Music of the Baroque

 

George Frideric Handel: Concerto a due cori No. 2 in F Major, HWV 333

Like the organ concerto, George Frideric Handel seems to have invented the concerto a due cori—a work for two “choirs” of woodwinds (oboes and bassoons), horns, and strings—to make his oratorio performances even more attractive. Composing for groups of musicians was not a new idea, of course; the idea of split groups, or “cori spezzati,” dates from the Renaissance, and in the baroque era Vivaldi composed five concertos “in due cori.” Apart from their basic use of the antiphonal concept, however, Handel’s three concertos a due cori are wholly his own. While all three primarily consist of melodic material drawn from his choral music, they are unique in the way Handel extends his choral approach to instrumental music—avoiding traditional baroque form and focusing instead on fully exploring the textural and timbral possibilities of the two “choirs.”

The second Concerto a due cori was probably composed for performance at Covent Garden Theatre during Alexander Balus (HWV 65) in March 1748. Rather than conceal his borrowed melodies, Handel rearranges them in fresh, innovative ways. Although the tunes he chooses may be more familiar to us than they were to eighteenth-century audiences—Messiah, for example, was still relatively unknown—it is tempting to imagine that Handel, with all his business savvy, was knowingly capitalizing on a perfect opportunity for self-promotion. In the opening Pomposo, he transforms the countertenor air “Jehovah crown’d with glory bright,” from his earliest oratorio Esther, while the following Allegro is drawn from the Esther chorus “He comes to end our woes.” The third movement, marked A tempo giusto, is a reorchestrated version of the chorus “Lift up your heads” from Messiah. The Largo presents in full the chorus "Ye sons of Israel, mourn” from Esther. In the fifth movement, Handel combines music from his early Ode for the Birthday of Queen Anne (which Music of the Baroque will perform in April 2010) with a ground bass from the 1732 version of Esther. The concluding A tempo ordinario uses a chorus from The Occasional Oratorio.

 

Franz Joseph Haydn: Symphony No. 80 in D Minor

Although Franz Joseph Haydn didn’t invent the symphony, he has long been known as its “father” —an appellation bestowed at least in part because of his intense approach to the genre. For Haydn, the symphony was a theatrical stage, and he sought to involve his audience in many different ways. As David Schroeder writes, “The symphonies themselves reveal a composer deeply concerned about expression and wishing to engage his audience, whether in the court of his patron or in a more public forum.” Whether incorporating musical quotes, playing with formal expectations, or drawing on modern rhetorical principles, Haydn’s ultimate focus seems to have been on the listener.

Composed in 1784 just prior to the famous “Paris” symphonies, the Symphony No. 80 in D Minor was part of a group of three works (including Nos. 79 and 81) that may have been composed for concerts given at the Tönkunstler-Societät in 1785. Haydn captivates listeners with abrupt musical shifts throughout the symphony. The first movement, marked Allegro spirituoso, swings back and forth between fervid, slightly tempestuous music in the minor mode that recalls the sturm und drang aesthetic of earlier symphonies with an almost obsequious dance-like theme, creating a striking contrast that Haydn emphasizes, rather than disguises. While the placid Adagio—despite brief flirtations with the minor mode—largely erases the opening mood, the Menuetto recalls the opening unrest. Rhythmic urgency permeates the final movement, but the optimistic mood ultimately prevails.

 

Haydn: Symphony No. 92 in G Major (Oxford)

London papers buzzed with news of a visit from the esteemed composer Haydn throughout the 1780s, but the promise was never fulfilled—and the longer the composer stayed away, the greater the public’s desire became. In January 1785, a writer for the Gazetteer & New Daily Advertiser proposed that perhaps it would “be an achievement equal to a pilgrimage, for some aspiring youths to rescue him from his fortune and transplant him to Great Britain, the country for which his music seems to be made.” Later the same year, the Morning Herald blamed Haydn’s religious devotion—which they attributed to an unpleasant wife—for his failure to visit the country:

The report of the celebrated Haydn’s intention of visiting this country, is again revived. Those however, who know him best, are of opinion, that he will never honor this land of heresy with his presence. This great genius is so great a bigot to the ceremonies of religious, that all his leisure moments are continuously engaged in the celebration of masses, and in the contemplation of purgatory, but what gives a greater gloom to his mind is, the unfortunate temper of his wife—she, good woman, has no relish for the beauties of harmony, nor is her voice of the melodious sort—hence his domestic comforts are few—and he is glad to seek consolation in the bosom of the church.

Whether or not Haydn’s wife had a voice “of the melodious sort,” his responsibilities at the Esterházy court were most likely the reason behind the delay.

After the death of his longtime employer Nicolaus the Magnificent in 1790, Haydn was temporarily free to pursue other opportunities—as Giorgio Pestelli puts it, he “broke away from the ancien régime like a falling ripe fruit.” Although several eager patrons offered him work, the German violinist Johann Peter Salomon, a London impresario, convinced the composer finally to make his long-promised trip to England. Haydn’s two visits to London (1791–92 and 1794–95) were not only successful professionally, but may have rejuvenated him personally as well. Haydn was greatly in demand—as he wrote to a friend, “Everyone wants to know me. I had to dine out six times up to now, and if I wanted, I could dine out every day; but first I must consider my health, and second my work.” Composed around 1789, the Symphony No. 92 was resurrected—along with excerpts from Handel’s Samson and Alexander’s Feast—for a series of concerts celebrating Haydn’s honorary doctorate from Oxford University in 1791, resulting in the subtitle “Oxford.” As the Morning Herald reported, “The applause given to HAYDN, who conducted this admirable effort of his genius, was enthusiastic; but the merit of the work, in the opinion of all the Musicians present, exceeded all praise.” Haydn’s own notes on the occasion are slightly more pragmatic, listing his expenses as “1 ½ guineas for having the bells rung at Oxforth in connection with my doctor’s degree, and ½ a guinea for the robe. The trip cost six guineas.”

Although the Symphony No. 92 was written just prior to the twelve “London” symphonies, which Haydn composed specifically for his visits, the piece is often compared to these wonderful late works. Haydn uses the traditional forms associated with symphonies, such as sonata and minuet, but incorporates them into an overarching narrative that moves listeners beyond the boundaries of standard musical architecture. In the opening movement, which is in sonata form (a three-part structure consisting of an exposition, in which themes are introduced, a relatively unstable development section, and a recapitulation that brings back the opening material), Haydn begins with a slow introduction that slowly melts into the start of the exposition. Not only does this obfuscate the formal demarcation between the sections, but compounding the confusion is the fact that the first theme sounds more like connective material than the start of something new. As a result, the typical signposts of formal structure throughout the movement are much less distinct. The richly lyrical Adagio encapsulates a slightly bombastic contrasting section, as with many of the “London” symphonies. In the Menuet, Haydn uses striking moments of silence to generate tension within the stylized form. And in the concluding Presto, Haydn skillfully manipulates contrasting yet complementary themes—one chromatic, one more lilting and dancelike—to take the work to an exhilarating close.

 

Handel: Music for the Royal Fireworks, HWV 351

Commissioned for a celebration of the Peace of Aix-la-Chapelle in 1749, Music for the Royal Fireworks served as the accompaniment for the evening’s primary spectacle: a grand fireworks display in Greens Park. Artisans and pyrotechnicians were summoned from all over Europe in preparation for the affair, and Jean-Nicholas Servan, the supervisor of machinery and stage design at the Paris Opera, constructed an immense Doric-style edifice that served as the stage for the display. Complete with steps, pillars, and passageways, the 410-foot building boasted images of Greek gods, a bas-relief of King George II, and a 200-foot pole bearing an allegorical representation of the sun. According to Gentleman’s Magazine, the overblown architectural trappings matched the size of the crowd perfectly: the 12,000 onlookers who attended a public rehearsal “occasioned such a stoppage on London Bridge, that no carriage could pass for three hours.”

Despite the music’s success, its composition wasn’t without controversy. George II initially resisted the idea of music altogether, finally agreeing only on the grounds that it would be “martial musick” with “no fidles.” Handel had other ideas, however. As the Duke of Montague anxiously reported to the event’s impresario, “Hendel proposes to lessen the number of trumpets, &c. and to have violeens. I dont at all doubt but when the King hears it he will be very much displeased.” For the Fireworks’ first version, the wishes of the king prevailed. The work is originally scored for “martial” instruments alone: 24 oboes, 12 bassoons, two contrabassoons, two cornets, nine trumpets, nine horns, three timpani, and two side-drums. The notoriously stubborn composer refused to abandon his own desires completely, however, rescoring the piece in the orchestral version most well-known today for a benefit concert later in the year.

Music for the Royal Fireworks begins with a French overture—a stately slow section in duple meter permeated with dotted rhythms, followed by a contrasting energetic allegro in triple meter. Several short dance movements follow, two of which make direct allusions to the event for which they were composed (“La Paix” [peace] and “La Rejouissance” [rejoicing]). At the work’s first performance, the evening ended in chaos: the pyrotechnics ignited several fires in the park, and swords were drawn among the organizers of the evening. Although the temple constructed for the occasion burned to the ground, the popularity of “Mr. Handel’s Fire Musick” endures to this day.