article 124: HEINRICH SCHÜTZ, CONTINUO SKEPTIC The greatest German composer of the 17th century – and for that matter, one of the greatest ever – shied away from his talent for many years. He thought he should follow what he called “an honorable profession”: the law. Whatever one may think of the present-day legal profession, music lovers can agree that his decision to succumb to what he reckoned to be the will of God and become a composer was the right one. By “music lovers”, I mean that minuscule and daily-diminishing fraction of humanity who has ever heard of Heinrich Schütz. The forewords to his many publications are a font of information about his ideas on performance practice. I never explored all of them until recently, when two surprised me with their views on what came to be called the seconda prattica: music built on a foundation of basso continuo, allowing free movement of one or more voices above a bass line without the need to use complex counterpoint to fill out the harmonies. Many were the voices at the time that condemned the newfangled practice as decadent and lazy. Schütz was ambivalent. The first of these two forewords is found only in the continuo part of Op. 4, the Cantiones Sacrae (1625). I was barely aware of this collection of motets and sacred madrigals – tremendously expressive, dissonant masterpieces in the style of late Renaissance polyphony. I will append the page below so that better Latinists than I can improve my translation: “The publisher, thinking that this little work would thereby be made more acceptable, wrested this continuo part from me, and provided me furthermore with the opportunity to add one or another piece suitable to continuo performance at the end of the book. But I ask that organists, whose satisfaction is determined by their delicate ears, not hesitate to transcribe all the voices into score or so-called tablature. For indeed, in this kind of music, it seemed to me useless and clumsy to offer you only the bass line in lieu of a solid foundation.” Schütz, like Beethoven and Schönberg, straddled two eras of music history. His studies in Venice with Giovanni Gabrieli grounded him in traditional polyphony. But in that very time and place, the new style was making rapid progress. Schütz refers to this phenomenon in the other preface I referred to, that of his Opus 11, the Geistliche Chor-Musik (1648). It was his first publication in more than 20 years in the old style. “It is indisputable that even well-educated musicians can never deal with a new style of composition without first mastering counterpoint, thereby acquiring the necessary tools of their craft...Compositions lacking this degree of technique (be they ever so admired by the ignorant) can never be approved of by experienced composers, and will be considered as useless as an empty nutshell. For this reason I felt myself called upon to once again tackle such a collection without basso continuo, and hopefully thereby to inspire up-and-coming German composers, before they pass on to the concertante style, to crack this hard nut which contains a good kernel: the foundation of true counterpoint. In this they must first prove themselves. Thus in Italy, where as a young man I laid the foundations of my profession, a strict musical education required beginners to first produce sacred and secular works without continuo, thoroughly wrought out for publication. I suppose that is still the case...Finally: if organists would like to emulate these works composed without continuo, and not be held back from putting them into tablature or score, I cherish the hope that my industry and efforts will not only live on, but will also achieve their desired success in this kind of [keyboard] music as well.” The foreword to the Cantiones clearly shows that the composer actually intended these works for four singers alone; the continuo part was “wrested” from him as a promotional gimmick. Schütz thought that playing all the parts as written was the only way of really satisfactory way of supporting the voices, if such support were needed. For such delicate counterpoint, a blaring organ playing divergent voice leadings, or a theorbo plunking along, oblivious of whatever flexibility the singers are trying to achieve, must have more than once convinced the composer that this was no music for improvised accompaniment.* The intention in the Chor-Musik was a bit different. Schütz is offering inspiration with these old-fashioned works. He is telling his contemporaries: experimentation has its place, but you will produce nothing of real value if you don’t master the basics. This is why architects used to know Vitruvius, and young artists, once upon a time, learned to draw from plaster casts and live models. We see where discarding all that has led: ghastly buildings that begin to collapse before they are finished, and mountains of what Evelyn Waugh called “great bosh”. And once again, Schütz recommends putting his part-books into score for the benefit of keyboardists; in this case, not for purposes of accompaniment, but for their education and as performance material. Almost all German keyboard prints until the later 17th century were (ornamented) transcriptions of vocal music, intended to spare their purchasers the difficult drudgery of intabulation. In passing, let it be noted that Schütz’ comments on continuo practice in the foreword to his Resurrection Oratorio, the Historia Der frölichen und Siegreichen Aufferstehung unsers einigen Erlösers und Seligmachers Jesu Christi (1623), have helped open the floodgates to the present misery, where continuo players think their role is to draw attention to themselves and further their careers as soloists and conductors. The “zierliche und appropriierte leuffe oder passaggi ” which he recommends to the single “organ, positive, harpsichord, lute, pandora, etc.” continuo player (not the massed instruments now so often inflicted on audiences) are ONLY allowed during old-fashioned falsobordonen: passages in recitative on a single note in psalmody style. And he prefers to take the whole business out of the hands of a solitary, egomaniacal performer and give it instead to four violas da gamba, “if available”, for which parts are provided. They are to follow along senza battuta with the Evangelist’s natural speech-rhythms; an extraordinary expedient made possible by printing the vocal line above the gamba parts. (Schütz had to add, “And one of the mob [hauffen] might wish to passegiren, as is usual during falsobordon, and has a good effect,” because he knew they would do it anyway. At least he limits this freedom to one of the four.) At age 86, Schütz composed his Schwanengesang (“Swan Song”, 1671) in the still-extant attic space at his house in Weissenfels, returning for the last time to the foundation of his art: a cappella counterpoint. Two of the eight part-books have been lost. The misguided continue to fabricate what they have the temerity to call “reconstructions”, as they do in the case of Bach’s Kunst der Fuge and Mahler’s 10th. Far better to leave these noble fragments alone, and simply examine them for inspiration, as the architects of the Renaissance did with the ruins of Rome. (And there were plenty of “reconstructed” sculptures back then as well.) December 12, 2023 *A 1996 complete recording, which I purchased on the strength of the famous names involved, served to demonstrate how helpful some support might have been to their laudably unaccompanied performances. On the other hand, an organ would have shown just how badly out of tune the singing was. And it goes almost without saying that everything was taken too fast, à la mode de more recent “ Historically Informed Performance Practice”. Schütz’ organ part itself shows features which go beyond the usual basso seguente. There are interesting transitional touches of concertante practice (such as interventions during pauses) which would merit study. - back -