Partitas for keyboard (complete)

One may get a notion of Bach’s stunning compositional fertility from tonight’s program. These partitas, in B-flat major, C minor and D major, are only three of the six he wrote for solo harpsichord; all six partitas together comprise just the first of four volumes of Clavier-Übung (literally, “keyboard exercise”), and the entire Clavier-Übungen comprise but a modest part of his keyboard music—to say nothing of ensemble chamber music, concertos, or works for chorus and orchestra. And yet in these three Partitas, a fraction of a fraction, we have the substance for a complete modern recital.
The idea to compose volumes entitled Clavier-Übung did not come to Bach out of thin air. Johann Kuhnau (1660-1722), Bach’s predecessor as Cantor of the Thomaskirche in Leipzig, published two sets of Clavier-Übungen. Bach borrowed the title in part to establish himself as Kuhnau’s successor. The designation “keyboard exercises” threatens to mislead modern listeners, many of whom (myself included) have burned countless hours in front of the ebonies and ivories trudging through fingers drills by Czerny and Hanon. Take for instance, the fourth volume of Clavier-Übung, which contains one piece: the Goldberg Variations. A famous pianist once joked that, tiring of playing traditional encores, he would now offer the hour-long Goldbergs as his encore. Well, anyone who could call these massive, learned, and supremely challenging variations a kind of “exercise” has a similar warped sense of humor. And yet, the designation does remind us how sophisticated the daily musical fare for Bach and his pupils was in the mid 1700s. All of these compositions are instructional in some sense—either for budding composers or keyboardists—and the variety of techniques, styles, and forms included is therefore astoundingly broad.

THE PARTITAS
We now know that some of the Partitas were written much earlier than when Bach published the entire set in 1731 as his Opus 1. Most of the writing was likely completed during his tenure in Cöthen (1717-23), though he initiated publication piecemeal only after his appointment in Leipzig. The first five partitas appeared roughly annually beginning in 1726. By making these works available for public consumption, Bach clearly sought to move beyond the pedagogical purpose of much of his earlier keyboard music. This was his “public face” and the works, by all accounts, were very well received. They also earned a reputation for their difficulty and diversity. For instance, each partita begins with a different kind of preludial movement.
The core of each partita is the traditional dance suite, comprised of four movements: Allemande, Courante, Sarabande, and Gigue. Each partita retains that core (except Partita No. 2, which lacks a gigue), but Bach chose to expand the scope to include various other “Galanterien”. Overall, one sober critic remarks that the individual movements in the partitas are not dances, per se, but rather “character pieces in dance time.” They combine the old and the new: tradition is reflected in the French titles, innovation is signaled by Italian titles and the prominence of textures influenced by Italian virtuoso string music.

By Bach’s day, the Allemande has ceased to be fixed either in terms of choreography or of rhythmic patterns. Little evidence survives, apart from musical instances, of what the dance may have meant to a listener in 18th-century Germany. The courante is technically the slowest of the triple meter dances, but this is matter of notation and not actual speed. Many of Bach’s courantes push the boundaries of finger dexterity. Its origins go far back, and France’s Louis XIV earned a reputation as one the finest courante dancers at his court (but then who would have criticized him?). The sarabande enjoys a long and colorful history; its exotic character derives from possible origins in Spain and the Spanish New World. By the late 17th century the dance had solidified its position as the conveyor of balance, gravity, and the high style. The gigue was clearly the most diverse dance of its day. Bach favored contrapuntal, energetic gigues; in particular, he often delayed cadences for as long as possible in order to generate considerable momentum toward the close of each section in the binary form.

PARTITA NO. 1 in B-flat Major, BWV 825
The Prelude starts with a conventional opening gesture, one familiar from numerous preludes found in Bach’s Well-Tempered Clavier: a decorated melodic line rising through the octave, supported by a static pedal tone in the bass. Bach revisits the idea at the movement’s close, but there the rising melody contrasts with falling harmonic motion (partly chromatic) in the lower register. Rhythm and ornamentation provide the theme’s distinctive nature, and the controlled opposition of one active voice against two slower voices moving in simple counterpoint takes precedence over novelties in harmony.
The following Allemande has clearly been influenced by lute textures, and it is dominated nearly entirely by treble-voice arpeggios. Parity between the hands occurs only in the lovely circle-of-fifths harmonic sequences that twice lead to strong cadences. Partly echoing the first movement, Bach slips in chromatic nuances in the closing moments of the two binary halves.
Overall, in terms of texture, tonal shape, and binary structure, the Allemande and succeeding Corrente are closely akin. They differ emphatically, however, in meter. The corrente is a triple-meter dance (like a waltz or minuet) closely related to the French courante. While they originated in close proximity to one another, the courante moved toward a stylized rhythmic ambiguity, whereas the Italian corrente favored excitement and figuration. Bach stresses the movement’s cheery disposition with abundant sequences and rollicking rhythm. He is careful to withhold the emotional crux of the Partita until the arrival of the Sarabande.
The Sarabande, also a triple-meter dance, is rich in harmonic color and ornamentation. Stately and yet serene, this dance type frequently must bear the expressive weight for an entire multi-movement suite. The B-flat-major Sarabande seems to have been transmitted with all possible ornamentation already indicated, though we can analytically posit a simple structure underneath all the figuration. I have heard at least one performer, Igor Kipnis, actually start with a pared down version of the theme, then play Bach’s ornamented score during the repeat of the section. That strategy is suggested by the tradition of Bach’s English Suite sarabandes, which typically survive with separate scores (called doubles) indicating where and how to apply tasteful ornaments to the basic theme. In any event, one can hear the dance’s characteristic feature—emphasis on the second of three beats—through Bach’s careful use of fuller texture, often adding a low bass for gravity.
Long regarded as the symbol of French nobility and elegance, the minuet is also the only Baroque named dance to survive into the Classical era. Its moderate nature provides a welcome contrast to the extreme emotions captured in the Sarabande. These two B-flat-major Minuets are performed as a ternary unit within themselves: 1, 2, then 1 again without its internal repeats. Minuet 1 includes a classical 2+2+4 phrase structure some thirty years before that became the European norm. Bach invests the two-part texture with hints of a hidden third voice, a device called “compound melody” that is frequently explored on string instruments to suggest multiple, independent voices. Minuet 2 is more contrapuntal and, despite the very modest dimensions (just 16 measures), Bach manages to insert a few chromatic tonal gestures that recall earlier movements.
The concluding Gigue celebrates virtuosity, specifically the almost relentless role of hand crossing. Apart from the two brief pauses at the ends of section A and B, the entire piece is a brisk callisthenic for the fingers. Here, in truth, all can agree that the title “keyboard exercise” seems most apropos. That is not to diminish the musical value of the movement, but rather to assert that dexterity outshines all else. What you are hearing are arpeggios enlivened with an occasional falling half-step motive (e.g., the A-flat to G and G-flat to F of the first phrase). Bach’s sense of pedagogical play comes out, too, in the long chromatic slide of section B, where he demonstrates how to generate drama by passing through successive forms of the diminished chord on his way to the inevitable final cadence. It’s a delightful conclusion to a suite marked by tonal allusions and subtle chromatic gestures, thematic ornamentation, and lute or string-like textures.

PARTITA NO. 2 in C Minor, BWV 826
The Partita No. 2 in C minor contrasts in so many ways with its predecessor, and the darkly poignant key explains only part of that difference. A crucial feature of this Partita is the opening Sinfonia. It is one of those movements, unprecedented in its day, which brings the awe of J. S. Bach clearly into focus. Masterful technique. Elevated tone. Fugue, melody, uncompromising attention to detail. Inspiration. A gift for timely contrasts. The descriptions could go on and on and I would still fall short of putting into words the thrill of this movement. It is far more ambitious than the modest Praeludium that opens the B-flat major Partita; its closest relative among the partitas is the Overture at the head of the D-major suite (no. 4, also heard this evening).
Like a typical French Overture, the C-minor Sinfonia is cast into three sections, and the stylistic connection is further enhanced by Bach’s use of dotted rhythms, extremely full chords, and striking dissonance. Some of these features may be found in the D-major Partita’s Overture, but the level of dramatic intensity is not even remotely captured in any moment of the partitas as a whole; even the massive Toccata that launches the E-minor Partita (no. 6) cannot match the power of this moment. After the initial Grave section, Bach engages a more galant idiom of two-part counterpoint, melody and accompaniment. The right hand soars and cascades against a measured, stepping bassline. This Andante leads without pause into the final section, a two-voice fugue. The progress of the fugue seems so unremitting, so impassioned, that we wonder how all those notes and all that activity can always manage to make such beautiful, musical sense. And in Bach’s clearest departure from the conventions of the Overture topic, he chooses to end with the fugue rather than returning to the Grave material that opened the movement.
Some will remember Bach for his two-part Inventions, those instructional gems that demonstrate the charm and possibilities of two-voice counterpoint. The C-minor Allemande occasionally introduces a third voice, but it remains remarkably redolent of the Inventions in its close counterpoint, spare texture, and modest technical demands. This last feature does not lessen the piece’s musical value, for the challenges of articulation and shaping are made only more pressing without the camouflage of flashy ornamentation. Instead Bach gets a great deal of expressive mileage from rising sequential motives.
The Courante is similarly lean in texture and contrapuntal, but Bach uses complementary rhythm (i.e., one voice static when the other moves, and vice versa) to help guide the listener. Furthermore, the gestures are more agitated, angular, even fitful in comparison to the preceding movement. In particular, it is the inner voice which often energizes the texture by bridging the space between phrases or intensifying the motion toward a cadence. This Courante also usurps the second beat accent idea from the Sarabande, which may partly explain the lack of that characteristic feature in the movement next to come.
Bach wrote more Sarabandes than other type of dance. Thus one may safely grant him a degree of artistic license—even going so far as to undercut the dance’s defining emphasis on beat two. In the C-minor Sarabande Bach frequently mitigates the expected mid-measure accent by suspending the melody across the second beat. Still, he generates considerable affective power from at least three distinct sources: (1) rising motives superposed above falling harmonic sequences; (2) seventh chords; and (3) complementary rhythms between treble and bass. The chromatic approach to the final cadence includes a Bachian detail, the pointed dissonant clash between F-sharp and G.
Rondos are more familiar in the works of the Viennese High Classical masters (Haydn, Mozart, Beethoven, Schubert), but the form goes back much earlier. The structure of Bach’s Rondeau, A-B-A-C-D-A’, is typical. The charm lies in the details, such as the almost pointillist nature of the A theme. He has also chosen to minimize the contrast between the recurring material (A) and the secondary themes (B, C, D). B and C use more running notes, whereas D is less active at first but becomes more animated gradually. In fact, all sections have echoes of the distinctive A theme worked in somewhere.
The C-minor Partita is the only one that does not end with the conventional Gigue. In its place Bach puts an expansive and technically demanding Capriccio. There is also a curious mixture of the old and new here: the binary AB form had been heard in countless instrumental works for more than a century, especially in dances, but the open-ended cadence that closes the A section sounds unexpected in a work of such length. The movement combines wit with erudition. Overall, the texture recalls Bach’s own Trio Sonatas for organ, and in particular, the widely-spaced intervals in the bass are idiomatic for the organ’s pedal keyboard.

PARTITA NO. 4 in D Major, BWV 828
As I mentioned earlier, the scale of the D-major Partita’s Overture is equaled only by the opening movements of the second and sixth partitas (both of which are in minor keys). The major mode and abundant ascending and descending scale passages in this movement create a brilliant and colorful affect. It is not hard to hear a suggestion of the French Overture variation that begins the second half of Bach’s Goldberg Variations, written around 1740. Brief touches of pathos are limited to carefully placed accented dissonances and two measures of chromaticism toward the close of the first section. The second section features a fugue subject with skipwise motion. Since it would likely be performed with staccato articulation, this theme echoes the corresponding fugue material in Bach’s B-minor French Overture for solo keyboard. But here, again, the major mode comes through with a buoyancy and almost naïve joy that sweeps all before it. Such moments radiate unbridled energy, especially coming on the heels of the first section’s grandiloquent posturing. They remind us that not only can Bach life us up when we are emotionally down, but he also gives us wings to soar still higher when we are up.
The first interruption of the fugue comes at the cadence in the dominant key, A major. From there to the end, Bach wonderfully interlaces toccata-like scale runs from the opening material with his ongoing exploration of the fugue subject’s possibilities. There is one sequential portion that he uses to build toward a prolonged dominant pedal. But rather than capping the large preparation for tonic with a grand cadence, Bach deceptively reinitiates the fugue material, off-tonic and without much ado. It’s his way of eliciting a wry yet satisfied smile: we are back “home” even though we entered by a side door.
The second movement, Allemande, shows how abstract and essentially un-danceable much 18th-century dance music had become. Most listeners today would be hard pressed, I think, to locate a dance foundation for this Allemande if not given the title as a hint. That is not meant as a criticism either of Bach or today’s audiences. Rather, I am claiming that our (classical) musical vernacular from Bach through Schubert, and perhaps beyond, is overwhelmingly rooted in dance; hence, we tend to overlook it and focus instead on novelties and nuances in lyricism and chromaticism. Dance, of course, is metric, patterned, and relies on consistent phrase lengths. In this Allemande, Bach transcends that latter convention in favor of phrases that swell from the inside out in order to allow tonal diversions. The same expanding and delaying strategy is employed in his motion toward the piece’s final cadence, and he compensates by gilding the final resolution with suspensions and decorative filigree.
The following Courante succeeds in casting off the weighty atmosphere of the Allemande. Its appeal is direct, and Bach’s frequent use of rising motives recaptures the sense of jubilant optimism that permeates the first movement’s fugue subject. Despite its affective contrast with the Overture and Allemande, this Courante—like many movements in Bach’s multi-movement suites—shares motives, harmonic progressions and tonal structure (i.e., the main tonal destinations other than tonic) with other dances in the Partita.
Bach’s inclusion of an Aria is somewhat atypical; you will find only one other “air” in the sixth partita. On the other hand, every partita (except the first) includes one or more alternative “dances”:
No. 2 – a capriccio
No. 3 – a burlesca and a scherzo
No. 5 – a passepied
The D-major Aria works largely as two-part melody and accompaniment. That division of labor breaks down in the second half, but the treble rarely finds itself overshadowed by the bass.
Next comes the familiar slow movement, a Sarabande. And while it occasionally stresses the second beat (which is conventional), this work also enjoys more lyricism and non-chordal texture than are typical for Baroque sarabandes. Moreover, Bach offers here a very rare instance of rounded binary form, which may ring a bell to you as the early prototype for classical sonata-allegro form; the basic premise of both is statement-contrast-restatement. Even if the return of the Sarabande’s opening measures near the end of the movement is a literal repetition for only a few measures, it is obvious enough to strike the ear as prescient and, moreover, quite atypical for Bach’s instrumental music.
The form and phrase structure of the Minuet seems almost disarmingly simple. The two opening phrases are, apart from slight changes in texture, exactly the same. Moreover, the level of melodic and harmonic invention in the second section hardly shows Bach at his best. Interest derives mainly from rhythm, with various combinations of two’s, three’s and four’s working to enliven the basic melodic structure. Either Bach was reaching far back to an earlier pedagogical source for this material, or he simply preferred a touch of modest simplicity amidst the more ambitious surrounding movements.
By contrast, the concluding Gigue shows Bach’s peculiar gifts at their pinnacle. The athletic and exuberant subject of this three-voice fugue contains chromatic touches and harmonic sequences, two features that open the door to numerous possible counter-subjects. The rush of arpeggios is built upon a clear tonal foundation, and the measured progress toward the second key (A major) and back again to D major helps anchor the torrent of figuration. Amazingly, this movement is the only instance in all Baroque music of a gigue notated in 9/16 meter, which signifies triple-ness on two levels: three beats in the measure, each beat divided into three pulses. That technical detail translates into incredible nimbleness and agility, and its proper execution makes the highest demands upon the performer.

(c) Jason Stell

THE PARTITAS
In my previous notes for Bach’s Partitas 1, 2 and 4, I remarked on the astounding variety of compositional styles and strategies on display. That assessment is equally valid for the works on tonight’s program, as I hope to elaborate more fully below. It may also be useful to briefly recap the Partitas’ origins and publication history. Bach was not the first composer to call some of his works Clavier-Übungen. His most important predecessor as Kapellmeister in Leipzig, Johann Kuhnau, used that designation in a series of influential collections, and Bach would definitely have been aware of such a tradition. Bach’s first volume of Clavier-Übungen contains the six Partitas—multi-movement dance suites which he most likely began composing around 1720. New versions of each individual Partita appeared annually from 1726 and represented one of Bach’s most successful forays into the world of secular music aimed for public consumption. Finally, he brought all six together for publication in 1731 as his Opus 1.
Each Partita contains a variety of dances: some old, some new, some strictly danceable, others highly abstract or stylized. Within each Partita the dances are tonally unified—meaning they are set in the same key—and often share bits of themes or chord progressions. Each work contains an opening non-dance movement (fantasia, preamble, and toccata in the case of Partitas 3, 5 and 6), at least one slow movement, and a series of quicker dances in both duple and triple meters. While it occasionally helps to survey the set as a whole, the proof of the Partitas continuing power is in the details.

PARTITA 3
You might not guess that the opening Fantasia of the A-minor Partita involves only two distinct lines, treble and bass. Bach composes a taut canon (note-for-note imitation) at the space of two measures, making the piece sound both denser and more multi-voiced than it really is. It typifies a kind of abstract or pure instrumental composition that takes its expressive color solely from the interplay of rising and falling contours, slow and fast rhythms, and sensations of harmonic departure and arrival. The following Allemande demonstrates a French manner of ornamentation, in which the simple harmonic framework is overlaid with excessive figuration. The Courante features two lines moving relatively independently of one another. Yet there is a constant push and pull created by complementary rhythm: when the upper voice has rapid motion, the lower is more static, and vice versa. Thus the player’s two hands are constantly trying to articulate different things at the same time. In the Sarabande, a simple yet affecting triplet decoration gradually becomes a primary thematic idea for the entire movement. The following Burlesca and Scherzo are vigorous, textbook binary-form dances; it is not entirely clear why Bach chose these titles, which appear nowhere else in the Partitas. Moreover, any later humorous or jesting connotations of these words seem to have no bearing on the mood Bach strives to create. In final position we find a wonderful three-voice fugue (Gigue) as contrapuntal capstone. The fugue subject suggests violin-like textures, especially in the skipping motion. Like the other contrapuntal gigues on tonight’s program, the movement’s B section actually offers a second fugue built on the main subject turned upside down. Bach was famous for his interest in this kind of musical pun, known as invertible counterpoint. These gigues remind us that one need not look to the late-period masterworks for instances of his brilliant command of counterpoint.

PARTITA 5
The study of classical oratory was very much alive in Bach’s day, and scholars today still attempt to discern its influence on musical compositions. It is usually perilous to trace such extra-musical connections, but I think it is fair to claim that many works in Bach’s oeuvre display general rhetorical tendencies; at least, it can be insightful to approach them with a rhetorical framework in mind. For instance, the G-major Partita opens with a Praeambulum—a Latin term likely chosen for its oratorical significance. Like the related Prelude genre, what was originally a short “tuning up” has evolved by Bach’s day into a large movement with its own formal integrity. Still, the contrast of textures (short punctuated ideas versus long arpeggios) and tonal exploration convey a sense of declamation and discovery that are crucial to any opening rhetorical flourish. The dance movements then begin with the traditional Allemande-Courante-Sarabande grouping. The appearance of a less common Minuet is remarkable for its hemiola, the term for a grouping of two beats in a written three-beat meter. In other words, a common triple meter dance (STRONG-weak-weak) has been altered through Bach’s emphases and pitch structure to suggest a duple STRONG-weak accent pattern. The following Passepied returns firmly to triple meter. In closing, as noted earlier, Bach writes a contrapuntal Gigue whose B section inverts the main theme. As the end approaches, Bach reintroduces his short theme right-side up in a kind of basic thematic “recapitulation.”

PARTITA 6
In my opinion, Bach’s E-minor Partita for solo keyboard qualifies as one of the greatest works from the era, and its Toccata is perhaps the finest movement in the suite. The opening gestures, comprising full rolled chords leading to dissonant high appoggiaturas, are grand and powerful in the best manner of the French Overture. This topic yields quickly to an irregular seven-note grouping pattern before the Overture style returns. A third idea, simple two-part sequential counterpoint, also appears. These three textures all recur at the end of the movement, creating a symmetrical ABA form overall. The B section, in typical Bachian fashion, inlcudes nothing less than a complete three voice fugue. Bach’s thematic contrast is so deep, especially the balance between poignant thick chords and motoric counterpoint, and the themes themselves so unique and rich in invention—much of what he achieved in instrumental music may be found right here.
The ensuing Allemande balances an arching chromatic line against ornamental flourishes in the right hand. Echoes of Bach’s own two-part Invention in E Major can be traced to the staggered rhythms of the Courante, which is at times simple and hypnotic, at other times incredibly florid and virtuosic. To have such brilliant passagework combined with an assured sense for harmonic rhythm must have seemed almost avant-garde to Bach’s contemporaries. The Air has touches of a canon in its opening, though I believe it benefits by not sticking too closely to such imitative constraints. The Sarabande, a dance noted for its high style and regal connotations, is the emotional core of the Partita. It is as profound an utterance as Bach could compose without actually using words. He reprises the lush, full-voiced chords and dissonances from the Toccata. Noteworthy is his use of an upward resolving dissonance (specifically a 2-3 suspension) on the first accented chord, creating an characteristic dissonant “crush” that instantly sets the mood for the movement. It is as if Bach tries to fill every space with pitches, packing in sounds wherever they can be had, and calling forth the most passionate tones the instrument can emit. This grave Sarabande leaves the following Gavotte sounding “lightweight” by comparison—the impression could hardly be avoided. Yet I often wonder if we, as 21st-century listeners, have only learned to hear the movements so differently. Perhaps Bach’s contemporaries would not agree with my assessment of the Sarabande’s emotional muscle; would they have heard something weightier in the Gavotte than can de discerned today? Would they have been struck by Bach’s use of invertible counterpoint in the Gigue finale, by its pointedly dissonant and athletic subject?
One cannot always answer such inquiries, of course, though we are well served to reflect that one generation’s novelties usually go unnoticed by later generations. Bach himself enjoyed no such veneration during his lifetime as he does now. It is plausible that emotional responses to such a composition as his Partita in E Minor have changed quite drastically over time. Only the notes remain the same. It is what they do to us that keeps us coming back again and again.

(c) Jason Stell