PROGRAM NOTES SPONSORED BY THOMAS WARD

Georg Philipp Telemann (1681-1767) was probably as close as one could be to a “celebrity” composer in 18th-century Germany. His creative output was truly staggering, with over 3,000 works to his name, spanning an incredible range from cantatas to oratorios, operas, concertos, chamber pieces, keyboard music, and more. Much of this musical legacy originated from the period after Telemann was installed in Hamburg in 1721 as Kantor at the Johanneum Lateinschule. He also served as musical director of the five (!) principal churches in the city. Years earlier he also worked in Leipzig – before J. S. Bach – and helped to start a music performance society called the Collegium Musicum. For all of these outlets, both sacred and secular, Telemann had abundant need and opportunity to present original works.

In 1702 Telemann founded Leipzig’s first Collegium Musicum, a mostly amateur music society that met regularly to give concerts. Typical fare included such gems as Telemann’s Concerto for Four Violins in D Major – one of at least four such concertos he composed. In contrast to a piece like Vivaldi’s well-known Concerto in B Minor for Four Violins and Strings, Telemann’s piece has no accompanying strings or continuo group. It is just four “solo” violins. This allows the instruments to suggest a virtuosic kind of string quartet. Leading and supporting functions pass freely among the players, and there is a beautiful richness when strings – without the assistance of the keyboard – play close harmony.

Among lesser-known works by Antonio Vivaldi (1678-1741) are more than forty operas. We tend to consider Vivaldi’s professional career solely in relation to the Ospedale della Pietà, the orphanage in Venice where he served as violin teacher and general composer-in-residence. The children he taught would be the first performers of so many brilliant scores, including instrumental concertos and sacred works. But outside the walls of the orphanage, Vivaldi sought wider fame and financial security as an opera impresario. He innovated theatrical forms with his dazzling instrumental style, which ideally suited the fevered emotions of most opera seria.

Il Farnace, as was common for opera libretti in its day, takes a plot from antiquity. It covers the defeat of King Pharnaces II, who ruled the Bosporus around the time of Julius Caesar, and the conflicting ambitions of those within his family circle. The work premiered in Venice in 1727 and was further revived in Prague when Vivaldi traveled there three years later. The work then languished without performance until the latter years of the 20th century.

Among standout moments in Farnace is “Gelido in ogni vena,” sung by the title character. Having commanded his wife to kill herself and their son rather than be taken captive by the Romans, Farnace is here tormented by regret and loss. Taking his cue from the initial word “gelido” (“like ice”), Vivaldi opens with slowly plodding strings that quote another chilling moment: the opening to “Winter” from The Four Seasons (1721). The homage is obvious as both works are written in F minor and use the exact same motive (F, G, DL, BL), piling up dissonances one upon the other. The aria itself is highly melismatic and calls for a wide vocal range. Written in da capo ABA form, the A section alone lasts over four minutes, equal in length to many entire arias in the Baroque era. The B section is short but not contrasting either in mode or mood. Coupled with the repeat of the A section, Vivaldi creates a nearly ten-minute obsession on mourning and regret.

Compared to figures like Telemann and Vivaldi, Antonio Bertali (1605-1669) is not a name commonly known, even among devotees of the Italian Baroque era. Born in Verona and trained as a violinist in the northern Italian tradition, Bertali would settle in Vienna before his 20th birthday and spend the remainder of his career there. The majority of his work does not survive, though we know it included numerous operas, sacred compositions, and – not surprisingly – violin chamber music. Of this last, enough survives to enable a modern revival of Bertali’s music.

Bertali’s Sonata for 8 instruments typifies the kind of consort, or “family,” music that was quite popular throughout the Baroque era. In this case, of course, we are talking a string consort including various kinds of violas – mid-range in pitch and tone – whose repertoire and function gradually diffused outward to the modern viola and cello. It is all the more interesting, therefore, to hear this repertoire performed on the kinds of instruments Bertali would have had in mind. It is also interesting how Bertali uses the various viola da gambas. In this single-movement sonata, lasting about five minutes, the alternating fast and slow sections are differentiated by more than just tempo. The fast portions use the smaller, fleeter violins, whereas the slow Adagio sections explore a very different sound: dolorous, grave, chromatic, voiced almost exclusively by the aching tone of the solo gambas. By the middle of the piece, however, the pull of the ensemble draws all players together and we get wonderfully rich timbres as all eight parts merge.

Johann Christoph Bach (1642-1703) was one of the first members of the Bach musical dynasty and a composer whom both J. S. Bach and C. P. E. Bach looked up to as an influence on their own artistic careers. Although the lament Ach dass ich Wassers genug hätte has also been attributed to Johann Christoph’s father, Heinrich Bach, scholars have recently established that it was indeed written by the son. Drawing on literary excerpts from the books of Jeremiah, Lamentations, and Psalms, the composer has furnished a piece that does not seem to hold back any intensity in its expression of contrition, as rendered through the painful sighs of both the vocalist and the solo violin. Following the da capo aria form, Bach’s lament opens and closes with the same refrain, offset by a middle verse to different music. In addition to the plaintive atmosphere that he successfully establishes via strains of the string accompaniment, Johann Christoph also communicates the mournful heaviness of the piece through evocative word-painting. In the center section, “heavy burden” (schwere Last) is rendered in the low range of the song, “crying” (weine) appears in a wandering, melismatic line which points at musical wailing, and the notes which accompany “flowing” (fliessen) tears cascade downward in a scalar passage.

To say that works like Telemann’s Concerto in E Minor for Recorder, Transverse Flute and Strings are “a dime a dozen” is not an insult, it is a blessing. It captures the reality that prolific masters of that era (Telemann, of course, and a host of Italian contemporaries like Vivaldi, Tartini, Albinoni, Geminiani, etc.) produced such music by the cartload. There exist today literally thousands of concertos ripe for our appreciation. The wonderful thing is that each of these concertos offer something to reward our discovery. Each may not be the next favorite in your personal collection, but so many will leave you wondering how they have not become as familiar as The Four Seasons or Brandenburg Concertos?

We mentioned already that Telemann had the Collegium Musicum as a ready outlet for ensemble works. Clearly he also had at least two very gifted wind players among his band, for the E-Minor Concerto calls for numerous virtuosic passages. Telemann uses the familiar four-movement form of the “church sonata” (slow-fast-slow-fast) rather than the conventional three-movement design. Still the opening Largo offers ample lovely dialogue between recorder and flute. The following Allegro powers forward on the back of an energetic main theme presented in counterpoint between the soloists, who vie with one another for the spotlight. After pages of running 16th notes, a respite is called for. Telemann does not oblige, however. The tempo has slowed, but the demands of lyrical interchange amidst the fugal structure keep both soloists on point. The pizzicato texture in strings provides a lovely contrast.

With the stage now set for an invigorating finale, Telemann offers one of his best movements of all. Its form suggests the circularity of a rondeau, but form recedes entirely in the face of the finale’s foot-stomping appeal and drone-like harmonic foundation. As it alternates between a folksy, rustic charm and more scintillating wind playing, Telemann’s concerto merges low and high style, bringing the glamour of court to the vigor of the market square.

Jason Stell, © 2026