Program Notes for "Mad Women" on Sept 7

For those interested in reading the program notes in advance of "Mad Women" on Sept 7, here they are. Program information is available on the Ars Lyrica website: www.arslyricahouston.org

Long a staple of the opera house, mad scenes have been around since the ancient Greeks, who used them for moments of eerie introspection or crazed virtuosity in their tragedies. One reason why mad scenes became so popular — not only in Greece but in Rome, where they served as ironic comic relief — was the fact that such moments, in which a character becomes irrational and imagines all manner of weirdness, heighten the drama’s separation from reality and the audience’s awareness of that separation. Baroque opera and cantata, with their larger-than-life characters whose identities, lovers, and even sexualities are extraordinarily fluid, proved even more effective vehicles for mad scenes. The period label itself nicely summarizes the effect of such moments: “baroque” was a pejorative in the 18th century for bizarrely shaped pearls.

During this era a detailed knowledge of myths and fables was essential for anyone who hoped to keep good company. Interestingly, both the stories themselves and the language used to tell them were recognized as highly artificial. Such discourse was indispensable, however, since it served to reinforce social boundaries while providing equals with a kind of coded language, whose implications they alone understood. Composers and librettists across Europe took advantage, supplying a steady stream of works that borrow freely from literary (and sometimes actual) history. Though the web of allusions for some of these pieces may be lost, the best settings have a musical power that transcends the circumstances of their creation and initial reception.

Women in Baroque opera and cantata are more reactive than proactive: their primary responsibility, in other words, is to respond to things done to them. And the things they have to endure! Euridice’s confinement in the underworld, Aeneas’s abandonment of Dido, Jason’s betrayal of Medea — it’s hard to imagine more compelling dramatic material than these women who love too well. In contrast, “mad scene” lyrics for songs and chamber duets tend toward the more abstract (Cesti's "Disperato morirò") or to singular characters (Purcell's "Bess of Bedlam") whose striking eccentricities make the listening process seem almost voyeuristic. Even instrumental music reflects this fascination with madness during the Baroque. The “folia,” originally a dance so energetic that it was said to induce madness, was well established as a ground bass pattern well before Corelli wrote his famous variations on it.

Louis-Nicholas Clérambault brought the cantata to prominence in France during his service to Madame de Maintenon, longtime mistress to Louis XIV. Adapting what had been an exclusively Italian genre to his own ends, Clérambault kept the basic formal outline of alternating recitatives and arias, while infusing the former especially with poignant melodic turns, highly charged declamation, and frequent instrumental obligatos. With its virtuosic display both for the voice and the accompanying ensemble, Médée is among his finest works in the genre. Though no blood is actually spilled in this cantata, Medea’s vengeful intentions against Jason and their children are made plain.

Most of Handel’s solo cantatas are the product of his youthful sojourn in Italy (1706–1710), during which time he perfected his craft and enjoyed the patronage of a number of highly literate aristocratic churchmen. Quite a few of early works are set to emotionally charged, sometimes even bloodthirsty librettos, in contrast to the gentle pastoral imagery favored by Handel’s Italian contemporaries. La Lucrezia tells a story from antiquity: the title character, the wife of a Roman general, has been raped by Sextus Tarquinius, son of the last Roman king. Handel’s gutsy heroine seeks not only vengeance but the restoration of her family’s honor; her mad scene thus runs the gamut from plaintive suffering to noisy suicide.

Handel also wrote mad scenes for a number of operas and at least one oratorio. Hercules centers on the eponymous hero’s triumphal return from battle and his wife Dejanira’s suspicion of his infidelity. After causing his death, she literally comes apart in the last act, exclaiming in desperation: “Where shall I fly / where hide this guilty head?” The mad scene from Imeneo, on the other hand, is a ruse concocted by the heroine Rosmene as she is forced, in the opera’s final scene, to choose between duty and love. Having spent the entire opera vacillating between the two, she first feigns madness then agrees to marry Imeneo (who fell in love with her in Act I) instead of her beloved Tirinto. Given such a context, the lovers’ tender final duet is a marvel of discretion.

So what’s “Real Quill”?

Like others in this business, I tend to separate the instruments of the baroque band into three general types: blowers (winds), scrapers (strings) and pluckers (harpsichords, lutes, harps et al). We pluckers need some means of plucking our strings, and that’s where bird quill enters the picture.

The harpsichord’s mechanism is very simple. When depressed, a key makes a wooden jack rise and pass by a metal string. Attached to that jack is a little thing called a plectrum that plucks the string. Releasing the key causes a bit of felt at the top of the jack to damp the string, so that the “ring” of one string won’t interfere with the plucking of the next one.

In the 17th and 18th centuries, all plectrum were made of bird quill, just like old-fashioned writing pens except a much smaller piece of same. When the harpsichord was revived in the 20th century, builders thought they could do better with a plastic substance known as delrin, which mimics the characteristics of real quill but lasts longer. Only recently have leading builders and players decided that the real stuff is actually better: more musical, less prone to brittleness, and it even feels better underneath the fingers!

And as you’ve probably guessed by now, I’m a recent convert. The three harpsichords in Houston I use most often — all built by John Phillips of Berkeley, CA — all now have real quill: turkey vulture and Canadian goose, to be exact. Have a look at his website for more information on the instruments: www.jph.us

So when you’re in a park or stretch of wilderness that’s frequented by big flyers (no sparrows or robins, please), gather up a few sturdy feathers and give them to a harpsichordist!

Round Top 7/14/07

Greetings from the Texas Hill Country! The Festival-Institute at Round Top, TX, is a place I love to visit, especially during the summer season when the place is literally crawling with musical talent. For those of you who’ve never been, have a look at www.festivalhill.org and plan a visit sometime soon. Festival Hill regulars will know that this is a place for not only great music but wonderful food and frequent surprises: from neo-Roman ruins and whimsical fountains to harpsichordists who dabble occasionally in contemporary chamber music. Vive la difference! (and Happy Bastille Day!)

Earlier this week I had the pleasure of playing an organ recital and eucharist for a national conference of Lutheran church musicians at Palmer Memorial Episcopal Church in Houston. Having grown up in that faith, I knew that Lutherans could sing, and (as some of you know) the Fisk organ at Palmer is not shy. I only hope the walls at Palmer are still standing, because I’m pretty sure we blew off the roof!

Speaking of organs and organists, it was great to see so many friends and colleagues recently at the American Guild of Organists convention in Dallas, and at the Boston Early Music Festival earlier in June. Lully’s “Psyché” (the BEMF centerpiece) was a triumph, well worth the trek to Boston.

I hope you’re enjoying the new Ars Lyrica website, and I look forward to introducing you to our new Executive Director, Kinga Ferguson, in the fall. Meanwhile, stay cool and enjoy summer’s many distractions!