PROGRAM NOTES SPONSORED BY THOMAS WARD

During the Renaissance and Baroque eras, England derived a great deal of its musical culture from continental Europe. Composers and performers crossed paths traveling in both directions: Italian violinists and harpsichordists, for example, often made a brief stop in London while touring France and northern Europe; on the other hand, English lutenists were eager to ensconce themselves in the latest developments in instrumental virtuosity practiced in Catholic regions of the south. One of the most popular forms taken over from Italy was the madrigal, traditionally a texted, contrapuntal work for four to six voices. A group of English composers emerged as practitioners in this new medium, led by Thomas Weelkes, Thomas Morley, and others. A few generations later Henry Purcell accomplished another translation from Italy to England – opera. Purcell laid the groundwork for original opera in English that would be developed to such heights by the great Handel a generation or two later.

In the realm of sacred music, England’s Catholic/Protestant mutability added a serious level of complexity. Like all public figures of the era, composers needed to deal with the religious factionalism that divided English households. Under the Anglican rule of Edward VI, musicians could explore non-traditional usage of the vernacular for vocal works. With the ascension of Mary, Queen of Scots, conservative Catholic rule held sway, and composers reverted to Latin. Into this picture we must place Thomas Tallis (ca. 1505-1585). Though justly regarded as one of the leading lights of Renaissance music, we know very little about Tallis’s early life. He was likely a youth chorister, perhaps in Dover and with the mobile Royal Chapel, which accompanied the king and his family on their journeys. Later, as composer and organist to Henry VIII, Tallis would create his own superlative sacred works. Pieces like the four-part Sancte Deus show a vibrant yet serene style aptly suited for a penitential moment. The harmony moves sensuously between G minor/major and BL major. The text’s direct appeal to Christ yields a spiritual intimacy that accords well with Tallis’s tightly-bound polyphony.

Tallis eventually took over directing the Royal Chapel vocal ensemble, through which he helped train a new generation of English composers. These included William Byrd (ca. 1540-1623), born perhaps in Lincoln or London at an uncertain date. After taking his first official position as organist at Lincoln Cathedral during “Bloody Mary’s” reign, Byrd eventually returned to London and worked as a kind of composer-in-residence for Queen Elizabeth. But as with many public figures of that time, he suffered the fluctuations between Catholic and Protestant control of the throne. Even for a man who had achieved such prestige – composing for the highest circle of patrons, having a patent from the Queen herself to publish music – changing religious circumstances meant that not all of Byrd’s music could be openly performed.

Byrd helped to build a body of English keyboard works, many of which went into the Fitzwilliam Virginal compiled around 1612. In addition to anonymous works, the volume contains hundreds of pieces by named composers, none better represented than Byrd. Tonight we present an arrangement of Byrd’s The Bells for three harpsichords. This simple piece, structured as a series of increasingly active variations, relies on an ostinato in the bass (C–D–C) and the harmonic progression it implies. The suggestion of pealing bells derives from the frequent use of open-fifth intervals (for example, C–G) and the resonating consonaces splashed all around.

As mentioned earlier, one of the most popular forms taken over from Italy was the madrigal: a texted, contrapuntal work for four to six voices. A group of English composers emerged as specialists in this new medium, principally Thomas Morley (1557-1602) and Thomas Weelkes (1576-1623).

A contemporary of Shakespeare, Morley was a highly-regarded singer, composer, and music publisher. In the translation of Italian madrigal style to English texts, Morley may be the most important figure. He worked in and around St. Paul’s Cathedral for most of his life, and he had the good fortune to study for a time with the great William Byrd. Morley is also remembered today as a music theorist. The following passage comes from his description of how to write a madrigal in the Italian manner:

If therefore you will compose in this kind you must possess yourself with an amorous humour . . . so that you must in your music be wavering like the wind, sometime wanton, sometime drooping, sometime grave and staid, otherwhile effeminate . . . The more variety you show the better you shall please.

As a friend or at least acquaintance of Shakespeare, Morley composed the most famous setting of a song that appears in Act V, Scene 3 of As You Like It. The strophic, sing-song appeal of “It was a lover and his lasse” (1600) helps ground the aura of repose and slight nostaligia lingering over the Arden Forest scenes in that play. A few years earlier he wrote “Now is the month of Maying,” a five-part madrigal bursting with jaunty good cheer and praise of Spring.

Thomas Weelkes’ 100+ madrigals show an abiding interest in text painting, the use of musical gestures that mimic specific words or their meaning. For instance, “As Vesta was from Latmos Hill Descending” revels in ample text painting as all voice parts use rapid falling scales for the words “came running down amain.” Weelkes divides the texture accordingly as the text refers to “two by two” and “three by three.” (I’ll let you guess what will happen when the words “leaving their goddess all alone” appear.) The work closes with a lengthy, jubilant peroration on “long live fair Oriana.” The excessive dwelling on this phrase seems overblown until we realize that Oriana was a nickname for Elizabeth I, and the entire passage is Weelkes’ homage to the virgin queen.

A contemporary of Morley and Weelkes, John Dowland (1563-1626) continues to enchant as the representative voice of a significant era in cultural history (Elizabethan England), and his hundreds of delightful solo lute works are perhaps his signature efforts. His reputation blossomed in the early music movement of the mid-20th century, and recent recordings by Sting have made Dowland’s name a buzzword even in non-classical circles. The lute was his own best instrument, and after working for many lucrative years in Denmark, this Catholic musician returned to take a post as court lutenist under James I in 1612.

Like his colleagues, Dowland wrote numerous madrigals. His five-voice “Come away, sweet love” shows clear comfort with the genre. But he also wrote songs, usually with lute accompaniment, including perhaps the most famous single English song: “Flow My Tears,” also called the Lachrimae Pavan. The ballad began life as a pavane for solo lute (1597) and was published a few years later in the familiar version for voice and lute. Then, further capitalizing on its popular success – he had taken to signing his name “Jo. dowland di lachrimae” – he made an arrangement for string consort featuring five viols. The melody sings out from the treble viol, supported by rich counterpoint below.

Henry Purcell (1659-1695) lived a very short life; his thirty-six years are akin to the brief span of Mozart’s existence on earth. But like Mozart, Purcell’s story, too, is one of prodigious accomplishments at an early age. Following training as a chorister in the Royal Chapel, Henry was appointed resident composer at age seventeen and became head organist at Westminster Abbey just two years later. It was at this time – around 1680 – that Purcell’s earliest extant compositions, mostly violin sonatas and fantasias, were written. Later appointments at court and chapel continued until his death and called forth a vast array of ceremonial odes, songs, and liturgical settings. But in his lifetime and ever since Purcell has been loved best for his dramatic scores: King Arthur (1691), The Fairy Queen (1692), and above all, Dido & Aeneas (1689).

Our first half ends with several selections from Purcell’s King Arthur, or The British Worthy. The Nine Worthies are human counterparts of the Seven Wonders of the World. While the origins of the list are lost to time, members range from Trojan prince Hector to King David and Charlemagne. England can claim only Arthur among these “worthies.” The general action of the opera involves a conflict between Britons and invading Saxons for control of the island. Though magic and other characters factor in, the contest ultimately devolves on single combat between Arthur and the Saxon leader, Oswald. Arthur triumphs and orders the outsiders to leave, initiating a grand masque that concludes the opera.

INTERMISSION

George Frederick Handel (1685-1759) was perhaps the most famous musician across Europe in the mid-18th century. Born in Halle in central Germany, young Handel received only modest compositional lessons. This was very much the era of “on-the-job training,” especially for church musicians, and Handel would continue to self-instruct as he came into contact with more diverse styles in Rome and Venice. Even after he crossed north over the Alps in early 1710, Handel continued to think and create in the Italian style. He took a post at Hanover in Germany, but left for his first visit to London before the end of the year. He received permission from the Elector of Hanover for a second English tour – and never went back to Germany. As fate would have it, his old employer in Hanover eventually became King George I of England in 1714.

That same year, Handel met a visiting Italian violinist who had come to London on a performing tour. Francesco Geminiani (1687-1762) had the good fortune to learn directly from Corelli during a short period in Rome. Geminiani cut an imposing figure in terms of composed music as well as theoretical and performance treatises. He was the pre-eminent Italian violin virtuoso working on English soil during George I’s reign. When he met Handel in 1714, Geminiani was in London to perform as soloist in several of his own concerti before King George. As court harpsichordist, Handel would accompany the prestigious Italian from the keyboard. While Geminiani built his career around teaching, he is probably best-known today for his many superlative ensemble concertos. We hear selections from his Opus 7 collection, published in 1746.

By contrast, Handel thought of himself primarily as a composer for the theater. Opera could be big business; changing fashions meant that Handel was continually at the mercy of box office receipts. In addition, maintaining official favor (and financial backing) required a diplomatic hand, as well as the occasional piece of musical “homage.” When he first arrived in London in 1711, the monarch was an aged Queen Anne. Anne was not an opera fan, but she engaged theater musicians on multiple occasions for palace celebrations.

In early 1713 Handel composed an Ode for the Birthday of Queen Anne. The Queen was quite unwell at this time, and the work may never have been performed in her presence. Cast in nine movements, the Ode features a series of arias and choruses all glorifying Anne as the prime architect of peace on Earth. The Ode also derives in part from material that Handel composed for La Resurrezione in Rome in 1707. Clearly Italian connections were still very much in his mind.

For later royals, Handel was asked to compose a series of Coronation Anthems. He responded to the grandeur of the setting – Westminster Abbey – by writing music that is bold, buoyant, and extroverted. Most famous of all is Zadok the Priest, written for the ascension of George II in 1727. Less familiar but equally powerful, The King Shall Rejoice appeared at the same 1727 coronation ceremony as Zadok and employs the same instrumental forces. Its text derives from the opening verses of Psalm 21, where the earthly king is reminded that all power comes from heaven. The opening ritornello in D major sets a triumphal tone bolstered by Handel’s use of punctuated rhythms when the chorus enters. The homophonic texture mirrors the unity of message on such an occasion, but Handel also nicely inserts a few polyphonic and melismatic gestures to offset full-speed-ahead jubilation.

The second movement in A major softens the mood still further. Brass and timpani take a break, the strings set out a graceful 3/4 rhythm, and the chorus dances out a series of conversational exchanges. Handel revels in chains of dissonant suspensions on “Exceeding glad” as if to reinforce that thought. The third movement, starting with “Glory!” aptly bursts forth in all parts together as radiant D major. Moments later Handel strikingly shift gears to tonicize B minor for the unfolding of a grand fugue. Returning back through D major, the entire anthem rounds off with a magisterial double fugue on “Alleluia.”

Jason Stell, © 2026