Moro lasso, al mio duolo by Carlo Gesualdo (1566-1611)

I was pretty much fascinated by Gesualdo and his music from the first moment I read anything about him in my "Literature and Style" class when I was an undergrad. Once you know something about him it ought to pique your interest a little bit too.

Gesualdo was born in Venosa, a part of what is now Italy. If my memory serves me right, he was the second son of a nobleman and when his older brother died, he was forced to become the prince. This was most unfortunate for Gesualdo as his main interest in life from a young age was music. He had melomania -- a "mad passion" for music. In some ways, being a prince was a GOOD thing. It meant he could write music as he wanted to and did not have to please a patron. Had he needed to please someone else, there's a good chance we wouldn't have the amazing musioc

But doing his duty was also required and to that end, he married his first cousin, a woman who was supposed to have been uncommonly beautiful during her time. Now, it appears that Gesualdo might have neglected her a bit, preferring the company of his music (and, as rumor had it, men and young boys). So his wife took a lover. This didn't sit too well with Gesualdo and so he devised a plot. He made copies of all the keys to their apartment in Naples and "left" on a hunting trip (almost sounds like a Mozart opera plot doesn't it?). He entered the apartment with three men, found his wife and her lover in the middle of the deed and proceeded to kill them both. It seems that he used sword, dagger, AND pistol. When he left, he told his men "I do not believe they are dead!" and went back in to continue his assault on two people who were most assuredly dead. The wounds described are HORRIFIC.

This, of course, led to all sorts of crazy conjecture about him: stories abounded about his dragging the bodies to the bottom of the stairs and leaving them there, to his killing their child by putting him in a swing and essentially swinging him to death while he had people sing him madrigals. One that seems to possibly have been true was his cutting down the trees around his palace after the murders.

This last one actually makes sense. The law could not touch a prince. But he was not safe from revenge.

Ultimately, Gesualdo remarried, though his second marriage was no happier than the first. She accused him of abuse and spent far more time away from him than with him. In his later years Gesualdo suffered from depression (there are some thoughts that it was due to guilt over the murders) and had his servants whip him daily. He started a rather fruitless correspondence with a cardinal in an attempt to obtain skeletal remains of his uncle. He believed they would heal his mental disorder and perhaps even absolve him of his crimes.

He died alone at his caste. There have been some rumors that his second wife murdered him, though I don't believe there's likely any truth in that (though it sure would be a bit of karma there wouldn't it?).

Gesualdo's music is as interesting and unique as his personality and life. I still remember a really bad philosophy teacher I had who made the claim that no composer was truly creative as they were all just imitating what came before them. I used Gesualdo as an example of someone who veered quite far off the beaten path (one might say the same thing about Charles Ives in the 20th century -- both were able to do it because they did not rely on their musical endeavors for money). I saw that same professor at the music department the next day holding onto a bunch of CDs. Amusingly enough, he never brought it back up. I assume I proved my point.

Gesualdo wrote some sacred music but the real heart, the real MEAT of his output were his six books of secular madrigals. Most of these madrigals were extravagant settings of the extremes of emotion. Many deal with the pain of love, of death, of agony and ecstasy alike. It is incredibly experimental and chromatic music. The chromaticism of it was not really matched until Wagner came along, some 200 years later. His madrigals are rife with extreme examples of text-painting (where a composer depicts what is going on in the text musically) and tend to be sectional in nature: alternating slower, very chromatic sections, with faster diatonic sections. Some of this can be incredibly jarring.

I do believe his music truly represents who he was. It's beautiful and jarring and amazing and hard to listen to all at the same time.

The example I'm going to share is the one I usually use with my class. It's called "Moro Lasso, al mio duolo." The text (and translation) is as follows:

Moro lasso, al mio duolo grief,
E chi mi può dar vita,
Ahi, che m’ancide e non vuol darmi aita!

O dolorosa sorte,
Chi dar vita puòm ahi, mi dà morte!

---
I am dying, wretched, in my grief,
And [the one] who is able to give me life,
Alas, it is killing me and is not willing to give me aid!

O painful fate,
[The one] who is able to give me life, gives me death!

---
You can listen to it here.

Song of the Angel by John Tavener (b.1944)

Back when I was an undergraduate and taking a 20th century music class, my instructor introduced us to modern composers who were still writing fantastic music. One of those was a lovely work for Cello and Strings called The Protecting Veil. I was pretty enamored of the work and so, some time later, when I visited Tower Records in New York City and was on the outlook for more 20th century music, I went to see what they might have by John Tavener.

I found a recording called Eternity's Sunrise and lucky for me, the recording was one I was able to listen to. I immediately went to the second track of the album. Why? Because it was called Song of the Angel and I will admit this up front: I was into a huge Phantom of the Opera obsession at the time (one of the many times my Phantom obsession has taken ahold of me). The "Angel of Music" reference is fairly strong in Phantom. Christine believes Erik (the Phantom) is her Angel of Music and (in the musical at least) the Phantom also refers to her as his Angel of Music.

I was absolutely transfixed by this particular piece from the moment I first heard it while standing there in the middle of Tower Records. I listened to the entire work (it's only 4:55) at least twice before my friend came to find me.

The work is written for soprano, violin, and strings. It is a setting of only the vowel sounds of the word "Alleluia." John Tavener says of it: "This music should be sung and played with a restrained ecstasy. It should not bring pounding of the heart, nor should it lead to melancholy. Like all the music of the East, it should reveal in tranquility an eternal, angelic, ecstatic breath which liberates and humanises."

For me, it was about more than that. Let me allow you to show how my imagination runs wild on occasion. Christine, of course, was a soprano and so I imagine her singing up in her dressing room to Erik's violin far below in his home by the fifth cellar lake. The work has a sort of eerie resonance that immediately put this imagery in my head.

So for all my Phantom friends, I say "definitely give this a listen." For everyone else I will say the same. It's a beautifully serene work.

You can listen to it here. (I will note that this is the same recording I have of it, so you'll be listening to the same sounds I first heard!)

Garrit Gallus... by Philippe de Vitry (1291-1361)

I'm reaching WAY back here for one to showcase for you today. I know this won't be everyone's cup of tea but perhaps you'll give it a chance.

Most people know this, but if you don't, I have an absolute love for Medieval and Renaissance era music. It was why, when I had a chance to go to a Renaissance Faire back in high school I was SO EXCITED. I mean, I was going to hear people sing motets! And play recorder consort music! And hear CRUMHORNS!!! And, as anyone who goes to a Renaissance Faire knows, I got none of that. Even though I've gone since and even played at the Faire one summer, I still feel oddly disappointed at the lack of real Renaissance music.

Anyway...moving on...

I was introduced to Philippe de Vitry's music in a music theory class in which we analyzed music of all eras. This Ars Nova ("New Art") music of the 14th century acquired much more polyphonic (many-voiced) sophistication than earlier music, thanks in part to advances in notation. Composers could move beyond simple rhythmic modes that had followed the monophony of plainchant. Now, composers during this time got a little carried away with this new-found freedom, sometimes so completely obliterating the text that folks who listened probably had no idea what the songs were about. Some had each singer singing a different, related text. And some even had them singing in different languages! Craziness, I tell you!

Ok in all seriousness, as soon as I learned about them, I fell totally in love with the whole concept of the isorhythmic motet.

What the hell is that? you ask. Sure no problem. Let me try to explain this!

The heart of isorhythm lies in the tenor, that slow-moving voice you'll hear in the midst of the piece I'll link you to shortly. Isorhythm is made up of two parts:

(1) A repeating pattern of rhythms (called the talae)
(2) A repeating pattern of pitches (called the color)

Often the rhythm would be one amount of notes and the pitches would be a different amount of notes, thus causing them to overlap until finally coming back together. In general, the work would take longer to cycle through the pitches than to cycle through the rhythms (for instance, the color might be 28 notes long while the talae only 4 notes; that means it would take 7 repetitions of the talae before the color is completed!).

Fun, right?

Ok maybe only for theory nerds.

At any rate, above the tenor were often 2 (sometimes more) voices that moved in free-form against them, creating that polyphony I was talking about earlier. These voices are called the motetus and triplum. Because we have to name EVERYTHING in music theory.

The tenor voice, by the way, is sometimes played on instruments and sometimes sung. People nowadays are unclear as to which is historically accurate (both may have been).

Here's a recording of this work. The full name, which is "Garrit Gallus flendo dolorose / In nova fert animus" is drawn from opening lines in the two top voices. Here is the translation of the text.

TRIPLUM
The rooster (Gaul) chatters with bitter weeping;
indeed the whole flock mourns,
for it is stealthily being betrayed
by the satrap even as it keeps watch.
And the fox, like a grave-robber,
flourishing with the cunning of Belial,
reigns with the full consent of the lion himself.
Alas, what anguish!
Behold how the family of Jacob
once again flees from another Pharoah:
no longer able, as before, to follow
the path of the Jews, it weeps.
In the desert it is tortured by hunger,
its arms and armour lack a helper.
If it cries out it will be despoiled;
the voice of the wretched exiles,
near death, is harsh.
O sad chattering of roosters!
Since the blindness of the lion is subject
to the shadowy deceit of the treacherous fox,
whose arrogance encourages sin,
you must rise up:
otherwise what is left of your honour
slips away and will continue to slip away:
with only late avengers it will soon turn into villainy.

MOTETUS
My mind is bent to tell of bodies changed anew:
that evil dragon
whom glorious Michael once conquered thoroughly
with the miraculous power of the cross,
again is living, now fortified
with the grace of Absalom,
gloating with the eloquence of Ulysses,
armed with the teeth of a wolf
as a soldier in the army of Tersitis -
in fact changed into a fox.
Deprived of his sight by deceit,
the lion is subject to this ruling fox,
who sucks the blood of lambs,
sates himself with chickens, and never stops;
rather he thirsts on.
He comes to weddings with his hunting dogs.
Woe to chickens and woe to the blind lion;
but in the end, woe to the dragon when he must face Christ!


At least both texts were in Latin? Anyway...

You can listen to the work on youtube here.

Der Leiermann by Franz Schubert (1797-1828)

Der Leiermann which is alternately translated either as "The Organ Grinder" or as "The Hurdy-Gurdy Man" is the final song in a 24-song cycle called Winterreise (Winter Journey). Though one might consider the song cycle more "atmospheric" there is a fairly loose plot: A young man (more of an anti-hero, than hero) travels to an idyllic town during the month of May. There he is invited to live with a family and falls in love with their daughter, who he believes returns his love. However, in true Romantic era fashion, one cannot remain happy! She ditches him to marry a wealthy guy who is approved of by her family. In despair and in the dead of winter, our young anti-hero departs and begins a painful journey full of longing for his previous happiness, forshadowings of death (a raven), and finally arrives at another town. The song cycle ends on a bleak note.

Over there beyond the village
Stands an organ-grinder,
And with numb fingers
He plays as best he can.

Barefoot on the ice,
He totters here and there,
And his little plate
Is always empty.

No one listens to him,
No one notices him,
And the dogs growl
Around the old man.

And he just lets it happen,
As it will,
Plays, and his hurdy-gurdy
Is never still.

Strange old man,
Shall I go with you ?
Will you play your organ
To my songs

I was introduced to the song cycle through this final song in an analysis class I took while working on my doctorate. The music is as bleak as the words and fits it perfectly. It follows a strict strophic form (same music for each stanza), which one would expect when you envision an organ grinder playing the same music over and over again.

Here's a beautiful version done by Ian Bostridge and Julius Drake. They've done the WHOLE song cycle this way and they're all amazing to watch.

Stabat Mater by Giovanni Pierluigi da Palestrina (c.1525-1594)

I'm going to kick off this off with one of my absolute favourite pieces of music.

Palestrina was born in a small town near Rome (called Palestrina) sometime around 1525 or 1526. Like many composers of his time, his exact birth date is still somewhat of a mystery. He was an Italian composer of the late Renaissance and is sometimes credited with saving polyphonic music (polyphonic means "many voiced") from being banned from the Catholic Church by the Council of Trent. It's a romantic notion, but alas no solid evidence of this has been shown.

Suffice it to say, the beauty and clarity of his polyphony has survived the ages. Johann Fux, an Austrian composer and contemporary of Bach, codified and created the "rules" of such polyphony and for many centuries, students have studied the works of Palestrina to gain a better understanding of that perfectly serene, perfectly clear music he wrote.

The Stabat Mater Dolorosa ("The sorrowful mother stood") is a hymn about the sorrows of Mary.

I was introduced to it (which was my first exposure to Palestrina) when I was a freshman in college. The choir I was in was singing a piece from the Renaissance and the conductor played it as an example of Renaissance-style singing (the beauty of no vibrato!). I was instantly in love with the work and asked the conductor to make me a copy of the recording (on cassette tape back in the early 1990s!). I listened to it a lot throughout my college years.

Many years later, I was determined to find it on CD. I knew who the work was by. I knew the name of the work. But I couldn't find THE recording. I found many other ones, but none had the spark this particular recording did. What was so different? Ornamentation. Most performances of Palestrina's works are entirely without ornamentation, but some musicologists believe that, like other music of the era, not everything sung was written into the music. Andrew Parrott and Tarverner Choir put out a recording that included ornamentation.

It is, by far, my favourite recording of the work. Lucky for all of you, someone has uploaded this fantastic version to youtube!