The language of Baroque music has become nearly as familiar to our ears as the idioms of Viennese High Classicism (Haydn, Mozart, Beethoven). The era’s musical style is largely stable and homogeneous across Europe, forcing one to look deeper into subtle differences in order to make stylistic comparisons. In other words, we certainly know Baroque music when we hear it – and you will hear nothing else during this entire three-day festival. But descriptions of highly similar works run the risk of redundancy. And truth be told, the musical principles behind all of tonight’s selections are far more alike than different. Yet composers still manage to infuse some tinge of novelty – a spicy dissonance, perhaps, or a contrapuntal magic trick – and we do well to listen for these fleeting instances of aesthetic transcendence.

Antonio Vivaldi (1671-1742) symbolizes the Italian Baroque as well as any other figure: extremely prolific, a brilliant and inventive violinist, working in Venice. In the realm of vocal music, he has been largely overshadowed by figures like Bach and Handel, even though he wrote spectacular operas and sacred works. This is the result of what we might call “life situation.” For instance, Bach’s position at Leipzig’s Thomaskirche necessitated weekly cantatas as well as masses, motets, and passions. Handel worked in close relation with several prominent opera companies in London for decades. Vivaldi never enjoyed such a ready-made outlet for vocal music. His professional career revolved around the Ospedale della Pietà, the orphanage where he served as violin teacher and general composer-in-residence. Many of his finest works were premiered by the gifted children he taught, including the instrumental concertos and chamber works performed tonight.

In addition to hundreds of concertos for solo violin, Vivaldi also composed several concertos for multiple violins, nearly all of which appear in L’estro armonico or Harmonic Inspiration. This set of works has been described as arguably “the most influential collection of instrumental music to appear during the entire 18th century.” The Concerto for Four Violins in B minor is a highlight of the set. Rarely do all four soloists play together, apart from the tutti sections, but it is a joy to see sound become physical. As different performers take on successive thematic strands, their contrasting styles, mannerisms, and tonal color create a spatial dimension to the music. The opening Allegro moves feverishly from start to finish, with solo episodes paced perfectly against sections for the full ensemble. Following a quasi-improvised slow movement, the fleet finale in 6/8 time dances its way to a rousing finish. Note how the violin soloists, like members of a jazz quartet, periodically step into and out of the spotlight. Later Bach used Vivaldi’s material to create a concerto for four harpsichords in 1735.

Such concertos are but one component in the vast output of “The Red Priest” (so-called because of his hair color and the fact that he was ordained in the Catholic Church). Outside the orphanage walls, Vivaldi sought fame and financial security as an opera impresario. He innovated theatrical forms by adapting his dazzling instrumental style to the fevered emotions of opera seria. In 1727 Vivaldi produced Farnace for Venice’s Teatro Sant’Angelo. A colleague had already set the same text a few years earlier, so Vivaldi at least had that as a “test run” for the libretto’s dramatic coherence.

Farnace takes its plot from antiquity. It covers the defeat of Pharnaces II, who ruled the Bosporus region around the time of Julius Caesar. In addition to the Romans, Farnace is opposed by his mother-in-law, Berenice, even though it means sorrow for her own daughter. In the midst of the melée, Farnace’s lovely sister Selinda turns all heads. She has been taken captive by the Roman soldier Aquilius (who instantly falls in love with her) and by Berenice’s general Gilade, who, of course, does the same, revealing the depth of his devotion in “Nell’intimo.” Later, during Act III, Selinda again drives the plot, this time aided by Aquilius. Using his love as leverage, she urges Aquilius to rebel against Pompey and help her brother back to the throne. As if to show him the way, Selinda sings the powerful “Ti vantasti” in heroic flourishes across the full vocal range. The final selection, occurring near the end of the opera, is “Io crudel!” Here, all four principals – Farnace, Selinda, Gilade, and Pompey – lash out at one another in a brilliant quartet.

In the years around 1714, Johann Sebastian Bach (1685-1750) was very interested in the latest Italian string music, specifically concertos. He made at least nine transcriptions of Vivaldi concertos. Bach’s absorption and refinement of Vivaldi’s style is arguably one of the most significant moments in music history, as it allowed him to merge two distinct traditions: North German contrapuntal richness and Italian virtuosic figuration. While the structure continues essentially unchanged, and the themes are always Vivaldi’s own, Bach makes subtle changes – often barely noticed at first – that add to the overall impression. Now the harmonies are richer and more dramatic; inner voices appear where none were previously heard; melodic passages are lithe and yet virile, playing off against counterpoint below.

The Organ Concerto in A Minor, BWV 593 (ca. 1713), is Bach’s transcription of Vivaldi’s concerto in the same key for two violins from L’Estro armonico. The concerto combines the best of Vivaldi with other features that are less common in his style. For instance, the opening Allegro makes interesting use of stasis and Neapolitan harmony to divert us from the relentless forward drive. In the finale, there are moments of recitative-like punctuation borrowed from opera. The central movement is built primarily as a chaconne (a variation form built on a repeated chord progression), and the finale starts with a suggestion of canon. Toward the close, one hears true counterpoint in a manner rare for Vivaldi but typical for Bach. This version for solo organ obscures some elements. For instance, it is harder to pick out the independent violin lines when these are played on similar organ stops. On the other hand, hearing all of Vivaldi’s orchestral material being performed by a single musician, there is an aesthetic impact of grandeur. This sense of mastery, of everything being realized under the hands (and feet) of a single performer, is certainly one of Bach’s enduring legacies.

While Bach spent the majority of his time writing sacred music, he also helped maintain and expand Leipzig’s Collegium Musicum. Such societies were common throughout Europe, bringing together amateur and professional musicians for performances in civic centers. One of their frequent venues was Zimmermann’s coffee shop, located just off Leipzig’s main square. Every week Bach’s band would perform to the delight of friends and customers (let’s hope the cappuccino machines were quieter then!). Bach composed or arranged chamber sonatas, over-tures, and numerous concertos for that setting, as well as several secular cantatas, including his beloved “Coffee” Cantata (1734).

Schweigt stille, plaudert nicht (Keep Quiet, Don’t Chatter) depicts a cantankerous, protective father named Schlendrian, which translates roughly as “stick-in-the-mud,” and his capricious daughter Liesgen, who seems far more interested in a cup of Joe than any real-life Joe. This cantata represents Bach’s closest approach to opera: alternations between recitative and da capo arias, memorable tunes, and a central conflict that needs reconciliation. After threatening to withhold all normal pleasures from his daughter, Schlendrian sings his pompous – and clearly off the mark – boast about how to wisely handle foolish little girls. In just three minutes Bach manages to capture Schlendrian’s persona in music that grumbles and growls. Given the tired clichés of Bach as the staid, overly pious technician, this piece gives a refreshing view of venues, friends, and colleagues Bach would not have seen daily in his role as Kappellmeister.

One of the most important genres during the Baroque era was the instrumental sonata. There were many variants, from single-movement works filled with numerous tempo and character changes, all the way to the conventional four-movement sonatas with their slow-fast-slow-fast structure. Around 1700 sonatas were beging churned out by the dozens by composers like Corelli, Telemann, Handel, and Bach. Such pieces are also called “Trio Sonatas” because they are organized around three distinct, interrelated melodic lines: two treble and one bass, the latter performed by the continuo. Vivaldi’s Sonata in A Minor for recorder, bassoon, and continuo follows this emerging genre. With its moderate technical demands, Vivaldi’s Sonata RV 86 may have been written with his young students in mind. While it appears to be his only sonata for this particular pairing (recorder and bassoon), its style mimics other works from Vivaldi’s early years.

By contrast, the Concerto for Two Oboes, Strings, and Continuo in D Minor, RV 535 (ca. 1725), shows Vivaldi in his full maturity. Even though a more refined work, RV 535 still follows the four-movement plan of earlier sonatas rather than the conventional three-movement shape we know from The Four Seasons. The brief opening Largo combines short motives in the oboes with a “walking” bass line, an echo of how Bach scored certain arias from his Passions. The ensuing Allegro is fully worked out as Vivaldi integrates the soloists with the larger ensemble. Hear how the first violin constantly converses with the solo oboes, while the continuo group holds everything together. The third movement offers another lovely Largo rich in soaring chains of dissonances between the two oboes. For the finale, Vivaldi hits his stride with instru-mental runs, smooth counterpoint, and rhythmic urgency. Here, without doubt, is the Vivaldi we know so well.

INTERMISSION

What sets Bach’s Harpsichord and Violin Sonatas apart from hundreds of contemporaneous violin sonatas? In a word, texture. Traditionally, such works were for violin with accompanying continuo: a bass line with notated figures that every keyboardist would realize to their own liking. In that way, the continuo player’s contribution seems analogous perhaps to the muted landscape behind Mona Lisa’s radiant visage: it has to be there, but it is not meant to receive our attention. This situation changes entirely in Bach’s Six Sonatas for Obbligato Harpsichord and Violin Solo (with optional Viola da Gamba). Note his use of the word obbligato, meaning required or necessary. Gone is the figured bass and its suggestion of chords to supply. It is replaced by a fully written-out keyboard part that interweaves with the violin to create a stunningly new tapestry of sound. No longer relegated to obscured background harmony, the harpsichord now enjoys full partnership with the violin.

The Sonata No. 4 in C Minor opens with one of Bach’s best-known themes. This haunting Siciliano combines sustained lyricism – ideally suited to the violin – with motoric, almost hypnotic accompaniment from the harpsichord. Bach amplifies the pathos of C minor with numerous chromatic surprises, and it is this chromaticism that becomes important for subsequent movements. In the second and third move-ments, Bach’s evasive and deceptive cadences help maintain continuous forward drive across both a lively Fugue and a tender Adagio. During the Fugue, in particular, Bach seems intent on creating continuity above all else, with chains of harmonic sequences used in abundance. The Finale, also a fugue, draws devices from the unaccompanied violin repertoire; the main theme, for instance, unfolds in skipping motion that creates the impression of separate higher and lower melodic lines within the violin itself (i.e., “compound melody”). At the same time, the harpsichordist is kept fully engaged with two-part counterpoint so familiar from Bach’s countless suites. This is ensemble music of the highest order.

Evidence of Vivaldi’s sacred music was entirely circumstantial before the discovery of manuscripts held at Turin’s National Library in the late 1920s. Until then, historians knew Vivaldi held the post of resident composer at the Ospedale, and we could read in the Mercure de France about a Te Deum sung there in 1727. But it took 200 years for his sacred music to become concrete for modern audiences when the first modern performance of his breathtaking Gloria in D Major took place in September 1939 in Siena. 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.

After several more generations of excellent scholarship, we now realize that Vivaldi wrote a significant amount of sacred music both for his students at the Ospedale and for wider consumption. Consider his Magnificat in G Minor – or to be more precise, his Magnificats, plural. The Magnificat is an important part of the liturgy, performed during Vespers. Taking its name from the first word of its Latin text, the Magnificat is Mary’s psalm of praise to God upon learning that she will bear the Christ child. Composers from Monteverdi, Tallis, and Bach to Bruckner and Rachmaninoff have penned glorious examples.

Tonight we hear Vivaldi’s final Magnificat composed in 1739, just two years before his death. In the score for RV 611, he wrote the names of individual orphanage residents who would perform specific solos: the “Et exultavit” for Apollonia, for instance, whereas Chiaretta would get the “Quia fecit.” We have indicated these names in the program listing above, for they add a touching element of humanity to music that can seem so distant in time and place.

The nine movements vary widely in character and scale. Several, including movements 1, 4, and 8, project gravitas through slow tempo, homophonic texture, and striking chromatic progressions. In the fifth movement, these features – amplified by large dissonant leaps – carry us back to a Renaissance vocal manner that even Vivaldi’s listeners would have considered archaic. Movements 2 and 3 deliver a series of scintillating solo arias. One can perhaps imagine Vivaldi’s most talented pupils stepping forward to deliver these operatic highlights, filled with decoration, athletic runs, and moments for lavish improvisation. The fifth movement is perhaps the most curious of all, as it unfolds exclusively in unison texture from start to finish. Vivaldi follows it with a beautiful alto solo that could have been lifted straight from the pages of one of his opera scores. Following another alto aria (no. 9), the Magnificat closes with a grand but brief Gloria.

Jason Stell, © 2026