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IN ITALY THE concerto grosso was part of the general scheme of instrumental music. At the same time the concerto grosso was unmistakably orchestral in nature, representing a definite type, a species with well-defined order and characteristics, which reached a plateau in the works of Corelli, who was lavish with one hand while strictly regulating matters with the other. Handel never ceased to admire the intensely felt precision and sinewy tenderness of Corelli’s concertos but would not accept the occasional neglect of incidental vitality for the sake of a pervading unity. If Corelli’s was largely a genuine orchestral style, Handel’s was exclusively so; there is a bracing vigor, a keen saliency in his concertos, their principal asset being a readiness for action. The great difference between Handel’s concertos, especially those in Opus 6, and most other Baroque concertos is that they do not represent a type or species; each one of them is different and individual even though it hews to the main lines as established by Corelli’s synthesis.
The Italians, especially the generation of Vivaldi and even more that of Geminiani, proceeded from their instrument, the violin; they fiddled as they composed, happily and highly subjectively. This love of the medium can be found in some of the slow movements of Handel’s solo sonatas, and in most of his harpsichord music, but not in the orchestral works. Highly ornamented writing he found detrimental to orchestral monumentality, he wanted his contours solid, and creative freedom he always combined with a subtle but binding constructive logic. He reconciled the basis of musical matter with its mechanism, he brought into play the resources of instrumental technique, but everything had to obey the shifting dexterity of construction. The result was an orchestral style far more modern than that of his contemporaries even though in many ways his attitude may be called conservative. “Handel sports with the band,” says Burney, “and turns it to innumerable unexpected accounts, of which neither Corelli nor Geminiani had ever the least conception.”
Why Handel suddenly decided in 1734 to compose and publish a set of concertos is not clear, but, since it was in that year that Walsh became his permanent publisher and since concertos were in demand, it is quite possible that it was the energetic and piratical publisher who forced the venture. Handel knew quite well that if he did not agree Walsh might proceed on his own; this happened more than once. The set, given the opus number 3, “though called Hautbois Concertos, has very few solo parts for that instrument; most of the divisions, and difficult passages, being assigned to the principal Violin ... [these concertos] are admirably calculated for a large and powerful band” (Burney). Opus 3 is an interesting mixture of old and new. Some of its constituent numbers are much earlier than the date of publication would indicate, though Chrysander’s statement that Opus 3, No. 3 was composed in Hanover in 1711-12 is hardly defensible. Handel is “sporting” here as if deliberately wanting to tease the pedants, for the curious theme in the fugue violates the codified rules of melodic progression by using augmented and diminished intervals. These concertos are richly orchestrated; Handel uses in turn recorders, oboes, bassoons, harp, positive organ, and the usual string body. Nevertheless, the hasty publication project is betrayed by the many transcriptions; half of the movements are borrowings and reworkings. Handel called into service some of his keyboard fugues, the overtures to Amadigi and Ottone, the last movement of his harpsichord suite in D minor (a favorite subject for transcription), the anthem In the Lord put I my trust, and so forth. On the whole, Opus 3 lacks the supple lucidity of movement that distinguishes Opus 6; the material has not been fully compacted. Yet while inferior to the great Opus 6, it contains many splendid movements and the colorful orchestration is always interesting.
The Twelve Grand Concertos, composed in a few weeks and published by Walsh in 1739, belong fundamentally to the Corelli “school” and may be called conservative. Compared to them, Locatelli’s concertos Opus 1 (1721) seem more modern in idiom and tone. Grout correctly observes that “the serious, dignified bearing and the prevailingly full contrapuntal texture of this music are less characteristic of the 1730s than of the earlier part of the century when Handel was forming his style in Italy” (A History of Western Music). The “conservative” attitude is reflected in the adherence to a number of Corelli’s canons. Thus the violin parts are always treated as in the trio sonata; they are equals, the parts freely crossing each other, the second violin often rising far above the first. The slow movements follow Corelli’s similar pieces in his sonate da chiesa. The “modern” quality is evident in the leaning toward the symphonic, in the built-in crescendos, the surprise dynamics, and the dramatic turns and interruptions. However, the most unusual feature of these concertos, neither conservative nor modern but altogether Handelian, is their improvisatory freedom within the established principles of the genre. The almost bewildering variety of ingredients caused serious concern among historians, who were unable to relate Handel’s to any known procedure. Some complained that these concertos are so different from one another that “a basic formal concept can hardly be recognized in them.” Indeed, there is no regular, schematic alternation between solo and tutti, the concertino may be altogether absent, and no two of them are alike either in form or procedure. Three of the concertos have four movements, eight have five, and one has six. The elements used are a fantastic jumble: French overture, Italian, French, and English dances, sonata da chiesa, chamber duet, all freely mixed; then again we hear an aria or an accompanied recitative, theme and variations, fugue, etc. Some movements are entirely in the concerto a quattro style, that is, for orchestra alone without solo parts, others tend towards the solo concerto, still others rightfully belong in the domain of the suite, and some are decidedly symphonic. The concertino is usually episodic and can hardly wait to rejoin the tutti. This fantastic variety, seeming to indicate an ad hoc garland of movements forced into one set, misled many critics, who failed to appreciate this riot of imagination, its freedom and unpredictability, the immense gusto, elan, creative energy, and surging excitement that went into the making of these concertos. Though the absolute antipode of Bach’s Brandenburg Concertos, the Grand Concertos represent with them the highest achievement of Baroque orchestral music.
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THE FIRST concerto begins “with pride and haughtiness,” as Burney says, the opening section followed by one of those imperious allegros whose crispness never falters. Now the muscular eloquence is relieved by lyricism; the adagio is a love duet of pure Mediterranean suavity. After a vigorous fast fugue, whose fine technical achievement is touched with nonchalance, the final allegro tails off somewhat.
The first movement of the second concerto is a happy pastoral piece, though not of the dainty kind; the orchestra is robust, only the concertino is tender. The movement does become pensive, though, towards the end when the bustle subsides in gently drooping sixths in the violins, followed by a halting recollection of the initial happy theme. The second movement is symphonic, carried by a powerful thrust that climaxes in an unusually long insistence on the Neapolitan sixth. The Largo’s pathos and expressiveness is almost theatrically vocal, while the final movement, a fugue—but one such as no treatise knows—is equally dramatic. This is an exceptionally fine and imaginative work.
The third concerto opens with a broad quasi ostinato that with its vein of pathos mingled with robust sound makes an irresistible appeal. The Andante, which might be called a sort of double fugue, is moody, with an unusually pregnant theme; the contrapuntal work is superb, and the short piece rises to a magnificent climax. It is followed by what commences as a typical Italian concerto grosso movement, recalling Vivaldi in the sharply accented theme with its octave leaps, but suddenly Handel decides to turn it into a solo concerto by inserting episodes for the first violin of the concertino; and so the piece runs its course from one surprise to another. The Polonaise is not a polonaise at all—unless the Poles used bagpipes and drone basses and shifted the traditional rhythmic pattern of their national dance; but a fine and imaginative piece it
is. The brief closing Allegro is a little delicate epigram, though not without one moment of anxiety when a sudden harmonic change makes the listener sit up.
In the A minor concerto, the fourth, Handel strikes passionate tones. The Larghetto affettuoso is an instrumental arioso of an astonishingly modern cut. The broad melody winds its way, at times tortuously, never for a second forgetting the “affettuoso” in the superscription. It is followed by a masterly fugue built upon an unruly, demanding theme. Handel accepts the challenge; the fugue is one of his finest. If the fugue is wild, the subsequent Largo e piano is a Stabat Mater. Nothing happens, only bittersweet chains of suspensions in the upper parts over a strolling bass, but the vision hangs there tranquil as the evening star. The piece could be sung without any change. The wildness returns in the Allegro, an extraordinarily dramatic piece the like of which no other composer of the age would—or could—place in a concerto. The bitingly sharp theme is driven mercilessly, but twice Handel interrupts the compelling flow with a mysterious, hesitant, and dark interlude that throws a furtive shadow over the movement.
The opening French overture of the fifth concerto Burney considered the finest of its kind ever composed, one that “seems to require a convulsive, determined, and military cast.” It is indeed a most impressive piece, small in compass but great in scale. The fugue is a worthy companion to the one in the fourth concerto, dancing its way effortlessly and abounding with contrapuntal finesse. The third movement is extraordinary even in this collection of extraordinary pieces, and though one would expect its virtually 19th-century tone to appeal instantly to anyone, most commentators completely misread its portent. The movement, entitled Presto, is nothing less than a modern orchestral scherzo, swift, tight, and bold. Surprisingly, not only Burney but even Leichtentritt is cool to it. How Leichtentritt, who always finds correspondences with Beethoven, Brahms —even Wagner—of the most tenuous sort, could have missed such an excellent opportunity to cite a Vorahnung of the scherzo in Mendelssohn’s Midsummer Night’s Dream music is difficult to understand. The second Allegro is even more symphonic, at times furiously so, as Handel makes his strings race with tremolo tuttis without permitting the pace to sag. This was too much for Burney. Though he recognized the nature of the movement—“here we have a very early specimen of the symphonic style in Italy”—the style was actually too “late” for his taste. He did not like tremolos and fast repeated tones, and sadly concluded that all this was noise and mere filling. In contradistinction, the concluding Minuet was everyone’s favorite. A modest compliment is due to the younger Muffat, who contributed to the first two movements of the work.
The sixth concerto starts with a pensive dramatic scene. The fugue, too, with its contorted theme, is dark, though not without strength. While the hurly-burly of the dynamics of motion associated with the symphonic style had no meaning for Burney, he did appreciate a fine fugue, and for this somber G minor fugue, heavily chromatic in design, he had words of unbounded admiration. “The fugue is remarkably curious in subject; which is so unobvious and difficult to work, that no composer of ordinary abilities, in this learned species of writing, would have ventured to meddle with it, if such an unnatural series of sounds had occurred to him.” The Musette is expressive of gentle serenity, of the charm of Neapolitan folk music. Handel’s procedure is again in defiance of all tradition. Even though the opening section was borrowed from Leo (so Schering tells us), surely no one in the first half of the 18th century could have made such an uncommonly imaginative compound piece out of the material. The Musette consists of several sections that form a sort of rondo; the first is satisfied with the pleasant bourdon of the bagpipes, while in the second section a totally new, whimsical picture is presented as the rhythm changes to the Scotch snap. There is something reassuring in the way the basses take over the rhythm from the violins, repeating the delicate tune with their awkward, tripping, good-natured grumbling. Now Handel decides that his violins need a workout and makes them concertize, but just as suddenly the whole first complex returns and the delightful piece ends with a gentle cadence that is like a satisfied sigh. The remaining two movements again were found troublesome by many, and defended by others with unconvincing gallantry. Burney, who does not hide his distaste, recommends their omission, saying that even Handel often omitted them in his own performances. If so, the reason must be sought in their bold quality, too advanced for the times. Those who are looking for black and white rhythms and melodies will not find them in this boisterous Allegro. It begins with a sharply Vivaldian subject, but in Handel’s hands the typical Baroque theme has a rather grim determination. As we wonder what turn the piece will take, the solo violin embarks upon a seemingly altogether unrelated bit of concerto music with Vivaldian cascades of sequences, but somehow the determined tutti returns with its brisk statements. Presently the interchange becomes more nervously agitated, the solo violin is reduced to short plaintive interpolations that are drowned by the assertive tutti. After a while the orchestra decides that the game is up, a furiously onrushing chromatic run sweeps away the solo, an angry Neapolitan sixth sealing its doom. The piece is ended with an energetic tutti. This is a rousing, powerful, and fantastic movement that apparently was still looked upon with incomprehension a bare half century ago. The final piece, though much calmed down, still shows fight, its energetic triplets opposing the angular theme of the dance tune. It brings to conclusion this concerto put together of a rainbow of forms, themes, and moods.
After a very brief and quiet introduction in the seventh concerto, Handel is again on the rampage, writing a fugue whose theme consists of one tone constantly repeated in ever smaller note values. This is one of the few occasions when Handel permitted the more robust side of his humor to find expression in music. Actually, the fugue is more symphonic than fugal; Handel takes hold of the little figure at the end of the theme, belaboring it with almost Haydnesque gusto. Both following movements, a Largo and an Andante, turn to suite music. Though polyphonic, the Largo is really an instrumental aria, the melody sustained, the harmony rich. The Andante drops all pretense at polyphony and simply spins the garlands of its melody over a simple accompaniment. There is no concertino in this concerto, all the violins sing together. The robust, “symphonic” Handel is back in the last movement, a Hornpipe. Handel is visibly enjoying himself, with insatiable pleasure exploring both the lusty rhythm of the old English dance and the convolutions he can coax out of the wide-ranging treble: a capital piece.
The eighth concerto is really a suite, beginning with a stately, serious Allemande. The initially imitative motif is gradually relegated to the bass, where it seems to defend the original idea against the elaborate figurations in the treble. This is a dramatic piece, full of surprising deceptive cadences, but Handel has no intention of making the whole of the C minor Concerto dramatic, though serious it remains to the end. After a short Grave, an Andante allegro plays elegantly with a little ornament in a subdued fashion; the dissonances are soft, and a slight melancholy floats over the piece. A beautifully flowing Siciliana brings warmth, and the brief final Allegro fascinates with its metrically sophisticated theme.
The Largo of the ninth concerto is palpably theatre music, wherefore some authors call it primitive, but its “indeterminate” mood makes a fine introduction to the bustling Allegro that follows. This is a good piece, but with the following Larghetto it belongs to the less distinguished movements in Opus 6. The “fugue,” built on an elaborate theme, is fine, however. Once the exposition is finished, the piece becomes a beehive of activity with scarcely a rest in the four parts and we realize that this Allegro is not a fugue at all.
In the D minor concerto Handel, who was coasting a little in the ninth, is again fully alert. The introductory French overture is floridly ceremonious in tone and gesture—the grand manner—while the three Allegros are all splendid contrapuntal pieces with themes that lend themselves to spirited play. In the last Allegro the countersubject is in genial contrast to the spitting princi
pal theme, and Handel again disturbs the general felicity by some little homophonic-dramatic interludes, the busy piece ending on that enigmatic tone. The Allegros are separated by an aria, again theatre music, sad and pleading.
The eleventh concerto is once more baffling. The opening Andante larghetto Handel wants played staccato; the gestures are large and so are the intervals played by the violins, but after a while he begins to vary the atmosphere by dramatic touches, the tone becomes mysterious, passionate, and pleading. The piece ends as if it had some hidden program. The double fugue with sharply contrasting themes is from the top drawer, and though the Andante is a somewhat overextended dance piece, the final Allegro, again with a metrically piquant theme and bedecked with virtuoso violin solos, is thoroughly enjoyable.
The last of the concertos begins with an unusual French overture, more nearly an expressive orchestral recitative than the customary ceremonial music. It is heavily dotted, the intervals are “wild” (Burney), and the traditional grand pathos is interspersed with fantastic improvisations. The following Allegro is a superb concerto number, bursting with health, and so is the final Allegro, which with its sharply dotted, impudent theme romps gaily, and when this sharp rhythm is not enough, Handel combines it with triplets. The first Largo between the fast movements is like a quiet stream whose ripples are barely visible, though the second once again tells a tragic story in a few measures.
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IN 1741 WALSH PUBLISHED AN anthology, Select Harmony, that contained three further concertos by Handel. One of these, composed for the performance of Alexander’s Feast in 1736, is a gay and brilliant piece that enjoyed great popularity, though it is not in a class with the masterworks in Opus 6. Handel’s unorthodoxy shines particularly in the second Allegro, a rondo that must be unique in the literature. The principal theme returns in rondo fashion, but almost always in a different key, while in the episodes the concertino has its own merry time.
George Frideric Handel_Dover Books on Music Page 86
