History has rightly acclaimed Claudio Monteverdi (1567-1643) as one of the most significant composers of all time. So much of what transpired in subsequent centuries, especially regarding vocal music, would have been fundamentally different without his contributions. Monteverdi was the seminal figure in the transition from the massive polyphonic edifices of the late Middle Ages and Renaissance to the tonality of the Baroque. His innovations in harmony and dissonance marked him as a harbinger of the “new practice” or seconda prattica, while they also brought him into a prominent debate over the future of music. It was Monteverdi who championed text expression and its emotive power over purely musical considerations of counterpoint and form. Text mattered most – an idea gleaned from Plato – whereas melody and rhythm should play secondary roles. Influencing both the broad and narrow directions in music, Monteverdi has been called the “Father of Modern Opera” and the “Father of the Dominant-7th Chord,” to name two distinctions.

Born in Cremona, Monteverdi worked in Verona and Milan before securing his first important position at Mantua under the Gonzaga family. We know next to nothing about his early training except that he studied with a local musician, Marc’Antonio Ingegneri. Monteverdi quickly became one of the most active composers of vocal music, ranging from the sacred to the latest musical innovation: madrigals. Today he is strongly identified with Venice and St. Mark’s where he acted as maestro di capella starting in 1613. Yet we must not overlook the fact that significant aspects of Monteverdi’s career took place while still in Mantua: his celebrated defense in print of modern dissonance treatment; the creation of one of the first operas, L’Orfeo (more on that in a moment); the 1610 Vespers; and the composition of several volumes of madrigals.

The term madrigal actually refers to two different genres. Originally it signified a poetic-musical form of two-part counterpoint that emerged in Italy around 1320 and died out within a century. Later it became an affective, secular setting of Petrarchan poetry developed in Italy and elsewhere after 1520. It is the latter usage that most listeners recognize. While madrigal’s origins may be traced to older vocal forms such as the frottola and chanson, what sets it apart is the degree of expressivity and chromatic experimentation, its popular strain, and the quality of its poetry. The madrigal’s home was Venice, where it developed in the hands of Willaert, Rore, and Arcadelt.

Monteverdi’s first book of madrigals appeared in 1587, before his move to Mantua. These were surely not Monteverdi’s first efforts in the genre, for they already reveal a skillful handling of dissonance, text emphasis, and counterpoint across the five voices. His early works luxuriate in the Arcadian world of contemporary poetry. We hear the nymphs and shepherds sing the praises of Fumia the shepherdess in “Fumia la pastorella.” The work is rife with text painting details, none more obvious and enjoyable than when the soaring voices mimic the text “alte voantavanci” (“the high voices sing”). But even a brief song like “Amor, per tua mercè” holds special charm. That lovely sensation you feel as key words “dille” (“tell her”) and “morire” (“to die”) are sung in a direct chromatic progression meant to send shivers down your spine – that is the madrigal at its very best.

Years later, as music director at St. Mark’s in Venice, Monteverdi hired many of the finest instrumentalists available. Around 1620, his en-semble included Dario Castello (ca. 1590-ca. 1658), one of those count-less musicians whose name, but for the survival of precious few works, would be entirely lost to history. Some thirty pieces survive, and circumstantial evidence places Castello in Venice by the early 1600s. His extant music demonstrates early Baroque monody, which features a solo line supported by chordal accompaniment. Polyphonic complexities favored by previous generations are here simplified into one or two active lines. We take this melody and accompaniment style for granted today, but it is worth remembering that it, too, had to be invented. Castello’s Sonata No. 12 (1629) unfolds as a series of alternating fast and slow sections, which also include a change from duple to triple rhythms. The two solo lines – recorder and violin – often imitate each other and definitely lead the music forward. Castello closes nearly every section with ornate cadenzas for the soloists, creating a wonderful contrast against the held tones in the continuo.

Perhaps even more obscure than Castello is lutenist and harpsichordist Giovanni Picchi (ca. 1572-1643), another contemporary of Monteverdi deeply influenced by the musical styles cultivated in Venice. What little music of his that survives reinforces his importance to several instrumental genres, especially various forms of keyboard music, concertos, and sonatas. In 1619, Picchi published a collection of harpsichord dances, from which we hear his Pass’ e mezzo in six parts. Also called simply a passamezzo, this Italian dance in duple meter was often paired with a lively companion. While typically derived from improvisation, harmonic repetition provides a stable foundation for all manner of variation.

Such works featured in every organist’s toolkit and could be pulled out to fulfill service function on a moment’s notice, as Picchi certainly did as organist in Venice’s Basilica di Santa Maria Gloriosa dei Frari. Picchi assumed that position in 1607. At the same moment, not far away in Mantua, Monteverdi was deeply engrossed in creating one of the signature works of the early Baroque, a piece still revered and performed today: his opera L’Orfeo.

Opera in the early 17th century seems to have emerged from intermezzi, musical interludes between formal dramatic scenes. As such, instrumental music plays an important role, but equally crucial is the way in which spoken material from the surrounding play begins to spill over into these interludes. Gradually, the intermezzi began to assume a life of their own. With the support of the Gonzaga court, long recognized as champions of new dramatic forms that pushed boundaries into new realms, Monteverdi’s L’Orfeo became what is officially called a favola in musica, literally a “fable” or story in music, emphasizing the marriage of text and music.

The myth of Orpheus exerted a powerful influence on the minds of creative artists for centuries. Indeed, as early as the 17th century, scholars, poets, and artists met to debate a “rebirth” of ancient Greek aesthetic and philosophical concepts. How could the figure of Orpheus not be anything but central to their considerations? Poet, musician, hero – Orpheus symbolized the tangible power of music on the world. His performances were apparently so powerful that even wild animals became docile under his spell. For Carnival season in 1607, Monteverdi created this opera – a new genre still finding its footing – about the bard’s journey to Hades to recover his bride Eurydice.

A signature moment in Monteverdi’s L’Orfeo occurs in Act 3. Having arrived at the River Styx, Orpheus must persuade Charon to ferry him across to retrieve Eurydice. Charon initially protests, for no living creature can enter his boat. By virtue of Orpheus’ singing and lyre playing, the boatman is lulled into submission. Monteverdi’s music for the aria “Possente spirto” (“Mighty spirit”) brilliantly captures Orpheus’ supernatural gift, as well as the power of the solo human voice. The baritone melody is highly ornamented and virtuosic, and the violins resonate as if in echo to his voice.

Along with Picchi and Castello, Antonio Bertali (1605-1669) is the third “minor master” on today’s program. 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. The Sonata a 6 in D Minor calls for two violins, three violas (or possibly viola da gambas), and bass violone plus continuo. Composed in the early 1660s, it represents the older sonata manner: a single-movement work filled with sections of contrasting tempi. Large portions sound directly inspired by Monteverdi’s imitative, echo violin writing as in “Possente spirto.” Indeed, for the first few minutes, only the two violins are heard. Eventually, Bertali develops the contrapuntal interplay between all six strings, and the work ends with a sonorous full cadence.

Around the time L’Orfeo was first performed, Monteverdi experienced a series of hardships that necessitated a change of scenery. He was overworked, underpaid, and had recently lost his wife. Now in his early 40s, he had grown tired of life in Mantua. After a bit of traveling and searching for new positions, Monteverdi became music director at St. Mark’s in Venice in 1613, where he would remain for the final 30 years of his life. After the success of L’Orfeo, he went on to compose around 20 operas, though sadly only three survive intact today. These include a treatment of The Homecoming of Ulysses (1640) and his final masterpiece, L’incoronazione di Poppea (1642), based on the life of Nero’s mistress (Poppea). This opera reverses the conventional morals of the theater: goodness fails, while greed and licentiousness triumph.

Monteverdi’s decision to close the entire work with a tender duet for Nero and Poppea, “Pur ti miro,” is brilliant but also controversial. Scored for two soprano-range voices, the parts weave in and out of each other, entangling, embracing, and seeming to finish each other’s thoughts. The main sections are based on a chaconne bass and short, dovetailing motifs in the voices. It may be the height of hypocrisy to mention, at the very last moment, that some scholars doubt that Monteverdi actually wrote this duet. His health was in serious decline while the final pages of the score remained unfinished. It seems plausible that one or two younger assistants – Benedetto Ferrari or Filiberto Laurenzi are mentioned – may have stepped in to complete what Monteverdi could not. The text “Pur ti miro” turns up in two other sources written both before Poppea (a 1641 work by Ferrari) and after it (a 1647 “opera-on-wheels” by Laurenzi).

So while this concert uses Monteverdi’s long, productive, and influential career as its raison d’etre, it is perhaps fitting that the final word may go to two overlooked contemporaries. Of course, larger-than-life figures like Monteverdi will continue to hold our attention and inspire our inquiries. Yet he was simply one man among hundreds of accomplished professional composers who helped carry the Italian Baroque into the future.

Jason Stell, © 2026