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Jeremy Denk: Bach’s Journey of Wonder

Jeremy Denk: Bach’s Journey of Wonder

MacArthur Foundation ‘Genius Grant’ fellow Jeremy Denk is “a pianist you want to hear no matter what he performs, in whatever combination” (The New York Times). One of America’s foremost pianists, who possesses a “profound affinity with Bach” (The New York Times), Denk takes on Bach’s mesmerizing The Well-Tempered Clavier — one of his most beautiful and difficult works. This revered masterpiece, deemed the crowning jewel of the Baroque era, strolls and stretches its preludes and fugues across every key signature possible. A feat of passion, prowess, and joy of expression, you will be swept away on a sonic journey of mood, interpretation, and imagination.

“Denk’s fluid playing uses the modern piano’s dynamics and flexibility in touch to shape a style that one could imagine even Bach appreciating.”

– Seen and Heard International

Learn more about Jeremy Denk

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Part of the 2021/22 AT-HOME concert series

AT-HOME concert access dates: 2/24-3/3

The Old Church
Thursday, 2/10 • 7:30 pm

Program

Click on any piece of music below to learn more about it.

J. S. BACH The Well-Tempered Clavier, Book 1, BWV 846-869
PROGRAM NOTES: Learn About The Well-Tempered Clavier

Jeremy Denk: Bach’s Journey of Wonder
The Well-Tempered Clavier

When Johann Sebastian Bach issued the first book of The Well-Tempered Clavier (WTC) in 1722, he prefaced its 24 preludes and fugues with the following title page [emphasis added]:

“The Well-tempered Clavier. [sic] Or Preludes and Fugues through all the tones and semitones, both with the major 3rd, or Ut Re Mi, and with the minor 3rd, or Re Mi Fa.
For the use and improvement of musical youth eager to learn, and for the particular delight of those already skilled in this discipline
composed and presented by Johann Sebastian Bach
while capellmeister to the Prince of Anhalt-Cöthen, and director of his chamber music.
In the year 1722.”

It is no exaggeration to say that the WTC is, in its scope and influence on later composers such as Mozart, Beethoven, Mendelssohn, Chopin, Shostakovich, and others, one of the most significant collections of music ever composed. Over the past 275+ years, much has been written about the WTC and its companion, WTC Book 2, which Bach produced in 1742.

Musicologists, biographers, critics, and musicians have argued over what Bach meant by “Well-Tempered,” a term which refers to a type of tuning for keyboard instruments in use during Bach’s time. Other debates focus on which “Clavier” Bach meant, and which is more aesthetically authentic. “Clavier” (“Klavier” in modern German) denotes any keyboard instrument of the Baroque period, including the harpsichord, clavichord, spinet, virginal, and possibly the organ. In this context, if Bach were alive today, “Clavier” could also include the Classical fortepiano, the modern piano and organ, and all electronic keyboards.

Bach was not the first to write music in all 24 keys; several other composers in the early 1700s, eager to explore the full range of tonalities made possible by experiments with different tuning systems, also composed chromatic collections. Prior to 1700, tonalities like B major or D-flat minor effectively did not exist because they could not, for acoustical reasons, sound in tune. Today, our adherence to the concept of A=440Hz (the note an oboist plays to tune the orchestra before a concert) seems as immutable as the laws of gravity, but in Bach’s lifetime, A could sound anywhere between 380 and 480Hz. When Bach played music in Cöthen, its A corresponded to one frequency; in Leipzig, another.

“Well-tempered,” generally means a tuning that divides the 12-note Western scale into equal-sized half-notes, resulting in consonance in all keys. That being said, “well-tempered” itself is an umbrella term embracing a variety of more nuanced variations within the well-tempered scale. Bach himself tinkered with well-temperament, making micro-adjustments to specific intervals as he saw fit.

In his professional postings, Bach was fortunate to work with skilled musicians; he also taught music to his own children. Many of the WTC’s preludes appear in earlier versions in the student notebooks of Bach’s son Wilhelm Friedemann, who was 12 in 1722. The pedagogical intent of this music was central to Bach, and at the same time the “particular delight” of the title page is evident throughout. British musicologist David Ledbetter observes, “Bach’s teaching … was by musical example rather than verbal pretext. He dealt almost uniquely with talented pupils intending to be professional musicians, and they provided him with a knowledgeable audience who could appreciate and encourage him in the speculative aspects of composition. He took virtually every ingredient of music available to him and treated it in the most inventive and original way, finding new possibilities and exploiting the tensions of new combinations, not only of materials, but also of styles, types, genres.”

Pianist Jeremy Denk, who has performed WTC Book 1 in recital over the past several years, likens it to Noah’s Ark, with the preludes and fugues paired up like the animals of the Bible story. “You want every piece to be an individual, but you also want them to rhyme and chime.”

The WTC begins with the deceptively simple, instantly recognizable Prelude in C major, and ends with the immense contrapuntal achievement of the B minor Fugue. In general, all the Preludes of the WTC are free-form, quasi-improvisational explorations of particular rhythmic or melodic ideas, using varying layers of texture. The Fugues begin with a subject heard in one voice (“voice” corresponds to soprano, alto, tenor, or bass parts in a choir; some fugues have fewer than four voices and a rare few feature five or more). Each subsequent voice declares the fugue subject in its own register, creating a richly layered sound. Bach adored the intricacy of fugue writing, both for its pedagogical applications to composition in general, but also for sheer pleasure. Unlike the Preludes, the beauty of the Fugue lies in the artful ways Bach deployed these symmetrical aural sculptures within a predetermined form. Denk adds, “The WTC can inhabit the humorous, the sublime, the somber, and the witty all at the same time.”

© Elizabeth Schwartz

NOTES FROM THE ARTIST: Jeremy Denk

NOTES FROM THE ARTIST: Jeremy Denk
The Well-Tempered Clavier

My first encounter with Bach’s The Well-Tempered Clavier was Barbra Streisand’s Christmas Album, which included Gounod’s version of the first Prelude — the “Ave Maria.” I was four or five.  My father remarked to my mother that it sounded like Barbra was “on coke,” which I assumed was soda, and that the Latin pronunciation left something to be desired. And yet I loved it, especially the way Barbra gathered intensity towards the end, riding the waves of her handy backup chorus (it would be nice to have one of those as a solo pianist, from time to time), and then belting out what I later learned in music theory was called a “cadential six-four chord” — it seemed like Bach was a channel for the most incredible, soaring leaps and desires. 

Alas, soon enough I came to know The Well-Tempered Clavier like all other pianists: as a requirement for auditions, or a qualifying round for competitions. Bach is a great, quick way to judge a pianist’s finger independence, structure and dexterity. But this gatekeeper role is a disservice, worse than Gounod’s kitsch. It reinforces a pedantic stereotype, and creates an aura of fear.

Writing a program note for this landmark of music is like blurbing the Bible. Where do you start? With the vast text or its vast influence?  No matter what you say, you’re going to get in trouble with someone. And explaining this music involves a lot of lingo: “fugue,” “invertible counterpoint,” “stretto.” Readers who know the jargon will be bored by explanation, and readers who don’t will be overwhelmed and turned off. 

Perhaps best to start, then, with simple facts: Book One is 24 preludes and fugues, a pair in every major and minor key. To me this procession of pairs suggests the animals, filing onto Noah’s ark: two of every species, a way to reconstitute musical life, should everything vanish. It was published in 1722, nearly 300 years ago. Its declared purpose was to be a helpful collection of teaching pieces. I’d argue it’s the most generous, rhapsodic, genial, heartbreaking set of lessons ever created. 

In the classes I remember most fondly from high school and college, my teachers would start with a principle, or an idea: transcendentalism, parabolas, symbolism. Having established the idea, they’d move to examples: for instance, how Wallace Stevens’ Emperor of Ice Cream was an allegory for the ephemerality of appearances. The idea acquires a life and a purpose. This pedagogical move, from a principle to its instances, to its consequences and manifestations: this is one of the most fundamental acts of The Well-Tempered Clavier. We begin with a thought, and end with a world. At the opening of each individual piece you find an idea, an emotion, a gesture, a texture. It is then taken (in the next one to three minutes, rarely more) to what you might call a logical conclusion. But sometimes the logical appears wildly illogical: the dogged, repeated, machine-like rhythm of the C minor prelude erupts into a changeable improvisation; what we thought was the melancholy accompaniment of the E minor prelude turns into an obsession for both hands, a near-rage, while the melody vanishes. Often, the consequences dwarf the original idea, like in the C major prelude, where initially framed, demure seventh chords become instruments of unbelievable tension. Ideas are not static; they want to grow. 

I suppose there’s no avoiding a brief explanation of a fugue. Fugues are an interesting combination of strict and open-ended. Their beginnings are prescribed but their evolutions are not. They start with one voice alone stating a musical idea, which then appears in a second, third, or fourth — even fifth — voice. Once all voices have entered, the fugue enters a freer phase. The world is its oyster. The theme may appear in any voice, right side up or upside down or backwards or elongated, or we may slide into an “episode,” a temporary reprieve, a contrasting idea. The theme may interrupt and overlap itself too (“stretto”), in a surge of excitement or self-reinforcement. We can move from key to key, draping our idea in a rainbow of colors. The one thing you cannot do is leave the theme altogether, for too long; fugues, like marriages, require a reasonably high percentage of fidelity.

I like to think of fugues as mini-lives, beginning with an act of birth: they appear to generate themselves, through spontaneous self-reproduction.  After youthful exposition, with the texture complete, they enter middle age. The music acquires a wanderlust: a need to change key, venture forth to unexpected nodes. As a fugue approaches old age, it begins inevitably to retrace its steps: one last emphatic statement, or a thrilling stretto, or a striking or moving arrangement of voices. Bach has great creativity for these sites of return and fulfillment: never quite the same, always adapted to the idea. Sometimes, as in the G major fugue, there is the feeling of a mini-apotheosis, reprising the theme like a joyful chorus; sometimes, as in the B minor and F minor fugues, you just hear the same unsettling enigma, one last haunting time. 

The main melodies of fugues are called “subjects.” Bach’s subjects are lessons in their own right, and objects for meditation. They teach both construction and catchiness (you might say: virality). To be a good subject, the idea must be able to survive a great deal of repetition but also propel events forward. It must have inevitability, and a clear, vivid identity, so it can be recognized in the middle of all the counterpoint. Last but not least, it must have something to say. 

Several of the catchiest Well-Tempered fugue subjects feature what I like to call a philosophical two-step: a question, followed by a somewhat unexpected answer. The G minor fugue gives you a stern minor descent, followed by a graceful, even dancing reply. The A minor fugue theme stops in its middle on a savagely dissonant leap, then returns with a flurry of close notes. Within the single subject, you find opposition, dialectic, a seesaw of parts, each food for future thought.
 
But there are great single-part subjects, too. The five notes of the C# minor fugue subject, for instance, begin and end on the same pitch, with unsettling intervals in between. We depart, but must always return; Bach deploys this fatefulness to incredible effect. The quite different A-flat major fugue simply ascends through the A-flat major chord, finds a beautiful high neighboring note (F) then slips back down to the main chord. That’s it! Its gesture is aspiration, and the message is in part the purity of the harmonies; only one note is dissonant (but not really or darkly dissonant). 

Some themes are iconoclasts. The A major fugue begins with a single short note — an obvious joke, as if the piece ends the moment it begins. The E major fugue starts with just a pair of notes, stops short, and then starts running off as if being pursued. The F# minor fugue begins with just a bit of ascending scale; it waits; then it ascends a bit more, and waits; at last, it climbs one more note, and falls. It’s not exactly right to call this a “melody,” so much as a scale performed by a cautious turtle, painfully slow, waiting at each juncture to see what will happen. These pauses leave room for other sighing, falling ideas to intervene as the fugue goes on. Ascents play against descents; musical reflection becomes emotional reflection. 

There are verbose subjects, concise subjects, unknowable enigmas, and all-too-obvious dances — like the C minor and C# major. They all make us think about the simplest relationships between notes of the scale, and what those notes might finally mean, in terms of chords — we try to interpret them, while Bach reveals the solutions. 

I am in danger of neglecting the Preludes. They are a motley and yet incredibly friendly assortment:  virtuoso pieces, melancholy ruminations, studies and curiosities. The first pair, the C major and C minor, are iconic chord studies. They begin with no changes of rhythm, and no overt melody, but a stream of continuous notes. It reminds me of when my mother would take everything off my plate, except for the broccoli. You’re going to listen to the harmony, Bach seems to say, whether you like it or not. But by the last Prelude, the B minor, you are at the opposite pole, with a texture made of three melodies: two duetting, lamenting voices up top, in an endless interweaving of yearning and dissonance, and a walking bass down below — even the harmonies have been melodized. 

The Preludes largely explore the joys of the miniature: pieces that are over, almost, before they begin. I am reminded of pieces Schumann composed a hundred and fifteen years later, of fragments that reinvent themselves. In the B-flat Major Prelude, for instance, we begin with the sheer virtuosity of fast notes, a moto perpetuo. Halfway through, however, chunky chords bring the manic motion to a halt. From then on, fast fingers and fat chords are in perpetual war. There is a wit to these vast contrasts in small spaces. And also a sense that the moment Bach tires of an idea, he moves on (a freedom not permitted in a fugue). In his book Testaments Betrayed, Milan Kundera describes the pitfalls of big classical pieces and novels as “a collaboration between an eagle and hundreds of heroic spiders spinning webs to cover all the crannies.” He talks about the boring but necessary moments where composers (and writers) have to develop or modulate to get back to the desired outcome.  But in these Preludes, it is all eagles, no spiders —composition as flight. 

One of my favorite Preludes is the E major, which begins as a seemingly straightforward pastoral. As Andras Schiff points out, you can hear the shepherd’s pipe, and the “sheep safely graze.” But some measures in, the left hand interjects a flat note, a musical cloud. It is reflected in the right hand, like a cloud is reflected in a lake. With that one gesture, the idyll acquires loss, and the picture takes on depth. The poetic pastoral addresses the play between the beauty of nature and the inevitability of loss and death — and it’s all there, held in suspension in that minute of music, a miniature world. It vanishes, and we go on to the next world.

This Prelude exemplifies one of The Well-Tempered Clavier’s most important themes: the complicated doorway between major and minor. It’s important to remind ourselves of the larger sweep of European classical music history. The major/minor classification of musical keys was relatively new. Previously, composers worked in church modes — there were as many as seven — where what we have come to know as major and minor are mixed. By Bach’s juncture in time, common practice has become more condensed, and more polarized (both a gain and a loss, depending on your point of view). Within every prelude and every fugue, Bach allows major and minor to visit each other. We cross and recross the boundary, an act with myriad metaphorical overtones: light meets dark, extrovert becomes introvert, joy gives way to sorrow, etc. etc. These moments of turning are for me the core of The Well-Tempered Clavier. They give the feeling of a fabric, reversible, invertible, turned inside out and back like a Mobius strip, an unending emotional richness. It is beautiful that Bach belies the premise of his own masterpiece. On the page he divides the world into major and minor. But in the music, he murmurs to us: no, it’s always both. 

© Jeremy Denk

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