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Not sure who made this song originally (not even sure if it's modern recreation or old original), but it sounds pre-industrial revolution.

And it's quite interesting in that Francois of France is referred as Kaiser von Frankenland, i.e. normally translated Emperor of France, while of course we all know France was a kingdom (but it may refer to his unsuccesfull bid for the Imperial title)

And of course the Landsknechten had some other nice songs, I also quite like Flandern in not:

edit to add another nice German song (sorry, I am not actually German :p ). About Friedrich the Great, the Grenadier's march. If only JUST before your 1870 mark ;)

 
Some of my favourite music from any era and any genre is the polyphonic Franco-Flemish school of the High Renaissance (15th-16th c.). It has this astonishing ethereal beauty that I find almost nowhere else.

Ockeghem is one of the first great masters, with a deeply restrained and serious style:

And his pupil, Josquin des Prez, who is to me one of the greatest musical geniuses who ever lived. None other than Martin Luther (himself a great composer!) said of Josquin: "He is the master of the notes. They must do as he wills; as for the other composers, they have to do as the notes will". This motet was one of the most popular compositions of the 16th century and was published at the head of the first ever printed book of non-plainchant music:

And Josquin's pupil, Gombert, who took the art of vocal polyphony to its decadent extreme:
 
One of my favorite composers is Jean-Philippe Rameau (Dijon 1683 - Paris 1764). He remained an obscure composer, who mainly earned his keep as organist of several churches and cathedrals, his only real fame was as a theoretician as the writer of several treaties about harmony and composition, especially his 1722 Traité de l'harmonie réduite à ses principes naturels.

His gate to success came through the patronage of one of the richest men in France: the fermier général Alexandre Le Riche de La Pouplinière; it was thanks to him that in 1733, when Rameau was already 50 years old, his first tragédie lyrique (the French equivalent of an Italian opera seria) Hippolyte et Aricie was premiered at the Académie royale de musique to an enormous success. From this moment to his death in 1764 Rameau would compose incessantly and would be considered as the most outstanding French composer of his time.

In 2012, the Opéra Nationale de Paris (a direct heir to the old Académie royale de musique) performed again Hippolyte et Aricie in a production that aimed to be an almost perfect recreation of how that first performance would have been to the slightest detail, under the musical direction of Emmanuelle Haïm and her orchestra Le Concert d'Astrée; this production was a resounding success and was chosen by several specialized publications as the opéra de l'anée of 2012.

The French tragédie lyrique was a genre established by Louis XIV's court composer Jean-Baptiste Lully in opposition to what he saw as the excesses of Italian opera: there are no vocal excesses and flashy solo numbers for the individual singers, and ballet and choruses are integrated into the dramatic action to a much greater degree than in contemporary Italian opera (ironically, Lully himself was Italian-born, and became only a naturalized French citizen in his adulthood). Furthermore, in French operas it was deemed essential that the text was clearly enunciated and comprehensible at all times, thus blurring the difference that existed in Italian opera between arias and recitatives. An excellent example of this style of "noble declamation" of the French tragédies lyriques is this number of Act II of Rameau's Hippolyte et Aricie, where the hero Thesée, who is trapped in the Hades, appeals to his father the god Neptune to help him return to see the light of the day again. The piece is performed by the French baritone Stéphane Degout:

 
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Today is Good Friday, and although I'm not a believer, I think it's suitable to post a piece by my favorite composer of all times, Johann Sebastian Bach (Eisenach 1685 - Leipzig 1750). The piece in question is the opening chorus of his Johannes Passion BWV 245. premiered in Leipzig on Good Friday, April 7th 1724. To me, this will always remain one of the most impacting pieces of music ever written; the chorus Herr, unser Herrscher contains all the passion and sentiment that a believer like Bach would feel at the text of St. John's Gospel, in a way that I find simply unsurpassed in any other work (included those by Bach himself). The performance is by the Monteverdi Choir and the English Baroque Soloists, conducted by John Eliot Gardiner; the images show the pages of Bach's manuscript score.

 
The French tragédie lyrique was a genre established by Louis XIV's court composer Jean-Baptiste Lully in opposition to what he saw as the excesses of Italian opera: there are no vocal excesses and flashy solo numbers for the individual singers, and ballet and choruses are integrated into the dramatic action to a much greater degree than in contemporary Italian opera (ironically, Lully himself was Italian-born, and became only a naturalized French citizen in his adulthood). Furthermore, in French operas it was deemed essential that the text was clearly enunciated and comprehensible at all times, thus blurring the difference that existed in Italian opera between arias and recitatives. An excellent example of this style of "noble declamation" of the French tragédies lyriques is this number of Act II of Rameau's Hippolyte et Aricie, where the hero Thesée, who is trapped in the Hades, appeals to his father the god Neptune to help him return to see the light of the day again. The piece is performed by the French baritone Stéphane Degout:

Hippolyte and Arcite is absolutely luxurious! Maybe my favourite Baroque opera/ballet/whatever-it-is-musical-extravaganza. I love Rameau's gorgeous melodies like in this hunting aria:


Today is Good Friday, and although I'm not a believer, I think it's suitable to post a piece by my favorite composer of all times, Johann Sebastian Bach (Eisenach 1685 - Leipzig 1750). The piece in question is the opening chorus of his Johannes Passion BWV 245. premiered in Leipzig on Good Friday, April 7th 1724. To me, this will always remain one of the most impacting pieces of music ever written; the chorus Herr, unser Herrscher contains all the passion and sentiment that a believer like Bach would feel at the text of St. John's Gospel, in a way that I find simply unsurpassed in any other work (included those by Bach himself). The performance is by the Monteverdi Choir and the English Baroque Soloists, conducted by John Eliot Gardiner; the images show the pages of Bach's manuscript score.

And yeah, Bach is incredible and Herr, unser Herrscher too. Nice taste. I love this version by Karl Richter though:


Also speaking of the Baroque, outside of the obvious names I have a deep fascination with Johann Froberger, one of the most prominent keyboard composers of the 17th century and a big influence on Bach. Going by his music and some of the titles of his pieces he was obviously a chronic depressive and composed some of the darkest, most depressing music anyone has ever written, including this suite titled "Meditation sur ma mort future N.B. Memento mori Froberger":


Almost blues-like in its despair.
 
In a previous post, I referred to Italian Baroque opera; in the XVII and XVIII centuries Italian opera swept across Europe and with the only exception of France, it became fashionable everywhere to listen to Italian operas, sung in Italian by Italian singers and usually written by Italian composers. Such was the success of Italian opera that even non-Italian composers adopted it. In this sense, the most important operatic composer of the Italian Baroque is the German-born (and later naturalized British citizen) George Frideric Handel (Halle 1685 - London 1759). Note: this is not a typo; he signed like this after settling down in England.

He was already interested in composing music for the stage in his youth, but he became changed for life by a trip to Italy he undertook between 1706 and 1710, where he absorbed all the idiosincracies and particularities of the musical style prevalent in Italy at the time, and especially Italian opera. His four years in Italy were incredibly productive, and for the rest of his life he recycled music he had composed there in his youth (even in Messiah there's loans from his Italian music). Apart from opera seria, he also composed Italian cantatas and oratorios (a genre he would retake years later in England with overwhelming success), as "minor" forms of the sort of dramatic music for which he felt such a great affinity.

On Easter Sunday, 8 April 1708 Handel had his Italian oratorio La Resurrezione premiered at the Roman palazzo of his patron, Marquis Ruspoli. Despite having been written by a 23-year old composer, it's a masterpiece, and it's fully operistic in its structure and feeling, having very little in the way of a religious oratorio (same as it would happen later with his English oratorios). Marquis Ruspoli had an excellent private orchestra, whose first violinist was none other that the great composer Arcangelo Corelli himself, and judging by the difficulty of some of the vocal parts, the soloists must've also been first-rate. The storyline of course runs around the resurrection of Christ after the Crucifixion, and the work is structured around arias and recitatives as was customary in Italian vocal music of the time. The action is carried out in the recitatives, while the arias serve the pupose of "describing" to the audience the inner feelings of the characters involved in the dramatic action. After the brief overture, the oratorio begins with a blast, with a dazzling aria di bravura for soprano, sung by the character of "an angel". Its title, Disserratevi o porte d'Averno says it all (Open, oh you gates of Hell) as the angel brings to the Hell the command of God for the resurrection of Jesus Christ. The aria is structured in the customary form of Italian Baroque arias, as an aria da capo: there's an initial part (quick in this case) followed by an intermediate part (slow in this case) and then the first part is repeated "from the start" (da capo, in Italian) by the soloist, but in an embellished manner; this structure offered the singers the possibility of exhibiting their vocal abilities and musical knowledge with the brilliance and musicality of their embellishments.

I'll post two versions of this aria. The first one is sung by the Czech soprano Hana Blažíková with the Czech orchestra Collegium 1704, conducted by its founder Václav Luks:


And the second is a much more "bombastic" version by the Italian mezzo Cecilia Bartoli, with the French orchestra Les Arts Florissants conducted by William Christie. Bartoli is a much more "spectacular" singer than Blažíková, but I can't help to agree to a certain point with one of the comments to the video (Cecilia, guarda che è un angelo, non un camion ... :D):


And after this soprano aria, I can't resist posting this selection of three arias for the character of Lucifero (obviously, the villain of the play), sung by the Argentinian bass-baritone Lisandro Abadie with the Collegium 1704 orchestra, conducted by Václav Luks (in a different production than the one I posted above). Abadie's singing and acting is superlative:

 
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Hippolyte and Arcite is absolutely luxurious! Maybe my favourite Baroque opera/ballet/whatever-it-is-musical-extravaganza. I love Rameau's gorgeous melodies like in this hunting aria:


Yeah, that's one of my favorite parts of Hippolyte et Aricie too; the whole scene, with the ballet, the air of the Great Priestess of Diana and the chorus of hunters is a delight.

And yeah, Bach is incredible and Herr, unser Herrscher too. Nice taste. I love this version by Karl Richter though:


Richter had the merit of spearheading the revival of Bach's music in the 1950s and 1960s, but personally I'm not too fond of his performances. Maybe it's just a matter of taste, but I think that Bach's complex polyphony sounds much better and clearer with smaller choirs and orchestras. With such great ensembles as his Münchner Bach Orchester and Choir, the different contrapuntal lines become muddled and almost impossible to distinguish from each other, and to me that's essential in any contrapuntal piece of music.
 
Richter had the merit of spearheading the revival of Bach's music in the 1950s and 1960s, but personally I'm not too fond of his performances. Maybe it's just a matter of taste, but I think that Bach's complex polyphony sounds much better and clearer with smaller choirs and orchestras. With such great ensembles as his Münchner Bach Orchester and Choir, the different contrapuntal lines become muddled and almost impossible to distinguish from each other, and to me that's essential in any contrapuntal piece of music.

Well, that's the fashion nowadays, to bash Richter for being slow and "muddy" and very un-HIP.


But (for example) when I hear the gorgeous, utterly gorgeous harmonies from the violins here, I find it difficult to care. :p There's a power to Richter's recordings which modern versions, even Gardiner, who's also a great conductor to be fair, can't quite match. Maybe that makes me a barbarian.

And he could also play keyboard...

 
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Well, that's the fashion nowadays, to bash Richter for being slow and "muddy" and very un-HIP.


But (for example) when I hear the gorgeous, utterly gorgeous harmonies from the violins here, I find it difficult to care. :p There's a power to his recordings which modern versions, even Gardiner, who's also a great conductor to be fair, can't quite match. Maybe that makes me a barbarian.

Well, as the Romans used to say, de gustibus non disputandum est ;). I particularly like Richter's performance of Handel's organ concertos :).

But seeing that you appreciate Bach's music as much as I do, I wanted to comment that for the last five years or so the Netherlands Bach Society has been involved in a remarkable project: to record all of Bach's opus (and you know how large it is) in HD and post it on their site, allofbach.com.

The recordings are of very high quality, both the music and the filming, and I wholly recommend it. They release a new recording every week or so, and they've already recorded most of the largest works (the Mass in B minor, the Passions, etc.). They also try to seek different orchestras and performers for some of their recordings to get a more varied approach. Each performance also is accompanied by videos by the conductor and main performers talking about the work they're performing.

One of the latest videos they've released is one of J.S. Bach's greatest cantatas, the Cantata Wachet auf, ruft uns die Stimme, BWV 140, from the Walloon Church in Amsterdam with the orchestra and choir of the Netherlands Bach Society and an array of excellent international soloists, conducted by Jos Van Veldhoven. It's a performance very different from the ones by Richter, closer to how Bach would've performed it in his own times (in number of instruments, performers, use of historical instruments, style, and location -all of the sacred works for this project are performed in churches with Baroque organs, so that the part of the basso continuo is played by the main organ, as would've been the case in the Thomaskirche). The soloists are the Swedish soprano Maria Keohane, the British countertenor Tim Mead, the German tenor Daniel Johannsen and the British bass Matthew Brook:

 
Well, as the Romans used to say, de gustibus non disputandum est ;). I particularly like Richter's performance of Handel's organ concertos :).

But seeing that you appreciate Bach's music as much as I do, I wanted to comment that for the last five years or so the Netherlands Bach Society has been involved in a remarkable project: to record all of Bach's opus (and you know how large it is) in HD and post it on their site, allofbach.com.

The recordings are of very high quality, both the music and the filming, and I wholly recommend it. They release a new recording every week or so, and they've already recorded most of the largest works (the Mass in B minor, the Passions, etc.). They also try to seek different orchestras and performers for some of their recordings to get a more varied approach. Each performance also is accompanied by videos by the conductor and main performers talking about the work they're performing.

One of the latest videos they've released is one of J.S. Bach's greatest cantatas, the Cantata Wachet auf, ruft uns die Stimme, BWV 140, from the Walloon Church in Amsterdam with the orchestra and choir of the Netherlands Bach Society and an array of excellent international soloists, conducted by Jos Van Veldhoven. It's a performance very different from the ones by Richter, closer to how Bach would've performed it in his own times (in number of instruments, performers, use of historical instruments, style, and location -all of the sacred works for this project are performed in churches with Baroque organs, so that the part of the basso continuo is played by the main organ, as would've been the case in the Thomaskirche). The soloists are the Swedish soprano Maria Keohane, the British countertenor Tim Mead, the German tenor Daniel Johannsen and the British bass Matthew Brook:

Thank you for sharing. I didn't know this project. The rendition is magnificient :)
 
Thank you for sharing. I didn't know this project. The rendition is magnificient :)

You're welcome. I stumbled upon it by pure chance about a year or so ago while I was surfing around the net, and I think they need all the recognition and support for what they're doing, as it's a really outstanding project.

Here you have the video of Bach's motet Singet dem Herrn ein neues Lied, BWV 225. It's my favorite of the six motets that have arrived to us, and as the rest of them it's a piece without soli, with only choral parts, and it's highly virtuosistic and difficult to perform. It's performed by the Netherlands Bach Society orchestra and choir, conducted by the Swiss bass-baritone (turned conductor in this occasion) Stephan MacLeod at the Groote Kerk in Naarden.

 
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Claudio Monteverdi (Cremona 1567 - Venice 1643) is one of the great composers in the history of western music, as he was the "inventor" of Baroque music. His early compositions were written in a pure Renaissance style, but gradually he evolved into a new stile that later generations were to call "Baroque". Among his innovations, perhaps the most significative is the incorporation of the basso continuo, a feature that would characterize all Baroque music. He is also the first great operatic composer, as his 1608 opera Orfeo is the first great opera in the history of the genre (which had been born barely eight years earlier at the camerata of Count Bardi in Florence as a musical experiment for connoiseurs).

I will post here one of his most popualr pieces, the madrigal Zefiro torna written after a poem by Ottavio Rinuccini. It appeared in his Ninth Book of Madrigals, published posthumously after the composer's death in 1651. It's a playful work, full of charm and humor, written in his seconda pratica that as you will see had become very different from typical Renaissance madrigals. As a peculiarity, this madrigal is built over a recurring basso line written in the form of a ciaccona, one of the best-known Baroque dances; this is the first time in history that a ciaconna was used in a vocal piece.

This performance is not a very "conventional" one, as it features countertenor Philippe Jaroussky and soprano Núria Rial with the ensemble L'Arpeggiata conducted by Christina Pluhar, and Pluhar adopts quite a particular way towards performing this "ancient" music, using both ancient and modern instruments, and striving for a very particular effect that overall never sacrifices musicality for the sake of historicism:

 
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Some of Domenico Scarlatti's sonatas for harpsichord. In his 555 extant sonatas, Scarlatti followed a relatively simple structure; these are short pieces lasting rarely longer than five minutes, but in them he explored almost all the expressive and technical possibilities of the harpsichord, and this leads to extreme virtuosistic demands from the performer; according to written testimonies Scarlatti himself was a prodigiously gifted player (he even took part in a celebrated "duel of keyboardists" with Handel in Rome during the latter's stay in Italy) and it shows in his sonatas. They were admired as a "secret for connoisseurs" by some of the great composers and pianists of the XIX century like Chopin, Liszt or Brahms, and were performed at the piano by the most brilliant pianists of the XX century, and many of them have left recording of their sonatas for the piano. Since the 1950s, thanks to the American harpsichordist and musicologist Ralph Kirkpatrick (who wrote a brilliant biography of Scarlatti and catalogued his whole opus) they have also been played in the instrument for which they were originally written for, the harpsichord. In honor to Ralph Kirkpatrick, Scarlatti's compositions are numbered as "Kk." (read "Kirkpatrick") followed by the catalogue number.

This is Scarlatti's Sonata Kk.56 in C minor, with the tempo indication Allegro con spirito. It's one of the sonatas with a more obvious influence of Spanish popular music, of a zapateado to be precise. It's short but extremely difficult to play; it requires a fast tempo with lots of hand crossings. It's played here by the Spanish harpsichordist Andrés Alberto Gómez Rueda:


Scarlatti's Sonata in G major Kk.455 (Allegro) is one of his most brilliant and exhuberant pieces. The structure is very simple, and centered around the repetition of a simple musical figure, subjected to a chord progression that infuses the piece with life and vitality. It's an old recording played by the French-American harpsichordist Scott Ross, who was the first one to record the entirety of Scarlatti's 555 sonatas:


This is one of Scarlatti's more famous pieces, his Sonata in D minor Kk.141 (Allegro), yet another tour de force performed by the French harpsichordist Jean Rondeau; although he's quite a polemic player, I think that in here he plays Scarlatti with the required passion and forcefulness:


The fastest tempo annotated by Scarlatti in his sonatas is Prestissimo, which he used only once, in his Sonata in D minor, Kk.517. It's performed here by the French-American harpsichordist Skip Sempé:

 
Stefano Landi (Rome 1587 - Rome 1639) was a Roman priest and composer from the Early Baroque Roman School. After a brief stay in Venice and Padova between 1618 and 1620, he returned to Rome where he enjoyed first the protection of the Borghese family, then Cardinal Maurizio of Savoy and finally of the Barberini family, which became his patrons until his death; this was a powerful patronage because Cardinal Maffeo Barberini had become Pope Urban VIII in 1623, and he then proceeded to unleash the building and cultural frenzy of the High Baroque in Rome, protecting artists like Bernini and Borromini.

This piece (sung in Italian) is known either by its full Latin name (Homo fugit velut umbra) or by its Italian surname, Passacaglia della vita. Here, Landi took what was probably a popular Roman song and transformed it into a "learned" composition, based upon a passacaglia structure, which in the late 1630s had been redefined by Girolamo Frescobaldi as a series of continuous variations over a bass; which itself could be varied. The text of the song is ... well, let's call it "unsettling". It belongs to the old tradition of the memento mori, that since Roman times had been picked up by the Catholic Church and used in religious art, especially in the Baroque, to remind its viewers that life was but a fugitive state and that death would attain everybody.

This is the original Italian text:

Oh come t'inganni
se pensi che gl'anni
non hann' da finire,
bisogna morire.

È un sogno la vita
che par sì gradita,
è breve gioire,
bisogna morire.

Non val medicina,
non giova la quina,
non si può guarire,
bisogna morire.

Non vaglion sberate,
minarie, bravate
che caglia l'ardire,
bisogna morire.

Dottrina che giova,
parola non trova
Che plachi l'ardire,
bisogna morire.

Non si trova modo
di scoglier 'sto nodo,
non val il fuggire,
bisogna morire.

Commun'è statuto,
non vale l'astuto
'sto colpo schermire,
bisogna morire.

La morte crudele
a tutti è infedele,
ogn'uno svergogna,
morire bisogna.

È pur ò pazzia
o gran frenesia,
par dirsi menzogna,
morire bisogna.

Si more cantando,
si more sonando
la Cetra, o Sampogna,
morire bisogna.

Si muore danzando,
bevendo, mangiando;
con quella carogna
morire bisogna.

I Giovani, i putti
e gl'Huomini tutti
s'hann'a incenerire,
bisogna morire.

I sani, gl'infermi,
i bravi, gl'inermi
tutt'hann'a finire,
bisogna morire.

E quando che meno
ti pensi, nel seno
ti vien a finire,
bisogna morire.

Se tu non vi pensi
hai persi li sensi,
sei morto e puoi dire:
bisogna morire.

And this is an English translation by poet Paul Archer:

O how you deceive yourself
if you think your time
won’t come to an end,
we have to die.

Life is a dream
that seems so pleasing
but is briefly enjoyed,
we have to die.
Of no avail is medicine,
of no use is quinine,
we cannot be cured,
we have to die.

It’s no use ranting
and railing, the bravado
that stiffens courage,
we must die.
No guiding doctrine
finds the words
to allay our fears,
we have to die.

There's no means
to untie this knot,
there's no escape,
we must die.
It’s our common fate,
no cunning ploys
can fend it off,
we must die.

Cruel death
betrays us all,
shames each of us,
die we must.
It's just lunatic
and frenetic
to tell lies about it,
die we must.

We die when singing,
we die when playing
the zither, the bagpipe,
die we must.
We die when dancing,
drinking and eating;
trapped in our bodies,
die we must.

Youngsters and toddlers
and all of humanity
are burnt to ashes,
we have to die.
The healthy, the sick,
the brave, the helpless,
all come to an end,
we have to die.

And when you are least
expecting it, you will
come to your end,
we have to die.
If it's not on your mind,
you’ve lost your senses,
and are dead, so you can say:
we have to die.

And here you have the performance. Once more it's by Christine Pluhar and her ensemble L'Arpeggiata, and the singer is the Neapolitan tenor Marco Beasley. They perform it at the Grande Écurie of the Royal Palace of Versailles:

 
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The folía was an Iberian dance from the Renaissance from uncertain origins (it could be Portuguese, or from the lands of the ancient Kingdom of León, or from the Kingdom of Valencia). Originally it was a shepherds' dance, linked to ancient fertility cults, danced to a frantic rythm by men dressed as women according to written testimonies (Sebastián de Covarrubias, Tesoro de la lengua castellana, 1609), but the versions preserved in written form by "educated" musicians tune down the "folly" aspect quite a bit. Traditionally, there's a distinction made between the "earlier" and "later" folía, the "later" folía appeared during the second half of the XVII century (some musicologists attribute it ro Lully, others to several older Italian composers) and became an immensely successful theme, used for variations by dozens of composers: Arcangelo Corelli, Antonio Vivaldi. Marin Marais, Henry Purcell, Francesco Geminiani, Johann Sebastian Bach, Antonjo Salieri ...

The first known example of a folía appears in the manuscript known as Cancionero de palacio (or Cancionero musical de palacio, CMP), a compilation of musical pieces that were from the Iberian Renaissance written from the later third of the XV century tol the second decade of the XVI century, more or less parallel in time with the reign of the Catholic Monarchs. This folía is an anonymous composition titled Rodrigo Martínez, performed here by Jordi Savall and his ensemble Hespèrion XXI. This is quite an unorthodox performance, as it is mostly an improvisation upon the piece preserved in the CMP:


For a more "orthodox" version of this piece, here you have it performed by La Capella de Ministrers, conducted by Carles Magraner:


Still today, the folía exists as a popular song/dance in several parts of te old Spanish Empire: in the Canary Islands and in Venezuela, while its rythmic structure has been adopted by several folk music forms all across Hispanic America.
 
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In 1706, the young 21 year old German composer George Frideric Handel (sic, he signed like this in his adulthood) arrived to Florence invited by the Great Duke of Tuscany Ferdinando de' Medici. He would stay in Italy the next four years, and this stay would leave a mark in his composing style for the rest of his life. Already in Germany Handel had showed a great interest in dramatic theatrical music, and specifically in Italian opera, that by then was becoming popular all across Europe. His stay in Italy would allow him to become familiar with Italianate theatrical music, and he would adhere to this style for the rest of his life.

Handel was extraordinarily suited for dramatic music, he's been perhaps one of the best composers of music for the stage that has ever lived. In 1707 Handel to Rome, were he enjoyed immediate success and the protection of some of the highest members of the Roman society, especially of the highest echelons of the hierarchy of the Catholic Church (the Marquis Ruspoli, and the cardinals Pamphili, Ottoboni, Colonna and Grimani among others). But in Rome he found himself in an odd position, because the Pope had forbidden opera performances in the Papal States as he found opera to be an immoral form of entertainment (mainly because women sang on stage), so Handel had to turn his talents towards smaller scale vocal works like cantatas (of which he wrote a great number) and sacred music, where he was able to showcase his talent for dramatic music. It was in this situation that he composed his oratorio La Resurrezione which I wrote about in a previous post, but his greatest triumph in Rome was to be another work.

It must sound strange that a Lutheran composer like Handel was invited to compose Catholic lithurgical music and that he would be protected by Catholic cardinals, but this was the case. Although some of his Roman patrons and acquantainces asked him to convert to Catholicism, Handel refused and remained a Protestant for the rest of his life. The work that marked Handel's triumph in Rome (where he would earn the nickname of il caro Sassone -the dear Saxon-) was his setting of Psalm 110, which in the Latin Vulgate is numbered as Psalm 109, and is titled Dixit Dominus. It's unknown if Handel composed it on comission, but he finished composing it on April 1707 (Handel usually worked at breakneck speed), and its score is the earliest preserved autograph score by Handel. Some scholars believe that it was premiered at the annual feast of Our Lady of Mount Carmel at the church of Santa Maria in Montesanto on 16 July 1707, under the patronage of the powerful Colonna family, although this hypothesis lacks documentary evidence. Given that Handel finished composing it on April, it's perhaps more probable that it was intended for the festivity of Easter.

The text of the Dixit Dominus is extremely powerful and expressive, precisely the sort of text best suited to Handel's passion for dramatic music, and thus the 22 year old composer composed his first great masterpiece. All the work is fantastic, but personally I like the most the opening and closing choruses. It must also be said that unusually for Handel most of the music is original, and there are few "loans" from other composers (one of the reasons why he was able to work so fast).

The opening chorus is a poliphonic composition with brief interventions by the soloists, and its lyrics are the first two lines of the Latin Vulgate Dixit Dominus:

Dixit Dominus Domino meo:
Sede a dextris meis, donec ponam inimicos tuos scabellum pedum tuorum.

In the English translation (King James' Bible):

The Lord said unto my Lord:
Sit thou on my right hand, until I make thine enemies thy foot-stool.

These warlike and powerful two verses inspired Handel to write a monumental chorus in the purest Italianate Counter-Reformation styler, which is surprising for a young German Lutheran 22 year old composer who had not yet spent a whole year in Italy. The performance is by the Frankfurt Philarmonic Orchestra (on modern instruments) and the Choir of Le Concert d'Astrée, conducted by Emmanuelle Haïm, a conductor well seasoned in the Baroque repertoire:


Although this is a sacred lithurgical work, the sense of stage drama and forcefulness that the music conveys is as strong (or even stronger) than in any of Handel's later operas and oratorios. I like to think of it as music that steamrolls over everything in front of it, like the art and architecture of the Roman Baroque, an art of the senses intended to overwhelm and overawe.
 
In 1672, Jean-Baptiste Lully, surintendant de la musique de la chambre du roy, acquired from Pierre Perrin the privilege of performing opera in Paris, which Louis XIV had granted him the year before. Through his good standing at the court, Lully obtained the royal support to reinforce and protege his privilege, which he defended fiercely until his death in 1687.

Born Gian Battista Lulli in a miller's family in Florence, when he was 14 the young Lully was picked up by the French ambassador to Rome the Duc de Guise, who was returning to France, in order to help his sister, Mademoseille de Montpensier, to practise her Italian. A skillful courtier and intriguer, Lully managed to leave the service of Mademoseille de Montpensier when she was disgraced by her implication in the Fronde, and entered the service of the young king Louis XIV. Apart from a talented musician, Lully was an accomplished dancer, a passion he shared with the young king, and he danced with him in the Ballet royal de la nuit, which put the foundations of Louis XIV's favoritism towards him. For the next two decades, Lully composed incessantly for the Sun King's increasingly extravagant court: ballets, divertissements, masques, religious music and from 1661 he collaborated with another rising star in Louis XIV's favor: the playwright Molière. Between 1661 and 1672 Lully composed incidental music for many of Molière's plays, giving birth to the new genre of the comédie-ballet.

But after his acquisition of the opera monopoly in 1672, Lully broke his collaboration with Molière and started the great project of creating a "national" form of French opera, different from the standard model of opera seria that was becoming increasingly established in Italy. Lully called this new opera form tragédie en musique or tragédie lyrique, and it was indeed quite different from Italian opera seria (see my post above about Jean-Philippe Rameau's Hippolyte et Aricie for a short summary of these differences).

Lully would produce almost an opera each year between 1673 and 1686, and for all of them except one he chose as his librettist the famed and talented poet and playwright Philippe Quinault, in one of the most successful collaborations in the history of opera.

The first two tragédies lyriques he composed, Cadmus et Hermione (1673) and Alceste (1675) weren't quite successful, as Lully still retained many comical elements from the time of his collaboration with Molière. His third opera, Thesée, already shed all these comical remains, and he finally achieved a great success with his fourth tragédie lyrique, Atys, premiered at the château of Saint-Germain-en-Laye on January 10, 1676. Most importantly, Louis XIV was enraptured by Atys, and ordered repeated performances in 1678 and 1682 to the point that it became known as l'ópera du Roy.

The argument is quite simple, and Lully and Quinault based it on Ovid's Fasti. The great innovation of the libretto though is that it's an absolute tragedy which ends in the death of the two main characters, Atys and the nymph Sangaride, something extremely rare in operas before the XIX century, and which Lully would not repeat in later operas. It follows Lully's classical structure with a prologue and five acts, which would become the standard of French tragédies lyriques until the time of Rameau (who dropped the prologue). The prologue was actually quite an unnecessary addition in which Lully, always the skilled and tactful courtier, praised the Sun King with references to the political events of the time (in January 1676, France was at war with the Netherlands and Louis XIV was waiting for the spring time to renew his campaign against the Dutch). The real dramatic action happened in the five following acts.

I will post here three clips from a historical production. Originally, this production was put together in 1987 by William Christie and his ensemble Les Arts Florissants (the pioneers of historically informed perfomances in France) while the décor, costumes and scenography were designed by Jean-Marie Villégier, at Paris' Opéra Comique. The production created by Villégier is both lavish and baroque, while at the same time elegant and tasteful, evocating the Versailles of the late XVII century. It's not a historicist production, as it does not attempt to recreate how Atys would have been scenified in 1676 at Saint-Germain-en-Laye and later in Paris, but instead Villégier chose to set the action within Versailles itself, with the characters dressed as courtiers of Louis XIV's court, in a postmodern setting.

The production met with an enormous success and even crossed the Atlantic and was performed in New York, where the American millionare and philantropist Ronald P. Stanton was so impressed with it that in 2011 (five years before his death) he helped finance a second staging of Villégier's production, again at the Opéra Comique and again under the musical direction of William Christie; this 2011 production was lavishly filmed, and I will post the clips from it (there are clips from the original 1987 production, but they are of quite bad quality).

This first clip is the scène des songes agréables (scene of the happy dreams) from Act III: Atys has fallen asleep, and he dreams of his secret and forbidden love for the nymph Sangaride:


The second clip follows immediately after the previous one. This is the scène des songes funestes (scene of the foreboding dreams), in which the sleeping Atys is warned about the dire consequences of loving anybody else but the goddes Cybèle, by whom he has been chosen as her sacrificer/priest:


Entrée et danse des Zéphyrs, Act II, a moment of pure divertissement, as Louis XIV loved dancing: