Behind the Musik: Concerti Virtuosi

Tafelmusik Baroque Orchestra

Directed by Rachel Podger

Performances:
May 2–4, 2025 at Jeanne Lamon Hall, Trinity-St. Paul’s Centre

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Program

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Tafelmusik Baroque Orchestra

Access full bios for core orchestra members at tafelmusik.org/orchestra

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Program Notes

by Michael Unterman

Today’s concert is one for which you may want to take some personal notes to file away until next January, when Tafelmusik presents Bach’s Brandenburg Concertos. Italian music was all the rage in Germany in the early 1700s, and Italian concertos—and German riffs on them—would have been frequently performed by the collegia musica that dotted the region, including Bach’s own ensemble playing out of Café Zimmermann in Leipzig, and Telemann’s bands in Hamburg and Frankfurt, not to mention direct imports of Italian masters like Giuseppe Antonio Brescianello, the court Music Director in Stuttgart for the better part of 30 years.

This program also points to the notable co-equal qualities of early German and Italian orchestras: Corelli’s choice to write only concerti grossi, not solo concertos; Vivaldi’s writing for the plethora of instruments played by the women and girls at the Ospedale della Pietà; and Telemann and Brescianello’s multi-instrument concertos that, presumably, would have been played by their ensembles. There was a clear desire to share the limelight and celebrate the wide range of talents present in one’s own squad.

Arcangelo Corelli’s fame and influence during and beyond his lifetime are hard to overstate. His performances were the inspiration for countless cross-continental pilgrimages; his works were the templates for many imitations; and he is the only musician to ever be buried in Rome’s Pantheon, next to the artist Raphael.

His music brings to mind a quote from Pablo Neruda, who drolly penned a tribute to his friend and contemporary Julio Cortázar, that to not know his work was an affliction “akin to a man who has never tasted peaches.” Some hyperbole notwithstanding, the same should be said of Corelli: to have never been struck by the purity, balance, and freshness of his music is a misfortune on the order of having never tasted the most perfect, tree-ripened stone fruit.

At the root of Corelli’s concerti grossi’s specialness is their origins. The works feature two violin soloists: the first violin part, which would have been played by Corelli, and the second which would have been played by his constant companion Mateo Fornari. Nothing definitive is known about their relationship, but neither ever married, the two lived together in the same home for most of their adult lives, and in his will, Corelli left all his possessions and the rights to his compositions to Fornari. If you add to that the ways in which the two solo violin parts interact—darting about in playful banter, embracing each other in parallel thirds—there is a palpable sense of their love and affection, now transmitted across oceans and centuries.

In a contrasting example of admiration echoing across time, the present-day revival of Antonio Vivaldi’s music owes much to the admiration of J.S. Bach. The renewed interest—which re-emerged in the 1940s (even the Four Seasons had fallen into obscurity)— was thanks to Bach research and investigations into the no-fewer-than tentranscriptions Bach made of orchestral works by Vivaldi. Vivaldi’s music was published, performed, transcribed, and imitated across Europe during his lifetime and, without a doubt, would have shaken the walls of Café Zimmermann on many an occasion under Bach’s direction.

What sets Vivaldi’s music apart are its powers of evocation. His music conjures up scene and place, most famously in the Four Seasons, but also throughout his vast catalog. You can see, smell, taste, and touch Vivaldi’s Venice by hearing his music, the city’s unique vitality, mystery, and romance.

The Bassoon concerto in G Major is a case in point. The first movement features a seemingly simple and sweet ritornello, but its harmonies somehow sneak up on you to mist up your eyes, like the sort of memory that is both ordinary and precious: the rustling of autumn leaves, sunlight reflected on water. The second movement is classic Vivaldian night music: stillness over a deep ostinato, like the mechanics of great grandfather clock in a quiet dormitory. The last movement is a nonchalant jaunt … until the bassoon unleashes its full fury.

The three movements of the Concerto da camera in F Major could be: a swaggery jaunt down the block, a gondolier’s song, and a street fair. If your toe wants to tap, trust it. The Concerto for 2 cellos is a singular instrumentation for Vivaldi, the only of its kind. Its movements conjure the four elements: earth and swirling wind, flowing waters, and the blue flame of a smelter’s fire.

Georg Philipp Telemann’s legacy could be said to be that of “a musician’s musician.” He garnered much respect across the music world of his day, not just for his compositional brilliance and prodigious output, but for the work he did to create a more vibrant music scene for all. He was a strong believer in the establishment of collegia musica, which were not only ensembles, but the first providers of public concerts in Germany. In his brief time in Leipzig, he re-established its ensemble, which Bach later took over, and fought the existing norms in Hamburg and Frankfurt—that church musicians shouldn’t dabble in secular music—to establish ensembles in those cities as well.

He also took on the publishing industry—often guilty of lowballing composers and pirating their music—in some of the earliest musical intellectual property battles, eventually leading him to selfengrave and self-publish much of his own music.

This happens to be precisely the origin story of Tafelmusik’s namesake collection, from which we are performing the Concerto for 3 violins. Telemann sent out notice of a vast collection of works for different instrumentations, crowd-sourcing subscribers (for a tidy sum). Hundreds responded from across Europe, including Handel, who was then based in England.

It is therefore not a coincidence that the opening of this concerto bears a striking resemblance to the famous “Arrival of the Queen of Sheba” from Handel’s later oratorio Solomon. This is but one of many cases of cribbing, which Telemann would have considered a high compliment, on the level of an homage or tribute. The second and third movements show off Telemann’s highly refined contrapuntal writing (Johann Sebastian did not have a monopoly on this), weaving canonic lines together in the heartstring-tugging manner and as a celebratory finale.

Giuseppe Antonio Brescianello occupies a similar place in the present-day music scene as Vivaldi did some 80 years ago: in the earlier stages of renewed interest, revival, and research. Much of what is known about him boils down to his employment history. It is thought he was born in Bologna (not 200 kms to the north-west in Brescia as his name might suggest) around 1690. He was initially hired as a violinist at the court of the Electress of Bavaria in Munich in 1715. One year later he became the Director of Chamber Music at the court in Stuttgart, rising to the role of Oberkapellmeister in 1721, a position in which he (mostly) remained until 1751.

The Brescianello set presented here is a summation of sorts of our program, a pastiche of movements from several works showcasing a variety of orchestrations: a trio sonata, double concertos (for violin and oboe, and violin and bassoon), and orchestral arias and dances.