair brothers, 83 Legrenzi, Giovanni, 66 Ligeti, György, Concerto, 187, 209–11 lija effect, 257 Lindberg, Magnus: Concerto no. 1, 211; Concerto no. 2, 211 Liszt, Franz: Joachim and, 169, 170; Paganini and, 21–22 literature, violins and violinists in, 36–59; mystery and crime thrillers, 43–45; nineteenth-century, 19, 20–21, 26–27, 36, 37, 49–55, 56–58; personal and professional lives depicted, 36–42; short stories,

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300 ❧ Index literature—(cont’d) 49–56; supernatural and fantasy works, 48–51, 56–58; twentiethcentury, 38–49, 55–56; violin as character or unifying object, 45–48 Locatelli, Pietro, 90; L’arte del violino, 76; Sonata no. 12, op. 6, 76, 78 Lombardini, Maddelena, 84, 86, 88 Lonati, Carlo Ambrogio, 70 “Lord MacDonald’s Reel,” 269, 269–70, 274, 275, 276, 278, 284 “Lord Nelson” Stradivarius, 45–46 Luca, Sergiu, 226 Lully, Jean-Baptiste, 12 lunfardo dialect, 254 Lutoslawski, Witold: Concerto, 211; Variations on a Theme by Paganini, 22 Lyser, Johann Peter, Paganini caricature by, 18, 19 MacArthur, Arthur, 274, 275, 276, 278 MacDonald, Sir Alexander, 268 Maggini, Giovanni Paolo, 63 Mahler, Gustav, Symphony No. 4, 28–29 Mann, Thomas: Buddenbrooks, 59n9; Doctor Faustus, 36, 56–58, 59n9; “Tonio Kröger,” 59n9 Mannelli, Carlo, 66; Studio del violino, 84, 93n41 Mantegazza, Francesco, 65 Mantegazza, Pietro Giovanni, 65 Marcus, Martin Friedrich, 102 mariachi ensembles, 247 Marini, Biagio, 66, 79; Affetti musicali, 86, 87; Sonata no. 4, 68, 69 Marrocco, W. Thomas, Memoirs of a Stradivarius, 45–46 Mascitti, Michele, 90; sonatas, 81, 83 matachines dances, 241, 243–45 Matteis, Nicola, 85, 87, 93n33; Ayres, 79, 80 Mattheson, Johann, 106, 111–12 Maurensig, Paolo, Canone inverso, 41–42 Maxwell Davies, Peter, Concerto, 186 McDuffie, Robert, 211

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McEwan, Ian, On Chesil Beach, 38–39 McGrath, Thomas, “The Man in the Blizzard,” 44 Melville, Herman, 49; “The Fiddler,” 54–55 memento mori, 4, 12, 13–14, 15, 22, 23, 24 Mendelssohn, Felix: Concerto in E Minor, op. 64, 165, 168–69, 170, 177; Joachim and, 169, 170 Menuhin, Yehudi, 198; recording of Beethoven Concerto, 222 Mersenne, Marin, 11, 83 Merula, Tarquinio, 66, 79, 90; Motetti e sonate concertati, 66, 68 messa di voce, 86–88, 227, 230 Mexico, Tarahumara Indians in, 241, 242–45, 246, 247 micropolyphony, 210 Milstein, Nathan, performance style traits, 222–23, 234n21 minimalist music, 204–5 Mondonville, Jean-Joseph de, 124 Monteverdi, Claudio, 65–66, 68, 90; Madrigali guerrieri, et amorosi, 66; “Possente spirto” from La favola d’Orfeo, 66, 67, 88; Schütz influenced by, 78; Selva morale e spirituale, 66 Moors and Christians dance genre, 244, 264n5 morsing, 253 Moser, Hans Joachim, 97 Mozart, Leopold, 123–25, 126, 153n3; depicted in Hersey novel, 46; Versuch einer gründlichen Violinschule, 85, 124 Mozart, Wolfgang Amadeus: accompanied sonatas, opp. 1–4, 125; Adagio, K. 261, 153n5; Concerto no. 1 in B-flat Major, K. 207, 126, 153n5; Concerto no. 2 in D Major, K. 211, 126; Concerto no. 3 in G Major, K. 216, 126, 127, 128; Concerto no. 4 in D Major, K. 218, 126, 127; Concerto no. 5 in A Major, K. 219, 126, 127, 128, 153n5; depicted in Hersey novel, 46; Divertimento, K. 287, 126; The Marriage of Figaro, 42; Piano

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Index Concerto no. 9 in E-flat Major, K. 271, 184n21; Rondo in B-flat Major, K. 269, 153n5; Rondo in C Major, K. 373, 154n18; Serenade in D Major, K. 185, 153n6; Serenade in D Major, K. 203, 153n6; Serenade in D Major, K. 204, 153n6; Sinfonia concertante, K. 364, 154n24; Sonata in A Major, K. 526, 137, 138, 226; Sonata in B-flat Major, K. 378, 137; Sonata in B-flat Major, K. 454, 137; Sonata in C Major, K. 296, 137, 138; Sonata in E-flat Major, K. 380, 138; Sonata in E-flat Major, K. 481, 137; Sonata in E Minor, K. 304, 129–30, 131, 132, 133; Sonata in F Major, K. 547, 137; Sonata in G Major, K. 301, 128; Sonata in G Major/Minor, K. 379, 133–34, 135, 136–37, 138; sonatas, early, 123–24, 153n10; sonatas, K. 301–6, 46, 128–32; spurious concertos, 153n5; String Quintet in D Major, K. 593, 38–39; as touring child prodigy, 123–25; Viennese sonatas, 132–37; viola playing of, 137 Muffat, Georg: Armonico tributo, 78; Auserlesene Instrumental Music, 78; bow grip described by, 85 Mullova, Viktoria, 231 multiple stopping, 81, 195, 227. See also double stopping; triple stopping Müthel, Johann Gottfried, 115 Mutter, Anne-Sophie, 211 Nardini, Pietro, 78 nationalistic and folk elements, 198, 200; American fiddle contests, 282–88; English dance tunes, 270–71, 276; in nineteenth-century art music, 177–79; Norwegian fiddle contests, 258–64, 288; Scottish dance tunes, 267–70, 276, 288 Nazis and Nazism, 39–42, 56–58 necks, 65 Nietzsche, Friedrich, The Birth of Tragedy, 37

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❧ 301

non vibrato, 230 North, Roger, 81, 85, 87, 89 Norwegian folk fiddle traditions, 241– 42, 258–64 notes inégales, 219, 227 “novel of circulation,” 45, 46–48 O’Brian, Patrick, Aubrey/Maturin series, 58n2 octavado effect, 258 Offenbach, Jacques, The Tales of Hoffmann, 34n33 Oistrakh, David, 202, 213n19; portamento used by, 222 Onofri, Enrico, 228 operatic fantasies, 166, 178–79 oral tradition: American, 271, 274–76; Norwegian, 261; Scottish, 268 ornamentation and embellishment: in American fiddle music, 284; in Carnatic art music, 250, 251–52; in English fiddle music, 271; historically informed movement and, 227, 228, 229; Italian Baroque, 84, 88–90, 93n33, 94n56; in Norwegian fiddle music, 260, 263; in Scottish fiddle music, 269, 270 Pachelbel, Johann, Canon in D, 208 Paganini, Niccolò: Concerto no. 1 in E-flat Major, op. 6, 182n1; concertos, 162, 163–64, 184n18; demonic reputation of, 16–22, 159; European concert tours, 18–19; “Lord Nelson” Stradivarius and, 46; Lyser caricature, 18, 19; new techniques of, 17–18; operatic fantasies, 178; private life of, 19–20; Le Streghe, 34n34; Twenty-four Caprices, op. 1, 22; works played on G-string, 22; works used as basis by other composers, 22 Palschau, Johann Gottfried Wilhelm, 108 Pandolfi, Giovanni Antonio, 79 Paris Conservatoire, 157

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302 ❧ Index Pasquini, Bernardo, 78 “pastoral” as musical topic, 150–51 Penderecki, Krzyzstof: Concerto no. 1, 186; Concerto no. 2, 186, 211 performance practice: American fiddling, 282–86; “American/ Galamian” school, 228; analytical methods, 216–17; blackface minstrel quartets, 276–78; Carnatic art music, 250–54; Franco-Belgian “school,” 145, 219–20; French Baroque, 11–12, 83–84; future directions, 230–31; German “school,” 219–20, 221; globalization and, 225–26; harmonics, 219, 225; historically informed, 226–31; Italian Baroque, 83–90; legato approach, 219–20; mainstream, 227–31; norms theory, 222, 223–24; Norwegian fiddling, 260–64; portamento, 217–18, 219– 20; recordings as documentation, 214–37; right-arm posture, 220; Scottish fiddling, 269–70, 282; Tarahumara playing techniques, 244–45; tempo fluctuations and rhythmic unevenness, 219, 223, 227; variables in analyzing, 214–16; vibrato, 218–20. See also articulation; bowings; ornamentation and embellishment Pfitzner, Hans, Concerto, 186 Piatti, Carlo Alfredo, 170, 171 Piazzolla, Astor, concert tangos by, 255, 256, 257–58 Pisendel, Johann Georg, 78, 101, 104 pizzicato, 134, 195, 210, 250; behind the bridge, 258; left-hand, 17–18, 162, 164, 179, 188, 211; right-hand, 179, 188; tambor, 258 Poelchau, Georg, 108 popular music, concept of, 271–72, 276 portamento: associations with folk music, 218; early twentiethcentury use, 217–18; German vs. French school use, 219;

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mid-twentieth-century use, 222, 224–25; types of, 232n3 positions: fifth, 97; first, 66, 91n10, 120, 226, 244–45, 258, 284; fourth, 100, 102, 120, 250; second, 272; seventh, 70, 75, 120; sixth, 101; third, 97, 272, 273, 284 postminimalist music, 207–9 Powell, Maud, 221 Praetorius, Michael, Syntagma musicum, 48 Primrose, William, 227 Prokofiev, Serge: Concerto no. 1 in D Major, 186, 187–89, 197, 203; Concerto no. 2 in G Minor, 186 Pugni, Cesare, 16 Purcell, Henry, Sonatas of III Parts, 79, 81 Quantz, Johann Joachim, 75, 111; Versuch einer Anweisung die Flöte traversière zu spielen, 89 Rachmaninoff, Sergei, Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini, 22 ragas, 241, 249, 251–54 Raguenet, François, 65, 83 Rameau, Jean-Philippe, 124 Razumovsky, Andrey, 139 recordings: accessibility of, 225–26; acoustic era (1898–1930), 214–15, 217–21; analytical methods, 216–17, 232n2; chamber and orchestral, 221; digital, 215; as documentation of performance practice, 214–37; early technological constraints, 214–16; electric era (1930–70), 215, 222–26; “hillbilly,” 279; performancepractice-norms theory and, 222, 223–24; recent decades, 226–31; short virtuosic pieces, 220–21 reels, 267 Reger, Max, Concerto, 186 Renaissance: dance music in, 4, 10–12; violin making, 10–11 Renard de Saint-André, Simon, Vanitas, 12, 14, 15

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Index Rethel, Alfred, Auch ein Todtentanz, 24, 25, 29 Rice, Anne: The Vampire Chronicles, 58n6; Violin, 49 ricochet bowing, 17, 162, 188 Ries, Ferdinand, 145 Rietz, Eduard, 167 Rihm, Wolfgang, Concerto, 211 Rochberg, George, Caprice Variations, 22 Rode, Pierre, 157–58, 162, 167, 169; 24 caprices en forme d’études, 149; concertos, 184n18 Roger, Etienne, 75, 81, 89 Rognoni, Francesco: Aggiunta del scolare, 84; Selva de varii passaggi, 84, 85, 86, 87, 88 Rognoni, Riccardo, 85 Roman, Johan, 89 romance genre, 167, 184n20 Romantic era: supernatural fascination in, 4, 16–22, 24–29, 49–51, 56–58; vanitas and memento mori visual depictions, 22, 23, 24. See also specific composers Rosé, Arnold: as German school representative, 219; portamento used by, 218; vibrato used by, 219 Rossi, Salamone, 66 Rossini, Gioacchino, 162–63, 184n18 rubato, 219, 220, 223; in tango, 257 Rudolph, Archduke of Austria, 149 Runyon, Damon, 49; “100 Percent Man,” 55–56 Saint-Léon, Arthur, 33n17; Tartini il violinista, 16; Le violon du diable, 16 Saint-Saëns, Camille: Concerto no. 1 in A Major, 179; Concerto no. 3 in B Minor, 179; Danse macabre, 28; Havanaise, 179; Introduction and Rondo capriccioso, 179 Salò, Gasparo da, 10, 63 Salonen, Esa-Pekka, Concerto, 211 Sarasate, Pablo de: career of, 179; Carmen Fantasy, 178–79; depicted

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in Sherlock Holmes story, 43; as Franco-Belgian school representative, 220; Paganini’s influence on, 21; virtuosic showpieces by, 220 sarod, 249, 252 sautillé, 167 scena ed aria structure, 162–63 Scheibe, Johann Adolph, 111–12 Schiller, Friedrich, 141, 156n40 Schneider, Bart, The Man in the Blizzard, 43–44 Schobert, Johann, 124 Schoenberg, Arnold, 46; Concerto, 186, 191, 193–96, 194; Phantasy, op. 47, 212n12 Schubert, Franz: Der Tod und das Mädchen, 26, 29; “Trout” Quintet, 38 Schuman, William, Concerto, 186 Schumann, Clara Wieck, 170 Schumann, Robert: Concerto in D Minor, WoO 23, 184n22; Etudes after Paganini Caprices, 22; Joachim and, 169, 170, 184n22; Sonata no. 2 in D Minor, op. 121, 230 Schuppanzigh, Ignaz, 139 Schuster, Joseph, Divertimenti da camera, 128–29 Schütz, Heinrich, 78 Schwanberg, Georg Heinrich Ludwig, 106, 108, 113 scordatura tuning, 28–29, 99, 210 Scotch-snap rhythm, 269 Scotland: fiddling and dance-tune traditions, 266–71, 282; tune collections, 267–69 Scottish musical elements in European art music, 179 Seidel, Toscha, “Lord Nelson” Stradivarius and, 46 serial technique, 191–92, 193–96, 200 Sessions, Roger, Concerto, 186 Seth, Vikram, An Equal Music, 38 shadowing in Carnatic art music, 249, 252–53

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304 ❧ Index Shaham, Nathan, The Rosendorf Quartet, 39–40 Shostakovich, Dmitri: Concerto no. 1, 186, 202–4; Concerto no. 2, 186, 213n19 shoulder rests, 65 Sibelius, Jean, Concerto in D Minor, 180–81, 186, 187 Sieber, Jean-Georges, 129 sirena effect, 258 sitar, 249, 252 Smetana, Bed÷ich, Bohemian Fantasie, 220 sonata da camera, 71, 73–74, 92n17 sonata da chiesa, 71, 73, 92n17, 100 sonatas, violin: accompanied keyboard, 124–25; of Bach, 102–16; of Beethoven, 138–52, 231; eighteenthcentury Italian, 71–78, 81, 83, 89–90; of Mozart, 46, 123–24, 125, 128–37; seventeenth-century Italian, 68, 70, 79; Tartini’s “Devil’s Trill,” 15–16, 17, 29, 45, 57 South Indian violin playing. See Carnatic Indian violin playing Spalding, Albert, 212n16 Spanish Civil War, 196, 198 Spanish musical elements, 178–79 spiccato, 173, 201 Spieß, Joseph, 102 Spitta, Philipp, 103 Spohr, Louis, 17–18, 22; Concerto no. 8 in A Minor, op. 47, “Gesangszene,” 162–63, 173, 182n1; “Lord Nelson” Stradivarius and, 46 springleik, 259, 261–63 Stainer, Jacob, 64, 78, 96 Stradivari, Antonio, 63; death of, 90; depicted in Hersey novel, 46; depicted in Ladew novel, 47; “Lord Nelson” Stradivarius, 45–46 strathspeys, 267 Stravinsky, Igor: Le baiser de la fée, 190; Concerto in D, 186, 189–90, 190; Duo Concertant, 190; L’histoire du soldat, 3, 29, 30, 46

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Strinasacchi, Regina, 137 string crossing, 75, 76 strings, materials used for, 65, 215–16, 227, 231 Stroh, August, 215 Suárez Paz, Fernando, 257 “sublime,” aesthetic of, 141–42 sul ponticello, 29, 188, 230 sul tasto, 230 Sulzer, Johann Georg, 136 Székely, Zoltán, 198 Szigeti, Joseph, 198, 221 Szymanowski, Karol, Concerto, 186 talas, 249, 252 tambor effect, 258 tambourine, 276, 277, 278 tango ensembles, violin in, 241, 254–58 Tarahumara Indians, 241, 242–45, 246, 247 Tartini, Giuseppe: L’arte dell’arco, 78; bow used by, 65; on bowing, 85–86; “Devil’s Trill” Sonata, op. 1, no. 4, 15–16, 17, 29, 45, 57, 78; “Hercules” Stradivarius and, 47; “Lord Nelson” Stradivarius and, 46; as pedagogue, 76, 78, 90; Stradivari owned by, 64; Traité, 84–85, 88, 89–90; Veracini’s influence on, 76; works inspired by, 16 Taschengeige, 33n13 Tchaikovsky, Piotr Ilyich, Concerto in D Major, op. 35, 177–78, 226 Telemann, Georg Philipp, 97, 99 tempo fluctuations, 219, 223, 227, 230 Testore, Carlo Giuseppe, 63 Tetzlaff, Christian, 230 Texas State Fiddling Contest, 281–82, 286 Thibaud, Jacques, as Franco-Belgian school representative, 220 Tolstoy, Leo, 49; “Albert,” 52–53; “The Kreutzer Sonata,” 53, 148, 149 Torelli, Giuseppe, 78; Concerti musicali, op. 6, 79 Totentanz, 3, 24, 25, 29

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Index Tourte, François, 65, 158 trio sonatas, 73, 111–16 triple stopping, 73, 75 tritone, use of, 28, 29 tunings: Norwegian fiddles, 262; scordatura, 28–29, 99, 210; South Indian, 241, 250–51 Turgenev, Ivan, 49; “The Song of Triumphant Love,” 50–51, 59n7 tympanum, 4 Uccellini, Marco: Ozio regio, op. 7, 70, 71; sonatas, op. 5, 70 United States, fiddling traditions in, 4, 30, 35n41; blackface minstrelsy and, 276–78; nineteenth-century, 271–76; Scottish borrowings, 269–70, 274, 276, 282, 284, 288 up-bow staccato, 75 Uruguay, tango ensembles in, 241, 254–58 vanitas, 4, 12, 13–14, 15 vanlig fele playing, 241, 242, 259–64 Vecsey, Franz von, 221 “Vega” bow design, 227, 235n33 Veracini, Francesco Maria, 64, 90; Dissertazioni sopra l’opera quinta del Corelli, 75; engraving of, 85; Sonate accademiche, 75–76, 77, 85, 88 verbunkos, 128, 198 Viardot, Paul: as Franco-Belgian school representative, 220; vibrato used by, 218 Viardot-Garcia, Pauline, 16, 59n7 vibrato: early twentieth-century use, 218–19; German-school vs. FrancoBelgian-school use, 219; historically informed movement and, 227–28; mid-twentieth-century use, 223; personal styles of, 224 Vieuxtemps, Henri, 57; career of, 164–66; Concerto no. 4 in D Minor, op. 31, 165; La Fête de St. Patrice, 221; “Hercules” Stradivarius and, 47; Paganini’s influence on, 21;

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Rondino, 220; virtuosic showpieces by, 220 vina, 249, 252 Vingt-quatre Violons du Roi, 11–12 viola da braccio, 12 viol family and playing, 10–11 violin making, Italian, 63–65; alterations, 64–65; modernization, 182–83n2 Viotti, Giovanni, 157–58, 163, 167; Concerto no. 22 in A Minor, 185n25; “Lord Nelson” Stradivarius and, 46 Virginia Minstrels, the, 276 Virginia reel, 244 virtuosity: in Bach’s works, 100–102, 117–18, 120; devil’s associations with, 15–16, 50, 78, 159; in early twentieth-century playing, 220–21; glorification of, 4, 21–22; in Italian Baroque violin music, 66, 70, 73, 75–76, 78, 79, 81, 85–90; Liszt and, 22; in nineteenth-century concertos by violinist-composers, 162–67; in nineteenth-century French concertos, 157–59; in nineteenthcentury German concertos, 167–76; Paganini and, 16–22; Tartini and, 15–16; in Thuringian works, 96–100; in twentieth-century concertos, 188–211 Visconti, Gasparo, sonatas, op. 1, 81 visual arts: Dance of Death genre, 5–6, 7, 8, 9, 10; danse macabre representations, 3–4, 24, 25, 29; memento mori, 4, 12, 13–14, 15, 22, 23, 24; nineteenth-century, 16; Totentanz representations, 3, 24, 25; vanitas, 4, 12, 13–14, 15 Vivaldi, Antonio: concertos, 75, 90, 102, 117; L’estro armonico, 75, 76; Four Seasons, 228; Pisendel influenced by, 78 Viviani, Giovanni Buonaventura, 79 Wagner, Georg Gottfried, 108 Walsh, John, 81

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306 ❧ Index Walther, Johann Gottfried, 78, 79, 100, 108 Walton, William, Concerto, 186 Weber, Carl Maria von, Der Freischütz, 19, 28 Webern, Anton, 46 Weill, Kurt, Concerto, 186 Westhoff, Johann Paul von: Bach influenced by, 99, 101, 103–4; sonata, 99–100; suites, 99, 99, 103–4 Westphal, Johann Christoph, 108 Wieniawski, Henryk, 57; Beethoven Quartet Society and, 170, 171; career of, 166–67; Concerto no. 1 in F-sharp Minor, 166; Concerto no. 2 in D Minor, 166–67, 179; “Fantaisie brillante, on themes from Gounod’s Faust,” 166; operatic fantasies, 178;

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Paganini’s influence on, 21, 164; virtuosic showpieces by, 220 Wood, Anthony, 15 Ysaÿe, Eugène, 59n7, 164; as FrancoBelgian school representative, 220; “Hercules” Stradivarius and, 47; “Lord Nelson” Stradivarius and, 46; rubato used by, 220; Six Sonatas, op. 27, 184n19; vibrato used by, 218 Zanetti, Gasparo, Il scolaro per imparar a suonare di violino . . . , 84 Zapotec Indians, 247 Zelter, Carl, 18–19, 168 Zimbalist, Efrem, vibrato used by, 219 Zimmermann, Frank Peter, 211 Zukofsky, Paul, 213n25

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Eastman Studies in Music Ralph P. Locke, Senior Editor Eastman School of Music Additional Titles of Interest The Art of Musical Phrasing in the Eighteenth Century: Punctuating the Classical “Period” Stephanie D. Vial Bach and the Pedal Clavichord: An Organist’s Guide Joel Speerstra The French Symphony at the Fin de Siècle: Style, Culture, and the Symphonic Tradition Andrew Deruchie Intimate Voices: The Twentieth-Century String Quartet Volumes 1 and 2 Edited by Evan Jones Looking for the “Harp” Quartet: An Investigation into Musical Beauty Markand Thakar The Music of Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach David Schulenberg The Music of the Moravian Church in America Edited by Nola Reed Knouse Ralph Kirkpatrick: Letters of the American Harpsichordist and Scholar Edited by Meredith Kirkpatrick Reviving Haydn: New Appreciations in the Twentieth Century Bryan Proksch The Substance of Things Heard: Writings about Music Paul Griffiths

A complete list of titles in the Eastman Studies in Music series may be found on the University of Rochester Press website, www.urpress.com

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With a colorful history that spans 450 years, the violin has proven to be one of the world’s most important and versatile instruments. This study of the violin, addressed to performing musicians, concertgoers, and music lovers in general, offers insightful, up-to-date essays on the instrument. Essays discuss beloved masterpieces from the violin’s solo repertoire—including classic pieces of the Italian Baroque, and by Bach, Mozart, and Beethoven—and the violin concerto in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, as well as the evolution of performance styles and interpretation as documented in recordings. The volume also illustrates the broad cultural and geographic reach of the instrument, offering readers a taste of the traditional music of Argentina, Mexico, Norway, and India, in which the violin’s participation is an essential and characteristic element. Other chapters are devoted to American fiddling and to the violin and violinists as metaphors in literature and the visual arts. “An enjoyable volume that will surely be of interest to violinists as well as music lovers who want to learn more about the violin, its history, its personalities, its repertoire, and its role in Western and other cultures over the past few centuries. It can be read from cover to cover or opened to any page where an apt anecdote or piece of information will grab one’s attention.” —Joel Lester, violinist, scholar, and former dean of Mannes College of Music  Contributors: Chris Goertzen, Eitan Ornoy, Robert Riggs, Peter Walls, Peter Wollny Musicologist and violinist Robert Riggs chairs the Department of Music at the University of Mississippi and is the author of articles on Mozart as well as the monograph Leon Kirchner: Composer, Performer, and Teacher, also published by the University of Rochester Press.

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Contributors: Chris Goertzen, Eitan

With a colorful history that spans

Ornoy, Robert Riggs, Peter Walls,

450 years, the violin has proven to be

Peter Wollny

one of the world’s most important and versatile instruments. This study of

Musicologist and violinist Robert Riggs chairs the Department of Music at the University of Mississippi and is the author of articles on Mozart as well as

the violin, addressed to performing musicians, concertgoers, and music

“An enjoyable volume that will surely be of interest to

lovers in general, offers insightful,

violinists as well as music lovers who want to learn more

up-to-date essays on the instrument.

the monograph Leon Kirchner:

about the violin, its history, its personalities, its repertoire,

Essays discuss beloved masterpieces

Composer, Performer, and Teacher,

and its role in Western and other cultures over the past

from the violin’s solo repertoire—

also published by the University of Rochester Press.

including classic pieces of the Italian

few centuries. It can be read from cover to cover or opened

Baroque, and by Bach, Mozart, and

to any page where an apt anecdote or piece of information

Beethoven—and the violin concerto in

will grab one’s attention.”

the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, as well as the evolution of performance styles and interpretation as

—Joel Lester, violinist, scholar, and former dean of Mannes

documented in recordings. The volume

College of Music

also illustrates the broad cultural and geographic reach of the instrument, offering readers a taste of the traditional music of Argentina, Mexico, Norway, and India, in which the violin’s

Violin and Grapes, Céret and Sorgues, 1912. Oil on canvas, 20" x 24" (50.8 x 61 cm). Mrs. David M. Levy Bequest. The Museum of Modern Art. Digital Image © The Museum of Modern Art / licensed by SCALA / Art Resource, NY. © 2016 Estate of Pablo Picasso / Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York.

TheViolin_MECH2.indd 1

668 Mt. Hope Avenue, Rochester, NY 14620-2731, USA PO Box 9, Woodbridge, Suffolk IP12 3DF, UK www.urpress.com

EDITED BY RIGGS

Cover image: Pablo Picasso (1881–1973),

participation is an essential and characteristic element. Other chapters are devoted to American fiddling and to the violin and violinists as metaphors in literature and the visual arts.

EDITED BY ROBERT RIGGS

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