Pastorale 2018

An astonishing thing happened on the top of the piano I was playing carols on for the folks at the retirement home. Ordinarily, you'll recall from my ten part series on the subject of Pastorals and shepherds, manger scenes tend to really emphasize the three kings, despite the Bible being silent on their number, and not calling them kings in the first place. They also only feature a single shepherd, even though there were "shepherds" [plural] "abiding in the field." This noticeable trend continues with our own church's scene as well as the one outside at the cathedral up the street. But on this piano I got a surprise.

It isn't just that there appear to be two (gasp!) shepherds: those figures on the far left flanking the king. It's also that there seems only to be one king. Since there are three camels on the right, I wondered (aloud) if that meant the shepherds got to ride the other two camels. I'm sure they have tired feet from all those years of standing at work all day and would appreciate it. Nice people over at that retirement community.

At any rate, this gives me a chance to introduce this year's entry into the pastorale derby, a charming if harmless little number by a fellow named Edwin Lamare. Mr. Lamare's piece came to my attention because a retired organist sold his collection to our former organist and it is now in the music office. I saw it, thought it looked like fun, and wanted to learn a few things about Edwin Lamare.

He was an English organist, but actually spent a few years here in Pittsburgh, as the organist at the Carnegie Music Hall, presiding at the organ which is now in disrepair. Somewhere online I came across his first program in Pittsburgh, from 1902, which happened to include this very piece. In another online source I can't find anymore was the story that his wife (I think he was on wife number three at the time) didn't care for the climate and wanted to leave. She got her wish in 1905. He next resided in Australia for a while. Mr. Lamare played thousands of concerts. He had a formidable technique. One of the things he occasionally liked to do is a trick known as thumbing down.

In the organist's version of this bit, nobody dies.* All it means is that, while playing one melody with the fingers of your hand, you let your thumb drop to the manual below it, and play some notes with your thumb so that you can make two distinct types of sound with one hand. The music in this section is printed on four staves, one each for the left hand and feet, and the other two for the right hand on both of its manuals.

The thumbing down bit occurs during the middle portion (:57) and is particularly tricky at (1:49 to 1:56) where, for two measures, the thumb is basically playing its own melody against the other fingers.

Otherwise, it's an innocuous little thing.

Edwin Lamare: Pastorale in E (1892)

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*I'm referring to the custom of persons at the Roman Coliseum of determining the fate of gladiatorial combatants by displaying thumbs up (he lives) or thumbs down (he dies). I think they have something similar with Youtube videos now.

Shepherd sequel

Each year at Christmas I play a pastorale. This is a genre associated with the countryside and with shepherds. A couple of years ago I did a ten part series on them.

You might think I'd played all the pastorales that were to be played and said everything that needed to be said. But I found a couple more.

One came over an internet radio station two years ago when I had cancer. I thought it sounded lovely and made a note to play it when I recovered. I did, and for Christmastide 2017 I played it at an Episcopal church in town where I was a substitute.

One comment I received afterward was that I had gotten sounds out of the organ that they didn't normally hear. I hope that was a compliment ("One hears such sounds, and what can one say, but, Michael Hammer!")

I can't really take credit for the unusual sounds. In this case the composer himself specified an interesting combination of stops. It was one I don't think I've used before, and I've done some strange things with registrations. I'll think you'll know where I'm talking about.

The next year, when I had a job at Third Presbyterian, I made this recording. I hope you'll find it charming as well.

Lemmens, Nicolai. Pastorale in F

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The holiday program is up at pianonoise radio.   You can also visit the homepage for more seasonal merriment.

By invitation only

Our previous selections were already skirting the boundaries of good liturgical decorum, but today's are definitely of the full festive variety. And so the question: is this sort of thing really appropriate for church?

Of course not. Definitely not. This is music of the countryside, and the type of folks who work in it. What would make you think it belongs in a church?

I'm not answering the "should" question, or offering a personal answer. I'm answering on behalf of the Church Historic, which has a long tradition of drawing lines between what is couth and what is not couth. Shepherds are definitely of the un variety.

Let's face it. They smell. Maybe if they cleaned themselves up a bit and adopted a romanticized mien, we could let them in to the edge of our crèche, so long as they promised not to say anything and make a scene.

Bit of irony: We have a gate between the congregation and the altar space at our church, just like most Methodist churches. A former pastor told me how this works. It was first put in so that animals who managed to get into little country churches wouldn't gain admittance to the altar area. It is known as a "sheep gate." What seems to have happened here is that a couple of animals and their ignorant shepherd have wandered across the sheep gate and right on to our altar. Even if they are made of plastic, that shows pretty poor manners. We don't want to make a scene, though. We won't say anything about it as long as he stays where he belongs.

We can't expect the same for our organist, though, who is planning to play these licentious works on the Sundays of Christmastide. Seems the shepherds are making their presence known after all.

One more thing that I find interesting about this little party on the altar. The kings, promoted by legend, and seated by status, near to the couple, have had to work hard to get where they are. They doubtless feel, having used their knowledge and persistence to figure out where to go and to traverse "afar," that they have earned the right to be there. The freeloading shepherds, on the other hand, didn't need to use their mad navigation skills to chart the skies, their extensive knowledge of a foreign country's prophetic tradition to interpret what they saw. Presumably without any marketable skills besides trying to keep sheep from getting killed, they were just going about their business, ignoring that supernova in the sky, and counting the days till Friday, when the weekend shepherds took over. Just kidding! They probably didn't have any relief. And yet, they too are to be found manger-side in Bethlehem. The whole lot of them, in fact, regardless of what our crèches have to say about it. And why? Because they got a celestial invite from a horde of angels, that's why. And I guess that's worth celebrating. Because maybe nobody else bothered to include them in something so obviously important. But here they are. Because somebody invited them. Now who would send a gilded, singing telegram, ridiculously expensive(?) invitation to a bunch of yokels like that?

God did. That's who.

Not that that's ever stopped anybody from complaining about it. You can be shocked, or horrified, or certain that this organist has gone off the deep end, along with the composer of these little pastorales. We know very little about him; much like the shepherds, he doesn't seem to have gotten a lot of press. But here is a little of what he left behind, from 300 years ago in Croatia. Two more pastorales (I played the others in the previous installment). A genre associated with shepherds, and bagpipes. That's right. Bagpipes. And you know how popular those things are in church (or anywhere else). Well, Mr. Pintaric let in the bagpipes. And, apparently, all heaven broke loose.

Pintaric: Pastorale no. 1 in C
Pintaric: Pastorale no. 4 in F

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congratulations! You made it to the end of our ten-part series. Unless you joined us somewhere in the middle and would like to start over to see what you missed. That can be accomplished here. Or you can look for the "shepherd series" in the lists on the right hand side of the blog.

Who let the bagpiper in here?

Finally, it's time to hear what made me want to spend three weeks writing about pastorales in the first place. A few months ago, I discovered a short set of pastorales by a Croation composer named Pintaric. I like variety; I like the unusual, some of the time; these were new to me, and they looked easy enough to ease my way through the Christmas season, given no time for advance practice during the summer this year with the organ console having been removed.

I should also mention that my grandmother was born in Croatia, and my father besides, though they are actually Austrian (long story; involves a little spat called WWII), so I was also interested in them from a heritage point of view.

The first thing I noticed about these little pieces is that they were all wrong! What happened to triple time? These were in four. What about that rocking rhythm, preferably with dots? Gone. And the drone? Well, it's there, but it doesn't sustain. It is repeated hypnotically in the bass, but not the pedals. In fact, there seems to be no pedal part at all. And tranquility? These are downright festive. I'll share the two more subdued ones today; on Monday you'll hear two that could pretty much pass for polkas.

Before we retroactively yank Mr. Pintaric's composer's license, perhaps we should do a rethink on the matter of the pastorale. That's what I did. And it dawned on me that I had been letting city folk do all the talking for the shepherds. Nice, artistic, profoundly moving, and/or idealized works of music all. But suppose these shepherds had little ipods to pass the time while they were up on the hills of Palestine back in the 1st century (and some daggone good cell towers). What would they be listening to? Not oratorios, I'm certain. No, I think polkas are a more likely musical symbol for a person that has to muddle through all week tending sheep and then goes home to party with his friends and watch football on the weekend. Now, as it happens, these two contestants are maybe a bit refined for all that. But there are two more to come. And then let the partying begin!

Pintaric: Pastorale no. in A
Pintaric: Pastorale no. 3 in Bb

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If you feel the urge to party hartily, the final installment of the series can be found here!

This one really drones on and on

Mr. Bach's rendition of a pastorale does have a lot going for it, artistically. Not only is it technically finished, but it has depth, imagination, drama. On an emotional and intellectual level it is deeply satisfying. No wonder it is a major part of the organist's Christmas repertoire. Buxtehude's contribution is also intriguing, and quite beautifully done. Notwithstanding, these gentlemen have gotten us sidetracked.

You remember when I talked about the characteristics of the pastorale having to do with life in the country, and--oh yes--shepherds? Yes. The shepherds. What happened to them? They seem to have been marginalized again.

he's the one on the extreme right--behind the animals

I mentioned before that one of the attributes of many a pastorale is that it was written by a cosmopolitan city-dwelling composer, and that, along with its corollary in the other arts, a pastorale romanticizes, rather than accurately depicts, a life that seems inviting to people who have never lived it.

I mean, who wouldn't want to be a shepherd after listening to Bach tell us about them?

But I'd like to set the stage for some pastorals of a rather different sort that I discovered a few months ago and will be playing for Christmas this year, and to get there, I'd like to return to some of the pastorale's more basic elements. Simplify a little.

Here is a little example by Italian composer Girolamo Frescobaldi. It has a hybrid title; it is a both a pastorale and a capriccio (which basically gives him license to take license, though it doesn't sound all that capricious to me). Frescobaldi's "Cappricio Pastorale" is in a relaxed triple meter (check!) and it contains a drone bass (check!) which not only opens the piece, but is present from beginning to end (the note changes only a few times, and remains on a G for more than 2/3 of the work's length). It certainly seems evocative of a simple country life. And this time, there is no story telling. The shepherds are not interrupted by any bothersome angels; life is peaceful and unchanging, just the way we like it.

Frescobaldi: Cappricio Pastorale

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well, that was short, wasn't it? That should give us the impetus to get to part nine of this series. You're nearing the summit!

It's a story but not really

We've spent the last four posts listening to the gradually unfolding story of the shepherds on the hillside, the angelic announcement, the trip to Bethlehem to see the newborn babe, Mary's meditating and the shepherds rejoicing--in other words, the story millions of Christians will have read to them this coming Christmas Eve at church.

I should point out that this approach is nothing less than heresy to many musicians. The very idea that someone--particularly an extraordinary composer like Bach--would "tell a story" in music is beyond the pale. Let me first state for the record that I am the last person who would tell you to simply bliss out and imagine sheep on a hillside for the duration and not pay attention to the melodies, harmonies, and rhythms Bach employs to get us there.

But also, let me explain something about music and story telling. Suppose you were to write a poem. In order for it to be a good one, you will need to choose appropriate words, with pre-attached meanings, so you can actually communicate intelligibly. Further, you will need to pay some attention to established rules of spelling and grammar, getting the words to co-exist agreeably. You will also want to pay attention to their sounds so you can employ repetitive word beginnings, or indulge in various rhyme schemes. Meter will be important; your poem will ebb and flow as the drama dictates. All of this exists as a rich tapestry of words on the page.

But your poem will be more than simply a collision of sounds. It will have meaning. Images and ideas will be present in the reader's mind as the poem is read--or heard. Is it so bizarre that music should operate similarly?

For a good composer, the movement of harmony, the flow of melody, the life of rhythm, all are important. But it is a rare piece indeed that has no connection to human activity apart from its component parts. A piece may suggest the dance--it may even be meant for dancing (though not necessarily). It may move us deeply in some way by making us feel a strong emotion. It may be inspired by and relate somehow to a picture, a painting, or a series of events (a story). It need not tell us the Gilgamesh Epic every time out. Nor does it have to be very specific about any of these things. In fact, most composers would agree that there is generally some vagueness about non-texted music as to what exactly it is telling us as to its meaning beyond its notes. And usually, when it tries to get very specific about relating each incident in a story in notes, it has a difficult time keeping its internal sense of flow--of musical grammar. So, when someone like Bach tells a story, he doesn't include things like the bleating of the sheep or the tramping of the shepherd's feet. The general outlines are enough. But it should be obvious they are there. For one thing, Bach worked in a church. He dramatized the Christmas story lots of times in choral pieces with text. Why not do it once in a piece for organ?

There is another reason. Bach was an inveterate learner. He learned from all kinds of traditions. And one of those includes pieces that relate stories--even the Christmas story--for keyboard instruments.

This time of year my article about Bach traveling over 250 miles to see Buxtehude gets a lot of foot traffic (sorry). Buxtehude was probably THE organist at the time, and the 20-year old Bach just had to go see him in December of 1705 to learn what he could. Here is something he might have heard. MIGHT, mind you. But still, don't you think it's a strong possibility? He spent three months in Lubeck, and probably looked at most of Buxtehude's organ works by the time he went home (there aren't all that many; I could probably learn them all in three months if that's all I did).

Here is Buxtehude's piece. It isn't a pastorale. It is a chorale fantasia, based on the hymn "How Brightly Shines the Morning Star." Now, the text of this hymn doesn't suggest a story. It is filled with imagery of rejoicing angels, rejoicing people, and plenty of doctrine. But listen to Buxtehude's piece unfold. It could have simply presented the tune with some nice counterpoint and gotten it over with (as some other composers did). Instead, it comes to us in four parts. The first is serene and tranquil. But Suddenly (there's the Christmas tale's favorite word again)--Suddenly, there is a commotion. Specifically at 1:56 in my performance. After the heavenly hosts are done with their proclamation, a period of profound wonder ensues (2:35). Mary pondering again? And us? Then, a gigue breaks out (4:38). Is it the shepherds rejoicing?

The general plan of the work seems to follow the same outline by Bach in his Pastoral in F major.

Buxtehude: How Brightly Shines the Morning Star BuxWV 223

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We're almost there! Part eight of ten coming right up. And thank you for reading!

One holiday party every couple of thousand years ain't so bad

In doing a minimal amount of research on Bach's Pastorale in F, I came across two things. One is that musicologist Christopher Wolff has detected the presence of a Medieval melody in the fourth movement of said Pastorale, called "Resonet in laudibus" which was sung at Christmas to depict the rejoicing of the shepherds upon finding the baby Jesus. Why is this important? Well, because it supports my contention, of course!

The idea here, which, so far as I know, hasn't been advanced before (surely, somebody must have though of this, though; it strikes me as pretty obvious, and I have hardly exhausted the literature, so I'll let you know)--the idea here is that Bach is modelling his pastorale after the story of the Shepherds as related in the 2nd chapter of the gospel of Luke. Pastorales, as a genre, as a musical and artistic movement, are associated with shepherds and rural life in general, and feature idealized views of country life. Bach decided to go a bit further than this, and elaborate on his study of sheep safely grazing under the watchful eye of the shepherd by musically depicting what comes next in the sequence according to our gospel writer.

By the way, I'm going to temporarily sidestep the argument about musical storytelling being a guarantor of bad music, though that assumption is surely much of the reason that some very astute observers often miss obvious clues like this one; it also helps if you know the Bible fairly well, as Bach evidently did.

If you gaze upon the contents of the second chapter of Luke, starting with the 8th verse, what happens?

First there are sheep grazing contentedly on the hillside, being watched over by the shepherds. Got it. That's the first movement. Then there is an angelic announcement. This is the one spot that I don't notice anything musically obvious; does Bach skip this part?

Next, the shepherds rush off to Bethlehem, where they all crowd into the stable and adore the baby. The second movement seems to evoke this precious atmosphere.

Then, completely at odds with all of the rejoicing, which the shepherds start doing almost immediately (when was the last time they got time off work, anyhow? and did they serve spiked eggnog in Bethlehem?), the story continues with the verse about Mary, "pondering these things in her heart" which suggests that the joy, and sorrow, connected with the deep issues at hand, rather than merely the surface merriment, is the subject matter for Bach's third, plaintive movement. By the way, here I found the second item of research, which is that some commentators have found this movement connected with the angelic announcement. How? It sure doesn't sound like it. Their reasoning is evidently that the key signature has three flats in it, which is a number associated with angels. No idea why. Besides, it could also be connected with the Trinity, or the Three Bears. It seems like a paltry rock on which to construct such an edifice.

Finally, another sudden and dramatic shift. Mary only gets one verse to ponder, because in the next, the Shepherds are going everywhere, telling everyone what they have seen, spreading the news, and there is much rejoicing. And not only does Bach give us lots of musical mirth, he includes the afforementioned song,  "Resonet in laudibus" to reference the event itself. Which I think makes the case rather well.

So here now is the whole story--shepherds, angels, baby, (rejoicing) pondering, and (more) rejoicing, in above twelve minutes. I present you, Bach's Pastorale in F:

Bach: Pastorale in F, Bwv 590
movement one
movement two
movement three
movement four

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more pastorales to come in the seventh of our ten-part series

Apparently there's more to this sheep herding thing than I thought

If you are the type of careful listener I like to have at pianonoise, you probably went away from Friday's listening example a little puzzled. Sure, everything was fine for a while, nice bucolic tune over a pleasant drone, but as the piece unfolded things got away from all of that undisturbed bliss, and the piece actually came to an end on a minor chord. Which might lead to two thoughts:

1) that didn't end well

and

2) it's not really over, is it?

No, it isn't. Bach's Pastorale in F actually has four movements, which means we still have three to go. And the strange ending is probably the strongest case for concluding that Bach intended the piece to keep going, because instead of returning us to where we started, he's left off in what feels like the middle of musical nowhere, besides leaving us kind of depressed.

 I feel like making a case for it because there seems to have been some musicological disagreement on that point. I don't know the details, because it is December and I am too busy to bother trying to find out, but I do remember once acquiring a score that only contained the first movement. Maybe the publisher simply made a mistake. Or the last three movements have some doubt about authorship.

Some hasty internet research buttresses this last point. But it seems likely to me that Bach wrote this multipart work. We don't know why, and we don't know how it was used during church services, but I have an idea about why it unfolds as it does. Bach is telling a story.

It's not that much of a stretch which story he has in mind. It's the same story Bach has been telling and retelling all his life, most of which was spent writing sacred music for the church. And it's a pastorale, after all. Begin in the same place, with the shepherds on the hillside tending their sheep. Only because this is a Christian story, the Christmas story, those shepherds are about to get a very special announcement from some angels. They've been invited to go see the babe born in Bethlehem, lying in a manger. So they do.

On to part two. It leaves off where part one ends. In fact, the first part of this piece does something Bach never does. Instead of finishing in the same key in which it started, to give balance and finality to each individual movement of a large scale work, this piece ends in a way that doesn't finish, and thus it absolutely depends on the piece's continuation. I don't know Bach's entire catalogue like the back of my hand, but as far as I know, this is the only time Bach has ever used this technique. A piece that begins in F major concludes on an A minor chord, which acts as a pivot to pave the way for the tonality of the next piece, in C major.

Immediately, in just a verse, Bach has those shepherds down off the hillside and in the stable, gazing in rapturous wonder at the baby born that night. Us too.

(here's the first part again as well, so you can listen to them continuously)

Bach: Pastorale in F, movement one
Bach: Pastorale in F, movement two

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onward to the fifth article in this series of ten on Shepherds and Pastorales

History is mystory

There's a little exchange between Scrooge and the first of the three spirits, when Scrooge wants to know if the spirit is taking him to see Christmas "long past?" "No, your past," she answers. He's probably relieved. A lot of folks seem to think that if it doesn't directly deal with themselves it isn't important. Scrooge is definitely one of these people.

The piece I'm going to share today is from the "long past." It's around 300 years old. And it is probably the most well known of the pastorals I'm going to play for you this Christmas season. In case you missed it, I'm on a "pastorale" jag this month.

This one is from a Mr. Johann Sebastian Bach. If you don't know it, you should definitely make its acquaintance. But before going on to the new pieces I discovered for this season, I feel the need to review.

Like the other pieces we've explored this week, it is in a triple meter. Like the others, it has a drone note in the bass. Those simple shepherds! And a kind of hunting call (similar to Grieg's idea of morning in the country from the "Peer Gynt" suite, an observation you can borrow if you really want to show off at parties).

Like the others, it evokes the countryside, and the simplicity of the past. Though for me, it may be the complexity of the past as well. You see, for me this piece is not simply a relic of musical history; it is intertwined with my personal past as well.

I've been playing it now, on and off, for over 20 years. The first thing I remember about it is the organist from my very first church job mentioning his own Christmas tradition of playing this piece every year. I suppose that may be how it became mine.

Except that I don't play it every year. I've probably played it five or six times in those twenty plus years. I like to find something different to play each year, which not only expands my repertoire, it gives each Christmas its own unique musical identity. But that isn't what customs are built on. They involve a return to the same thing you did last year, in the hope that it still has meaning, and, in each individual instance, comfort comes from being part of a larger tradition. Also, you can turn off your mind and just do it because you are supposed to. That's got to have mass appeal.

I'm writing this blog while staring at a large bit of herbage we displaced from a local tree farm and decided to place in our living room, to be festooned with lights and ornaments.  Objectively, I'd say we are nuts for doing that, but it's a Christmas tradition, so not only are we allowed this bit of looniness, we are even encouraged. We've been doing it every year we were married save the first year. This year makes tree number nine. It's actually the nicest specimen yet. Want to see it? (of course you do)

Here is Bach's pastorale: comforting, serene, an evocation of the halcyon past. Enjoy!

Bach: Pastorale in F  (movement one)

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proceed to article four (of ten) in this series

It's got a nice beat...I can tend sheep to it

You didn't know it on Monday, but what started out as an innocent little blog is just the beginning of a multi-part obsession. This is the "Year of the Pastorale."

Just what is a Pastorale? As I mentioned on Monday, the word is related to shepherding, to pasture, to the countryside. In music, a Pastorale is supposed to evoke the world of the countryside, specifically, as Wikipedia puts it, the bucolic world of the country. In other words, that world is being Romanticized. It is being imagined as a simple joy. All of the sheep and the shepherds on a scenic hillside, getting along blissfully with each other, no dangers in sight. It is a remembrance of the good old days, the way things used to be.

Except that they never were. The Pastorale is for city folk, imagining life in the country where, obviously, people have no cares, and life is easy. Shh! Quiet, country folk! We city folk don't want to hear your rebuttal. You have it easy. Case closed.

One of the things that makes a pastorale pastoral is its rhythm, a gently rocking rhythm, in three. But it's not a simple waltz. Often, there is a snap between beats one and two so you get a sort of dum  dedum figure. You'll hear what I mean. To demonstrate that, here is another piece from Franz Liszt, country romanticizer extraordinaire. He could also play a mean piano, and it is really admirable to hear him restrain himself to such a simple texture. The mood here is quite bucolic:

Liszt: The Shepherds at the Manger

The piece does not call itself a pastorale. It is from Liszt's "Christmas Album"--obviously, it is a setting of "Good Christian Men Rejoice." But Liszt refers to shepherds in the title, and in order to conjure them up musically we need the rhythm of the pastorale.

Before I go, let me take a minute to romanticize about last year, when I made this recording. On a Saturday afternoon in December, I was recording this serene little piece when some fellow across the street from the church started up his riding mower and interrupted my calm. You can read about my genteel reaction here. I spent the next hour working on something else instead. I forget now whether the take I chose to use includes the mower or not. I think I edited it out. You can find out by cranking the volume way up, but I don't recommend it. It would destroy the mood of the placid countryside, in the land that never was, where you and I don't have a care in the world.

Must be nice, being a shepherd. All you have to do is enjoy the smell of sheep. Plus, with unions these days, they probably make nearly 8 bucks an hour.

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on to the third article in this series