A few years ago I wrote a short article about Bach's visit to meet Buxtehude. This wasn't just a small effort Bach put out; it was a journey of well over 250 miles (I just checked it with the Google and it puts it at 293, or 472.3 km if you'd prefer). Bach's visit must have borne fruit in the influence he got from perhaps the greatest organist/composer in Europe at the time. I've read just enough of the Bach literature to know that connections have been drawn between pieces of Buxtehude's and pieces by Bach, but I am a performing musician, and busy in all kinds of directions; I am not a musicologist, so I haven't made the time to go into the subject in detail. But recently I stumbled over an example so obvious I had to share it with you.
It's Bach's wonderful Fugue in D Major, Bwv 532. I planned to play it last spring, but I was preparing a piano recital at the same time so I put it off until this year. It is a fun and sprightly fugue, with a virtuous pedal part that has the feet dancing away in a paroxysm of joy. (I'm allowed to use that word once a year, aren't I?)
Last spring I played Buxtehude's Praeludium in F, which contains a fugue (it is basically a prelude and fugue, though Buxthude calls all of his concoctions praeludia no matter how many sections there are and no matter what type). I wrote about it last year on this blog, calling it my "new favorite fugue."
One of the things I pointed out then was just how stupid the fugue subject is:
[listen]
I don't mean to disparage the music. It is perfect for the occasion, and for what the composer does with it. But the actual makeup of that opening it just mindless. It is two notes trilling back and forth. It is almost as if Buxtehude's point was to show us how he could make such a terrific piece out of such unpromising materials.
At least, that may be how Bach read the situation. Now listen to the opening of Bach's Fugue in D:
[listen]
Now that sounds even more pedestrian than his model. In fact, Buxtehude's bird-call opening gets more points for charm; it is possible not to particularly notice its lack of inventiveness simply because it has the naive charm of a bird in springtime. Bach doesn't do that. He tries to make his fugue subject sound like a finger exercise for the organist!
But there is something else. Notice how both fugue subjects have long pauses in them. Here's the Buxtehude:
ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta (pause) ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta (pause) ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta (pause) tum-tum-tum-tahh-tahh-ti (here we dissolve into a profusion of rapid notes rushing down a scale)
And the Bach:
da-di-da-di-da-di-da-di-dah (pause) twi-dle-twi-dle-twi-dle-twi-dle etc etc very long stream of notes also rapid and heading in a downward trajectory
Now into those pauses, both composers are later going to be able to insert other material once the fugue gets going. In fact, when two or three voices are sounding at once in a fugue, it can often sound like the musical strands are talking over each other, albeit harmoniously. This is in fact typical for a fugue. But leave a hole in your theme, and instead of a harmonious blend, you end up with a dialogue--a conversation which quickly shifts from one voice to the other and back because they aren't "talking at once." In Buxtehude's case, he often has the other three voices in his four voice texture make this little comment to fill in that gap:
[listen]
Whereas Bach resorts to this little ditty, even less sophisticated than his fugue subject:
[listen]
After which, it is time to take care of that profusion of notes they've both written into the ends of their fugue subjects. Now there is only so much rushing around that is going to sound musically attractive. Both gentlemen solve that problem the same way, which is to let the fugue subject prattle on with its shower of notes, and have the other voices which are not stating the fugue subject largely stay out of the way. That concentrates the running activity in one voice at a time.
As I observed when I wrote about the Buxtehude, it seems a bit like cheating, mainly because it requires less compositional dexterity to follow one voice around while it chatters and let the other fill in with rhythmic plunks on the beat, but the effect is charming, and a good (or in this case great) composer knows when to get out of the way, and especially, what is most effective given the natural strengths and weaknesses of the material.
Two other observations: one is that the fugue subjects almost never go away. In most fugues there are places, usually transitions from one key are to another, where the fugue subject disappears completely and can be heard in none of the voices. In both of these fugues that happens only a little; it is almost wall to wall subject area, which means that once you have the opening fugue subject in your head you can hear it in the upper voice, the lower voice, or somewhere in the middle, practically the entire time.
Another observation is that both pieces really give your feet something to do. The pedal parts to these fugues are quite athletic and fun to play. Bach, the younger man, must have felt the need to outdo his predecessor, and he concludes his piece with a rip-roaring pedal solo. Not to mention the burp at the end! (Buxtehude chooses instead a soprano flourish.)
Here are both pieces in their entirety for your fun and profit. Happy listening!
Buxtehude: Praeludium in F BwxWV145 (the fugue portion begins at 2:26)
Bach: Fugue in D, Bwv 532
Showing posts with label fugue. Show all posts
Showing posts with label fugue. Show all posts
Monday, July 7, 2014
Monday, May 20, 2013
My New Favorite Fugue
I had a teacher once who said that her favorite piece by x composer was whatever she was working on at the time. In that spirit, last week I developed a new favorite.
If you, as a devotee of classical music, feel the need to cultivate your silly side (and you probably could use it) this might help.
On the other hand, if you haven't listened to copious amounts of classical music and are not, say, a doctor of listenology, this could also be the very thing. Particularly because it's a fugue, and, because the composer cheats a little.
Fugues are not easy things to get your ears around. Several things are happening at once, and our ears aren't really designed for that. Most of our music is built on predictable patterns with a lot of repetition so that we really only have to absorb one important thing at a time. But, in classical music, and particularly in fugue, there are three, four, maybe five lines vying for our attention all at once.
But not in this case.
Dietrich Buxtehude (who had a very cool name) wrote a fugue with a very silly theme (or "subject," as we call it in the biz). This is the first thing worth mentioning. A fugue is often thought of as a very dignified sub-genre of a very dignified genre of a very dignified style of music. Very. Dignified.
And. This. Isn't.
To me it sounds like a bird call. Now these are very polite, Baroque birds, you understand. Not like the real life birds who got into a fight next to pipe room while I was getting ready to record this. Very civilized. Under those circumstances, you won't mind if I give you the birds for about four minutes.
Now a fugue likes to get going by introducing its subject matter in one voice at a time. First the one by itself, and then as each voice enters the others keep going. But not in this case. Mr. B. has written several rests in the middle of this theme, as you'll note.When the second voice comes in, it enters into a very civilized dialogue with the first one. Nobody is speaking at once; in fact, you have to really be paying attention to separate the new voice that is now carry the theme from the one which fills in all of the silent spaces in between each of those bird calls. It sounds like one voice with a lot to say, but it is really two alternating rapidly. Even when all of those voices are sounding at once, they aren't really sounding at once. Instead, Buxtehude sticks his "counter subject" materials in the gaps created by that stuttering bird.
[listen]
[listen]
The effect of all this is that, instead of actually multitasking, we can quickly shift our focus from one, solo voice to another group of voices and back. Which, I hope, will make this an easy fugue to listen to. All you have to keep track of is that silly bird call, and the little amen trio that follows it and you'll have at least half the material in your head already. And it's fun to listen to. Technically, I think he's cheating.
And with the mobile part for the feet, I got to dance around a bit, too, which was also quite a bit of fun. Sorry it's not on video. Just know that the lowest voice you hear (I used a medium length stop so it isn't really in the basement, it's just a light 8 foot flute) is being played in the pedals.
Enjoy your birds. The fugue portion begins at 2:26; I thought I'd include the prelude as well (no extra charge) which could well be an evocation of spring (note the written out acceleration around 1:33-:1:53)
Monday, February 25, 2013
Must be a real snoozefest
Hello. Today's piece is a real snooze that I doubt you'll enjoy very much. Great advertising, huh?
Actually, it's not a bad little piece; you might even find it charming, and a little personable in a bubbly sort of way. I stumbled across it online last year and thought it didn't sound like it would take much time to learn and it would be a chance to play something from merry old 18th century England. And it's short.
I won't pretend it is a masterpiece. But as I said, the prelude has charm and seems like it ought to be good company for a minute and a half. The unfortunate part is that it has a fugue attached, and a rather stentorian, pious one at that.
Now I personally have nothing against fugues. But the problem is that the fugue is a very difficult musical form. It is hard to write a good one, and it is not that easy to listen to, either. There are so many things happening at the same time that it takes a well trained ear to be able to sort all that out--or at least the patience to listen to it over and over again.
But if you are thinking this might not be for you, you have company. It isn't just the general public that doesn't like them; a number of composers have said some rather unkind things about them as well. One of Bach's own sons said, in effect, that they just weren't worth all the trouble. A lot of later musicians have felt the same way. On the other hand, you'll find everybody from 20th century Russian symphonists to jazz pianists sticking short fugal sections in their pieces to, at the very least, establish their credentials as a composers to be reckoned with. Look, I can write good counterpoint. Aren't I something?
What is interesting is that often it is just these preconceived ideas that affect the final product most of all. If I as a composer think of the fugue as a dry, academic exercise, and I am asked to write one (probably as a class assignment), isn't it likely that that is exactly the kind of thing that I am likely to turn out? In other words, I think fugues are boring, and I am going to do my level best to make sure they stay that way.
That may be what has happened here, and why the best thing I can say about Mr. Wesley's fugue is that it is short (barely over a minute long), and harmless. I don't really know Mr. Wesley's attitude toward the fugue form, actually. One course of action might be to ask musicologist Nicholas Temperley, an authority in this area, who happens to live right here in Champaign. And I'm not even sure he'd know.
Anyhow, now that I've given the back half of the piece such a rousing send-up, I'd recommend you hit the play button anyway. It's shorter than the time it took to read all this.
Wesley, Samuel Prelude and Fugue in D (the fugue starts at 1:41)
But then I want you to do something else. I want you to listen to another fugue. I think you'll find this one more enjoyable. It was written by a fellow who really knew how to write them. He didn't find them dry or dull or too cerebral and as a result he wrote them with a kind of freedom and passion that you rarely find outside of his own works. A guy named Bach. I was going to put you onto a larger one of his fugues, but I thought I'd save that one for later. This is a short fugue in g minor which has earned the nickname "little" and isn't much longer than the one by Mr. Wesley. But what a difference. In order for this fugue to turn out the way it did, a lot of things need to be working together. For one thing, one's skill at writing several voices that work together has to be so great as to make it seem effortless. In other words, all the technical problems have to be solved so well that you don't notice they are there. And this particular fugue also happens to be very melodious, which might be cheating a little bit, but does make it a little easier listening than some of Bach's other fugues on first acquaintance. Still, on the whole, Bach was able to make what for others was an arid exercise in sheer cleverness without meaning into a universe of meaning teeming with life and vitality. I think what you'll find, actually, is that Bach's fugue is charming the way Wesley's prelude is charming. He doesn't give us a pleasant little preamble and then stop on a dime and announce it is time for our musical castor oil. All of which goes to show that feats of the head can still stir the heart, and make the toes tap a little, too. Amazing what you can do with a little musical medicine.
Enjoy. I mean that.
Bach: Fugue in g minor, "little"
Actually, it's not a bad little piece; you might even find it charming, and a little personable in a bubbly sort of way. I stumbled across it online last year and thought it didn't sound like it would take much time to learn and it would be a chance to play something from merry old 18th century England. And it's short.
I won't pretend it is a masterpiece. But as I said, the prelude has charm and seems like it ought to be good company for a minute and a half. The unfortunate part is that it has a fugue attached, and a rather stentorian, pious one at that.
Now I personally have nothing against fugues. But the problem is that the fugue is a very difficult musical form. It is hard to write a good one, and it is not that easy to listen to, either. There are so many things happening at the same time that it takes a well trained ear to be able to sort all that out--or at least the patience to listen to it over and over again.
But if you are thinking this might not be for you, you have company. It isn't just the general public that doesn't like them; a number of composers have said some rather unkind things about them as well. One of Bach's own sons said, in effect, that they just weren't worth all the trouble. A lot of later musicians have felt the same way. On the other hand, you'll find everybody from 20th century Russian symphonists to jazz pianists sticking short fugal sections in their pieces to, at the very least, establish their credentials as a composers to be reckoned with. Look, I can write good counterpoint. Aren't I something?
What is interesting is that often it is just these preconceived ideas that affect the final product most of all. If I as a composer think of the fugue as a dry, academic exercise, and I am asked to write one (probably as a class assignment), isn't it likely that that is exactly the kind of thing that I am likely to turn out? In other words, I think fugues are boring, and I am going to do my level best to make sure they stay that way.
That may be what has happened here, and why the best thing I can say about Mr. Wesley's fugue is that it is short (barely over a minute long), and harmless. I don't really know Mr. Wesley's attitude toward the fugue form, actually. One course of action might be to ask musicologist Nicholas Temperley, an authority in this area, who happens to live right here in Champaign. And I'm not even sure he'd know.
Anyhow, now that I've given the back half of the piece such a rousing send-up, I'd recommend you hit the play button anyway. It's shorter than the time it took to read all this.
Wesley, Samuel Prelude and Fugue in D (the fugue starts at 1:41)
But then I want you to do something else. I want you to listen to another fugue. I think you'll find this one more enjoyable. It was written by a fellow who really knew how to write them. He didn't find them dry or dull or too cerebral and as a result he wrote them with a kind of freedom and passion that you rarely find outside of his own works. A guy named Bach. I was going to put you onto a larger one of his fugues, but I thought I'd save that one for later. This is a short fugue in g minor which has earned the nickname "little" and isn't much longer than the one by Mr. Wesley. But what a difference. In order for this fugue to turn out the way it did, a lot of things need to be working together. For one thing, one's skill at writing several voices that work together has to be so great as to make it seem effortless. In other words, all the technical problems have to be solved so well that you don't notice they are there. And this particular fugue also happens to be very melodious, which might be cheating a little bit, but does make it a little easier listening than some of Bach's other fugues on first acquaintance. Still, on the whole, Bach was able to make what for others was an arid exercise in sheer cleverness without meaning into a universe of meaning teeming with life and vitality. I think what you'll find, actually, is that Bach's fugue is charming the way Wesley's prelude is charming. He doesn't give us a pleasant little preamble and then stop on a dime and announce it is time for our musical castor oil. All of which goes to show that feats of the head can still stir the heart, and make the toes tap a little, too. Amazing what you can do with a little musical medicine.
Enjoy. I mean that.
Bach: Fugue in g minor, "little"
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