BWV 232 - B-minor Mass

The beginnings of the work that became the B-minor Mass lie in the 1730s. On Feb. 1, 1733, King Augustus the Strong died in Warsaw. A state mourning period was imposed for six months, during which no music was to be performed in any of the regions under his reign, which included Leipzig and Dresden. The new Polish King Augustus III, who was simultaneously Saxon Elector in Dresden, had an abiding interest in music. Bach’s connections to the court in Dresden, and to the many fine musicians there, had been strengthened in recent years, and he conceived of the idea of presenting a large work to the court that would be suitable for the Catholic rite. While it is possible that this piece was first performed in Leipzig in April of 1733, during a visit of the Elector, evidence exists only for a performance of the work in Dresden in July of that year. A formal dedication and inscription to the Elector was submitted with the autograph set of parts, which still exist in Dresden. It is tempting to imagine several virtuoso musicians connected to the Dresden court that might have taken part in this performance: the violinist Johann Georg Pisendel, the famous soprano Faustina Bordoni Hasse (who would have likely sung the Laudamus Te), the flutist Buffardin, and even Bach’s own wife, Anna Magdelena, who was trained as a professional soprano. During this period Bach was becoming impatient with the creative and financial restrictions in Leipzig, and clearly was looking towards Dresden to
improve his position.

Nothing concrete, however, came of this elaborate presentation and performance. He later petitioned the Dresden Elector for the title of Royal Court Composer (a solely honorary title), which was eventually granted him in 1736. Bach did not return to the work until sometime in the mid-1740s. The tremendous expansion and ‘completion’ of the entire liturgical Mass that Bach undertook cannot be tied to any actual or intended performance. Rather, as Christoph Wolff muses, it seems to reflect “a long-term engagement and – within the limitations dictated by vocal composition, a fixed liturgical genre, and a long historical tradition – a comparable systematic musical exploration that Bach defined for himself.”

Many of the pieces in the Credo, and most or possibly all of the movements of the final section, are derived from earlier pieces. To our modern sensibility, this seems like cheating, or at least a strange shortcut. But Bach had become accustomed to mining his earlier works for material in the previous decade, both to give occasional works new life and to reimagine and reinvent ideas in a new context. The parody movements in the b-minor Mass serve as supreme examples of this technique. The movements range from one of his earliest pieces, the 1714 cantata “Weinen, Klagen, Sorgen, Zagen” (BWV 12), to works written recently in honor of the Saxon Elector: the birthday cantata “Preise dein Glükke, gesegnetes Sachsen” (BWV 215) and other lost works. The emotional and musical contexts of the original sources are adapted and enhanced by their new functions. The better one knows the original pieces, the stronger this musical foreshadowing seems.

Here we will take a look at all the extant cantatas that are parodied in the Mass. Bach’s procedure in reusing this material is as varied as the various relationships between the works. Most direct of all is the placing of the opening chorus of BWV 29, “Wir danken dir, Gott” into the Gloria as ‘Gratias agimus tibi’ and reprising it to end the work as ‘Dona nobis pacem.’ The music is practically note-for-note the same, with only those changes that are needed for syllabification. This sameness mirrors the closeness of the texts and sentiment. “Wir danken dir, Gott” is literally translated as “We give you thanks, God” which is the same as the Latin. The overtone of gratitude suffuses the final movement of the Mass as well, as ‘Dona nobis pacem’ radiates with the sense that peace has already been granted.

The three large concertato fugue movements that are borrowed from prior cantatas, ‘Patrem omnipotentem,’ ‘Et expecto’ and ‘Osanna’ are treated similarly. In both cases Bach uses only the A-section of the cantata movement, and reworks the head-motive of the theme to fit the Latin text. The source for the Patrem is an energetic setting of a Psalm text, which is appropriate for the portion of the Creed that focuses on the First Person of the Trinity. The most interesting aspect of Bach’s reworking has to do with the downward minor-seventh leap which has brought so many choral singers to despair: in the original movement this interval is separated by a rest that generates both the rhetorical and rhythmic energy. The extra syllable in the Latin forced Bach to join the interval, but in the process gains a vigorous analogue of God the Father’s omnipresence and power. Bach further alters the theme in the Mass; beginning the word ‘factorem’ at the top of an arpeggio which matches the Latin word stress better. This also lends a suggestion of encompassing all of creation (coeli et terra) in the musical gesture. But the most interesting alteration is how Bach chooses to overlap every entrance of the theme, which was exposed in the cantata, with the other three voices singing words from the opening of the Creed ‘Credo in unum Deum,’ thus linking the two opening credo movements to each other textually and theologically.

The Osanna movement is taken from a secular cantata that was used at least twice before. The first version’s music is lost, but in the second version the joyous celebration of the King’s election day is depicted in trumpet-like fanfares and rolling, diatonic waves of coloratura. This movement and its several identities is reminiscent of the Christmas Oratorio, heavily parodied from secular praise cantatas and wonderfully convincing as praises of God’s magnificence and generosity. ‘Osanna’ is the last great shout of praise to God in the Mass text, and is appropriately served by royal celebration music.

‘Et expecto’ is largely the same. The cantata source for this piece is sacred in tone, but was written for a special church service on the occasion of the Leipzig Town Council elections, which was a yearly celebration for which Bach provided cantatas. The text in this case is not Biblical, but jubilantly praises the goodness of God. In a similar manner to BWV 171, arpeggiated fanfares and rolling coloratura suggest the joyous musical tribute to God. What is remarkable about its treatment in the Mass is how Bach links it to the previous movement. The movement begins as a severe ricercar, complete with cantus firmus, on the chant melody for ‘Confiteor.’ This movement has a crystalline structure and a cool, dogmatic lack of emotion that seems appropriate to its formulaic text. This material, rather than coming to a strong contrapuntal cadence, abruptly dissolves into a highly chromatic, open-ended statement of the next section of text, ‘et expecto resurrectionem mortuorum’ [and I expect the resurrection of the dead]. Suddenly all surety and confidence has disappeared. This central statement of the Creed, touching every Christian’s soul and future personally, is examined by Bach with mystery, doubt, and even fear. It is an extraordinary moment, all the more powerful as it emerges out of the cool confidence of the ricercar. This section winds down to a halt and picks up a new direction with a magical change of harmony and a final lurch towards the overall tonic key of the entire Mass, D major, by way of a startling augmented sixth chord. Like a huge graphic colon, this half-cadence introduces the new movement, which is none other than the very same text sung again to the jubilant music of cantata 120. No one who hears this passage, or who sings it, can possibly doubt what Bach is saying here: “yes, I do not doubt it, I know that the dead will be resurrected!” No one before, and no one since, has ever thought to set this crucial passage of the Creed twice,
and so differently.

All the parodies so far have been closely modelled on their original sources, both musically, in textual context, and in holding to the original key. The final three parodies that can be examined (the possible parody sources for the ‘Et resurrexit’ and the Benedictus are lost) are much more radically treated.

Bach’s practice in the music we’ve looked at so far has been to eliminate orchestral introductions and begin the Mass movement immediately with the vocal entrance (Et expecto, Osanna). But for the Crucifixus he does the opposite: creating a four-bar introduction that introduces the chaconne bass line. He also doubles the pace of the bass rhythm, giving it an urgency and harshness. More overtly, Bach fills out the treble texture of the orchestra (the original is continuo only) with detached chords in the winds. Lastly, he has transposed the movement down from f minor to e minor, a change that fits the Mass key structure better and resonates more closely with the traditional keys for Passion music. Again using only the A-section of the chorus, Bach composes a new ending to the movement (on the text ‘passus et sepultus est’) that turns quietly to G major, anticipating the resolution to D in the next movement. It also creates a sense that the burial is a relief from the intense suffering experienced during the Crucifixion.

‘Qui tollis’ is also reworked extensively. Here the key is lowered by a minor third, and the orchestration correspondingly altered from recorders to transverse flutes. In the original, one of the most harrowing and difficult of all Bach’s cantata choruses (particularly in its B-section), the pitch of the recorders and for the chorus gives the text and appropriate wailing quality. Just as with the Crucifixus, Bach fills in the bass line, here eliminating rests on the second and third beats, which grounds the movement and changes its tone from lamentation to mystery. Still clinging to the original affect are the expressive ‘miserere nobis’ phrases, intensified by their Italianate, sobbing, eighth-note motion, but instead of them dominating the texture it seems as if they emerge and dissipate back into the mist.

Most astonishing of all is the transformation of the aria ‘Ach, bleibe doch’ from the Ascension Oratorio into the Agnus Dei. Here the key is transposed down a whole step from a minor to g minor. The most striking aspect of the key of the aria in the Mass is how Bach exploits the open G string in the unison violins to “bottom out” the melody, ensuring its visibility by highlighting the gesture with a large interval. However, this exact gesture occurs in the aria, which at one
point itself turns to g minor. We will never know the true original source of this movement, since the music to the wedding cantata “Auf! süß entzückende Gewalt,” BWV Anh. 196 is lost, but given the profoundly different character of the text there from the Ascension Oratorio one can surmise that Bach made changes in his first revision as well. The oratorio aria is a magnificent lament, crossing the boundary between sacred and secular emotion in its pleading for the loved one (Christ) to stay with the beloved. The anguish and sorrow is highlighted by the angular, sobbing melody tossed between the strings and the alto. But Bach, preserving the sorrowful, anguished quality for the appropriate confessorial Agnus Dei, reimagines his work considerably. Over the top of the jagged arpeggios he constructs a long-breathed, descending canon for the voice and strings that sinks startlingly into unprepared dissonances. He severely compresses the aria’s overall structure, eliminating the affecting middle section (‘Dein Abschied’) altogether, and builds the harmonic and motivic language to an astonishing climax in the space of only three measures (mm. 38-41) taking both the strings and the voice to the outer extremes of their ranges. The effect is that of desperation, a cry of pain from the depths of the soul. When people learn that Bach created this masterpiece out of a pre-existing source, they often feel slightly disappointed that he didn’t conceive of it out of whole cloth. But the transformation of the material, and how Bach makes it serve such different purposes, is nothing short of brilliant and should make us admire his genius all the more.

©Pamela Dellal