We love Italy, and – judging by tonight’s attendance – we love Baroque music. How nice, therefore, to settle in for an entire evening of Italian Baroque music! (And if that sounds good to you, next spring’s BaroqueFest 2026 will give you even more of what you love…) The Baroque era generally witnessed extravagant displays of ornate decoration, sumptuous colors and fabrics, awe-inspiring grandeur, and deep spirituality. These same features provide at least a starting point for organizing thoughts about Baroque music. Built on fairly simple harmonic foundations, it uses abundant ornamentation (trills, turns, dissonance figures), powerful chromaticism (poignant “foreign” pitches that added expressive color), and scintillating textures to combine voice, strings, winds, and brass in large and small forms, often imbued with sacred meaning.

As a style of creative expression, the Baroque intentionally sought to overcome the reserved, interior manner of Protestantism with explosions of color, sound, and gold. With the religious element factoring in greatly, it is little surprise that the Baroque flourished first in Catholic lands: France, Spain, and of course, Italy. Epitomized by St. Peters in Rome, as well as buildings from Venice to Versailles, the Baroque can be witnessed in every major city in Europe. When we turn our focus to Italian Baroque music, we must begin by explicitly making one point that perhaps goes underappreciated. Italian music was written and performed by many people who were not Italian – or at least, not Italian by birth.

The itinerant life of Venetian-born composer Antonio Caldara (1670-1736) offers a case study of Baroque music’s cosmopolitan nature. Caldara started as a boy chorister and cellist in St. Mark’s basilica, but advanced quickly to take a post under the Duke of Mantua – where so great a figure as Monteverdi once held the same office. As the Duke’s fortunes soured, Antonio left for Charles III’s court in Barcelona, turned up in Rome just as Handel was leaving, and then followed his former Spanish employer to Vienna as he became the newest Holy Roman Emperor. Finding the top jobs not on offer, Caldara returned to Rome for a few years until one of those positions became open. He finished his career on salary to one of the most influential patrons in European society, but today he is hardly a household name.

During his lifetime, Caldara dazzled with opera above all else, though he also contributed a substantial amount of instrumental music and sacred vocal works. Indeed, Vienna had already a reputation for its love of contrapuntal sacred music, and Caldara obliged with dozens of masses, motets, and psalm settings. His majestic Te Deum in C Major constructs a massive sound from combining double choir and full Baroque orchestra, replete with brass and festive timpani drums.

Heinrich Schütz (1585-1672), the most acclaimed German composer of the 17th century, worked mainly at the court in Dresden. Musical life languished at Dresden’s court during the Thirty Years’ War. Fortunately, Schütz was given chances to travel, and he spent considerable time in both Italy and Denmark where conditions were much more pacific.  His mature music shows an ability to absorb the style of his mentor, Giovanni Gabrieli, with whom Schütz studied in Venice between 1609 and 1612. Perhaps not surprisingly, Schütz developed his own antiphonal masterworks years after leaving Gabrieli’s workshop. In fact, he returned to Venice in 1628 to study with Gabrieli’s successor – Monteverdi – and the immediate fruits ripened into a first collection of Sacred Symphonies (1629). From a later volume, we hear “Saul, Saul, was verfolgst du mich?” (Saul, Saul, why do you persecute me?). As “Saul, Saul” demonstrates, portions sound akin to Renaissance madrigals, with voices breaking off into dynamic small groups. Dramatic effects are used to heighten text clarity, and the mood can change quite quickly. Of particularly skilful handling, Schütz occasionally presents all voices in antiphonal rhythmic exchange to create an oppressive sound. As the work moves toward its conclusion, the lone tenor persists in calling forth Saul’s name in held tones while the ensemble moves around it.

Dario Castello (c. 1590-c. 1658) is one of those countless musicians who, but for the survival of precious few works, would be entirely lost to history. Some thirty pieces survive, and he can be placed in Venice in the early 1600s based on circumstantial evidence. He is listed as a kind of “bandleader” in Venice in a document from 1629, and he likely worked alongside Claudio Monteverdi at the basilica of St. Mark’s. Castello’s extant music demonstrates the new style of early Baroque monody, which features a solo line supported by chordal accompaniment. The polyphonic complexities achieved by previous generations is here simplified and concentrated into one active line. We take this melody and accompaniment style for granted today, but it is always worth remembering that it, too, had to be essentially invented. That “invention” took place in Italy around 1600. Castello’s Sonata Seconda for recorder and harpsichord unfolds as a series of alternating fast and slow sections, which also usually express a change from duple to triple rhythms. Recurring harmonic progressions make the Sonata sound like a theme and variations. But the striking virtuosity and moments of tender restraint make us eager to know more about this shadowy figure.

Castello was born at a time of transition, particularly in vocal music. The previous generations were dominated almost exclusively by the madrigal. Distinctive features include a high degree of expressivity, chromatic experimentation, a popular strain, and the quality of its poetry. The madrigal’s home was Venice, but by the mid-1500s important madrigalists had come to Italy from northern Europe. One such figure was Giaches de Wert (1535-1596), born in the area around Antwerp. Talented youths like Giaches often drew attention from visiting nobility, who were constantly seeking greater artistic treasures for their courts back home. De Wert journeyed to Italy under the protection of Francesco d’Este, first to sing in his wife’s private chapel. While he did compose sacred music and instrumental collections, de Wert remains important for his 200+ outstanding madrigals, published in several volumes throughout the 16th century. “Con voi giocando Amor,” from his Eighth Book (1586), provides a perfect instance of the man’s style. Scored for five voices, “Con voi” unfurls like a sumptuous sonic banner, rippling with the bouyant interaction of different voices intoning different passages of text. The text by an unknown poet revels in the imagery of Cupid, his arrows, and the pain of unrequited love.

Roughly contemporary with de Wert, Luzzasco Luzzaschi (ca. 1545-1607) lived and worked his entire life in Ferrara. Though not a great deal is known about his day-to-day activities, Luzzaschi was clearly among the most skilled organists and composers of the time. He was appointed court organist of the powerful d’Este family by age 20, circulating with the most influential patrons and artists of that glittering court, including Duke Alfonso II, Tasso, and Guarini. In the 1570s Duke Alfonso and Luzzaschi formed a series of private musical concerts devoted to the latest experiments in expressive vocal writing. Like de Wert he composed numerous madrigals for five-part chorus, including Dolci sospiri ardenti.

A fair amount of music circulated in the Baroque period in manuscript and printed collections. These often included pieces by numerous authors, and just as often, the composer’s name was left out altogether (the modern sense of authorship, let alone copyright, was only gradually taking shape). One such collection, the Medici Harpsichord Notebook, contains 15 anonymous pieces.  Preserved in a single manuscript copy in Florence, these pieces are attributed to Grand Prince Ferdinando de' Medici (1663-1713) based on circumstantial evidence. Ferdinando was the eldest son of Cosimo III de’ Medici and Marguerite Louise d’Orléans. His significance to art history is immense, particularly in Florence, where he helped renovate the Pitti Palace, the famous Cathedral, and patronized dozens of artists and artisans. Many works in the modern Uffizi Gallery owe their origins to his financial backing. He also supported composers and may have gathered – and helped to write? – pieces in this anonymous collection, including the majestic Passacaglia performed tonight.

I will admit that Johann Melchior Gletle (1626-1683) is not a familiar name to me. And if, like me, you decide to consult Wikipedia for an entry point into this mystery composer, don’t expect rich rewards. The entire article reads: “Gletle was born in Bremgarten. He was a prolific composer of church music – masses, psalms, motets, and also several pieces for the tromba marina [apparently a large triangular, single string instrument]. He died, aged 57, in Augsburg.” The industry-standard reference work, Grove’s Dictionary of Music and Musicians, fills in a few more details – Gletle was Kapellmeister in Augsburg from 1654 on, leaving behind some 219 extant works – but nevertheless he remains relatively obscure by any standard. Evidence from the music reveals Gletle’s adherence to the Italian concertato style common in his region and heard earlier in Schütz.

Consider the motet O Rex Jesu, the final work in his fifth published opus. It opens as a simple, impassioned air for solo voice and continuo. Additional instruments come are used, concerto-fashion, for interludes between stanzas of text. A very different sound emerges from Triumphale canticum, despite it coming from the same 1677 Augsburg publication. Here, inspired by the text, Gletle calls on brass and percussion for a robust celebration led by virtuosic displays from the solo alto voice.

The evolution of Baroque vocal music between Gletle’s day and the period in which George Frideric Handel (1685-1759) lived and worked is astounding. As shown by Handel’s powerful da capo aria “Iris, Hence Away,” the brilliant manner has drawn a great deal from Italian string writing. In addition, the presence of a continuous harmonic foundation in the bass pushes the music restlessly forward, where Gletle’s retained the older sectional feel. This virtuosic aria comes from Semele, a music drama that Handel produced in early 1744 at Covent Garden in London. According to mythology, Jupiter took the mortal princess Semele as his mistress, much to the fury of his queen Juno. In this powerful passage, Juno admonishes her servant Iris for suggesting caution. In music that mimics both her rage and her decision to fly to the scene of Jupiter’s crimes, Handel captures the very best of operatic pathos.

INTERMISSION

Evidence that Antonio Vivaldi (1678-1741) composed sacred music was entirely circumstantial until the fortunate discovery in the late 1920s of manuscripts held at the Italian National Library in Turin. We knew Vivaldi held the post as resident composer at the Pietà – an orphanage overseen by religious and republican administrators—and we could read in the Mercure de France of 1727 about a Te Deum by Vivaldi that was sung in Venice that year. But not until 200 years later did any of his sacred music emerge “in the flesh,” as it were, to an expectant modern audience. The moment came in September 1939 in Siena, Italy, when the first modern performance of his breathtaking Gloria in D Major took place. Just days previously Europe had exploded into war following Hitler’s aggressions and the initial bombing of Poland. A better time for a cultural salve could hardly be imagined.

Until then the world knew “The Red Priest” as a composer of instrumental music, concertos mostly. With the evidence of the Gloria before us, we now realize how deeply the concerto style permeated even his sacred works. We think Vivaldi composed the Gloria in Venice around 1715. It may have been performed as part of a special Mass service, perhaps at Christmas, and may have accompanied Vivaldi to Rome on one of his several trips to the carnival festivities. We know that he composed three different Gloria settings, of which only two survive – RV 588 and 589. They were written simultaneously and share many features of scoring and harmonic style. (The earlier work, RV 588, deserves greater exposure in today’s classical scene.)

The Gloria in D Major, RV 589, contains twelve movements of varying length and musical character. It begins with the palpable jubilation typical of a Vivaldian concerto but heightened by the presence of the four-voice chorus and sacred text. Familiar features of his opening materials are the idiosyncratic harmonic sequences, brilliant string writing, and use of subtle rhythmic contrast to generate forward momentum. Indeed, apart from one brief interruption just before the final phrase, the entire movement unfolds in continuous motion.

The second movement, in B minor, occupies a far more intimate realm; it is both poignant and learned, mixing painful dissonances (such as the lowered-2 scale step, associated with the Phrygian mode) with close imitation, minimal accompaniment, and carefully paced overlap in the vocal lines. Tonality carries the emotional burden, yet the music is never burdensome, never redundant. Like a meditation, it is both beautiful and sobering at the same time.

Chromatic touches continue in the third movement, but this duet for two sopranos projects a sunny disposition throughout. The very brief fourth movement is one of the Gloria’s two choral recitatives (see also no. 9): strictly homophonic sections with striking chord changes and an incomplete, introductory feel. It prepares movement 5, a flawless four-voice fugue for chorus and strings. The fugue subject betrays Vivaldi’s ever-present “violinist” mindset. Still, the closing measures of antique style, long-note progressions remind us how he could transcend himself to tap deeper and older musical resources when necessary.

The sixth movement offers a charming solo for soprano and oboe. Written as a Siciliano, it is both gentle and plaintive, clearly taking on the nature of a concerto slow movement in both tempo and affect. The two solo lines are simple, fluid, and kept largely distinct – apart from effective dovetailing at phrase joints. How well it contrasts with the fitful seventh movement, where an incessant dotted rhythm sounds buoyant and lively in major keys but obsessive, even ominous, in minor.

The eighth movement draws inward once more.  Following an instrumental introduction, Vivaldi brings in the alto soloist unaccompanied with a stepwise, descending line that does nothing more than outline the key (D minor) and nothing less than cut its way into our heart. He makes brilliant use of the full ensemble to punctuate the soloist’s text, having the chorus intone periodically with “qui tollis peccata [mundi].” As if operating on two separate planes, the solo melody tries to continue on, only to be interrupted again and again by the chorus’s hypnotic refrain. Later, when the roles have reversed, the soloist obsesses on its single thought “miserere nobis” while the chorus pushes the text along.

The ninth movement offers choral recitative as introduction to the following alto solo movement (no. 10). Movement 11 is a very short reprise of the opening material, and leads directly to the magisterial closing fugue (no. 12) – as good as any in Bach. Vivaldi consistently uses two countersubjects to alleviate the weighty feel of his main subject. He also nicely intersperses passages for the strings alone, thereby allowing the voices to reenter at later points of the theme sounding fresh and distinctive.

From start to finish, Vivaldi’s Gloria maintains its spontaneity and energy, though it never sounds hurried or immature. So many generations of great musicians and music lovers never could have heard it: Mozart, Haydn, Beethoven, Schubert, Brahms, Verdi, Bruckner, Debussy, Mahler, Puccini. That this score should exist for us today is truly a blessing.

Jason Stell, © 2025