ENTRY THREE

ON REPEAT: MASTERFUL COMMAND OF COUNTERPOINT

You’ve probably heard of this phenomenon called the “Mozart Effect” — babies who regularly listen to the music of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart (1756-1791) will grow up to be bright and intelligent individuals. There are some scientific studies out there that discuss the topic, but I bring this up because Mozart’s works are arguably the most well-known in classical music. You can ask any stranger if that person has heard (imagine yourself humming the opening notes of “Eine kleine Nachtmusik”), and 99 times out of a 100 that person will immediately sing or hum along with you. And that’s the point: Mozart’s music is easily sing-able. His works are the cornerstone of the Classical period, which is generally dated 1750-1830. Composers of this era wrote music with the intention of making it more accessible to broader audiences, no matter how musically inclined the recipients were. After all, music had already branched away from sacred spaces, and composers sought to make a living by commissioning their own works for performers to present at public venues. What exactly constitutes a piece to be “more accessible” to broader audiences? Well, I alluded to it earlier with the “sing-able” aspect, but the music must have a clear melody. When you think of “Eine kleine Nachtmusik,” there’s no way you hum the bass notes or the other low voices that provide the harmony; your instinct, hopefully, is to hum the melody. Let’s explore another piece from a visual standpoint. If you looked at the score of the first movement of Mozart’s famous Piano Sonata in C Major, K. 545, then you can easily see the melody sitting pretty in the treble stave while there’s a bunch of chaos going on in the lower stave. Pretty simple, right? Melody clearly on top, supported by the harmony in the form of broken chords or arpeggios (also known as Alberti bass).

Now, I hope that you’ve enjoyed reading about the characteristics of the Classical period, but I’m sorry to say that this post will actually focus more on the complexities of its predecessor. Unlike Mozart’s music, which is charmingly straightforward and simple, the earlier Baroque period championed this compositional style called “counterpoint,” which refers to the combination of two or more lines in music. Technically, Mozart’s Piano Sonata in C Major uses two lines (voices), but the purposes of each are quite different and are unfairly balanced: one is supportive while the other is independent. Now, the concept of counterpoint certainly existed for centuries prior, but it was really only until the Baroque period (1600-1750) when the “rules” and “guidelines” of contrapuntal composition were refined to its highest level. And we have Johann Sebastian Bach (1685-1750) to thank for that. There is an overwhelming amount of music to pick from J. S. Bach’s oeuvre, but I’ll limit this discussion to one particular piece: the “Italian Concerto”, which is inspired by the concerto grosso of Antonio Vivaldi (1678-1741). This orchestral genre features several orchestral tutti, the sections in which all instruments play the main theme, so to speak. These sections are regularly interrupted by brief episodes when different performers take turns playing their solos — showcasing their virtuosity and their instruments’ capabilities. Bach takes this concept and condenses it for one keyboardist to play. The single performer can play several notes simultaneously, but the difficulties lie in voicing out the more important lines and melodies as they show up throughout the piece. At least in Vivaldi’s vision, there was an orchestra of several musicians, each of whom was in charge of his own musical line. Most of Bach’s keyboard music, on the other hand, demanded that the one performer recreate the grandeur of a full orchestra while carefully abiding by the composer’s own rules of proper counterpoint.

But, as listeners, how do we fairly judge great performances of such music? There are so many voices going on at the same time, and we can’t keep track of them all. It’s like “multi-tasking,” which is impossible; the scientific conclusion is that humans are capable of rapidly switching between doing different tasks independently. Similarly, when we converse in a group setting, people take turns in the discussion. If I were in a virtual meeting with my doctoral committee, and for some reason all three dissertation advisors were simultaneously giving their feedback to me, then I would have no idea how to proceed. At the best, I could hope to drown out two panel members’ voices and instead concentrate on listening to the third member’s feedback. Had I recorded the meeting, then I could replay the audio two more times and pick out the feedback from the other two panel members. And I think that is the perfect way for me to describe how we can “decide” what makes a recording of a Baroque piece so great. Currently, I’m listening to pianist Andrey Gugnin’s recording of J. S. Bach’s Partita for Solo Violin in E Major, BWV 1006, transcribed for solo piano by Sergei Rachmaninoff (1873-1943). The original work by Bach is fantastic, and I recommend Arthur Grumiaux’s rendition. I encourage you to listen to the original work first, just so that you can establish the aural palette and set that as a reference in preparation for the additional listening sessions to follow.

Unfortunately, Rachmaninoff did not transcribe all movements of Bach’s Partita for solo piano; he only did so for the Prelude, Gavotte en Rondeau, and Gigue. When you get to Gugnin’s recording, you’ll notice that Rachmaninoff “counterpoint-ifies” it up. Yes, he adds even more voices to a work that already has as much polyphony as is allowed on a solo violin. The first few notes are just a pianistic duplication of the original work, but then out of nowhere you get the addition of that second line in the lower register. And from there, chaos ensues — new melodies coming and going everywhere. But if you listen carefully on repeat, your ears may start to subconsciously focus on listening for specific voices. However, solely recognizing those is just the first step in this question of how well the performance is executed. After that, then you have to go back to some of the even more basic questions: Does this phrase in this voice resolve properly? Is the main melody audible? Do the notes clearly outline the direction of the phrase? However many questions you might have, just multiply that by the total amount of lines/voices that are present within the piece. And FINALLY, once you’ve answered all of that, then go back to the beginning of the recording. Replay it again for the umpteenth time. Are the voices fairly balanced? Can I now easily hear the counter-melodies because of how incredibly bored I’ve become of hearing the main melody over and over again? Maybe I should go back to listening to Arthur Grumiaux’s recording. Once you’ve reached this point of apparent insanity and overthinking, due to repetitive listening and weirdly enjoyable over-analysis of the same recording, then you know that it is a great one worth hearing again. Here it is: