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On Teaching

August 5, 2010
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Gavin Black is Director of the Princeton Early Keyboard Center in Princeton, New Jersey. He can be reached by e-mail at <A HREF="mailto:[email protected]">[email protected]</A&gt;.

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Boëllmann Suite Gothique, Part 1: Getting to know the piece
This month’s column is the first in the current series to take a look at the Boëllmann Suite Gothique, op. 25. We will go through the first steps of getting to know the piece in a manner analogous to what we did with the Buxtehude Praeludium in June’s column. In large part, this will be presented as a list of features or aspects of the piece, the noticing of which will help with learning the piece, either by suggesting approaches to technical problems or by helping with the task of knowing securely what is coming up next. Next month we will discuss fingering, pedaling, and practicing issues in the opening movement.

Editions
As with the Buxtehude, there are several perfectly good editions. There is (as of this writing) a Durand edition in print that is the direct successor to the original edition of 1895. There are also several free online editions available. The best of these seems to me to be the one at the Werner Icking Music Archive, edited by Pierre Gouin: <http://icking-music-archive.org/ByComposer/Boellmann.php&gt;. This is essentially an accurate new type-setting of the original, with registrations and other performance suggestion transcribed in an undistorted manner. There are, I believe, other good editions to be found online. (This is, like the Buxtehude, a piece that is in the public domain.) However, there are also some editions out there that are misleading. For example, again as of this writing, both editions available through the Petrucci Music Library—in general a wonderful resource—omit original registrations and other performance suggestions. One of them also adds fingerings and pedalings, which, by the nature of printed technical suggestions, may or may not suit any particular player. They do not come from the composer and thus have no authority.
Whatever edition one is using, it is important to start by writing in measure numbers if, as in the case of the Durand edition, they are absent.

Overall structure
The first thing to notice about this piece is that it is in four movements. The Buxtehude, we noticed, is in one movement but several sections. What is the difference? Would this piece be different—would we want to play it differently—if the movements were printed in such a way that the end of one was followed immediately on the same staff by the beginning of the next, and the various instructions—name, tempo, registration—were printed discreetly above the appropriate notes? What is the effect on our concept of the piece of all the thick double bars and new pages? There is a chance (danger?) that whereas it is obvious that sections should follow one another in a way that is dictated by musical sense, shape, and drama, it does not always seem obvious that movements should do so. Breaks between movements can seem like opportunities to cough, take a drink, reposition on the bench, and so on. Perhaps this is often just fine, but it is worth thinking about. In the case of this piece, the first movement ends with the word enchaînez, which is French for what we often call attacca—that is: let what follows arise directly out of what is ending. The other movements do not have this notation.
Each movement has a title and a tempo marking. The titles are in a sense “fanciful”—they are probably meant to suggest images and moods, and to link the music of each movement to the idea of the “gothic,” which is found in the title of the work as a whole. How will these images affect choices made in playing the work? Three of the movements have ordinary Italian tempo markings: two Allegros and a Maestoso. The remaining movement has a tempo marking in French, that is, in the vernacular: Très lent. This means “very slow” and this movement—the third, titled Prière à Notre Dame—has no metronome marking, whereas all the other three do.
All of these various markings help to differentiate the movements; so does the fact that each is in a different meter, and so do the registrations offered by the composer. Interestingly, all of these things tend to separate out the Prière more than any of the other movements. It alone lacks a metronome marking, it has the vernacular—and extreme—tempo suggestion, and its registration is significantly more different from any of the others—they differ from one another slightly—and its name is fully extra-musical. It is also in a (very) different key, namely A-flat major. Meanwhile, each movement is remarkably consistent within itself in texture and mood, almost as if each movement had an “affect” in the sense in which people often apply that word to Baroque pieces. What does all of this mean? Not necessarily anything in particular. We will explore some of it along the way, but it is all useful to notice as part of getting to know the piece.
Now to go through the movements one by one.

First movement
The first movement is Introduction-Choral (not, by the way, “Introduction & Choral” as some editions have it). It is the shortest movement in the work, certainly in amount of musical material and probably in duration, even at its slow tempo. Perhaps this is in part what justifies calling it an “introduction”. It is a “choral”, essentially, because of the texture. In keyboard music, “choral(e)” texture means that by and large the voices all move in the same rhythm as one another. This is the case here. (Note: “by and large”, not 100%.) So chorale texture is somewhat of a chordal texture, but not necessarily entirely so. The phrase structure here is also reminiscent of a chorale or hymn. The opening phrase is eight measures, and it is repeated. The next phrase is seven measures and it is also repeated. The final phrase is eleven measures, with an internal quasi-repetition after the first four measures, and with only the tail end of the phrase repeated at the end. The repetitions—mm. 9–16, 24–30, and 42–end—are quiet, whereas the initial statements—mm. 1–8, and so on—are loud: therefore the repetitions are echoes. These echoes are manuals-only, while the initial statements all use pedal. Thus the pedal/no pedal shift serves to intensify the fff/p contrast. There is pervasive octave doubling in the fff passages, and essentially none in the echoes. (In fact there is one instance of it in all of the echo passages, in m. 11. This has the look of an inadvertent “parallel octave” rather than a way of building a texture.) This also intensifies the fff/p contrast. It also serves to shift the feeling of the texture a little bit: the echoes seem closer to the contrapuntal than the initial statements do.
From the purely technical point of view, the two most noticeable issues presented by this movement are the fingering and execution of some very thick chords, and the double pedal that opens the work.

Second movement
This first movement ends quietly, and on a dominant chord. This, plus the enchaînez instruction, leads us directly into the second movement. Entitled Menuet gothique, it is appropriately in the minuet meter of 3/4. The lilting minuet rhythm is very clear from the beginning. It is accentuated by the articulation in the bass line in the left hand (Example 1). The opening motive provides about half of the musical material of this movement. It is, somewhat like the first movement, organized in phrases that are repeated. In this case, the initial statements are manuals-only and quiet. The repetitions are with pedal and loud. The louder statements have octave doublings, the quiet statements by and large do not. The second motive begins with the upbeat to m. 49. It is quite different from the opening, but with a version of the same lilting articulation (Example 2). The movement consists of a back and forth between these two ideas. In one stretch they interrupt each other in short bursts. The movement ends with a complete statement of the opening idea, loud and with pedal.
This minuet movement is marked “non legato” throughout. One of the chief performance issues is how to interpret that instruction, and how to interpret the detailed articulation marks—dots and slurs—in light of the overall non legato. As a matter of note learning, the main issue is—as with the first movement, but in a very different esthetic context—the fingering and executing of long passages in block chords.

Third movement
The third movement—Prière à Notre Dame—starts with a cantabile melody in the top voice, accompanied by chords and slow accompanying notes in the middle part of the manual compass and in the pedal. This melody begins with the interval C–G, which is of course the defining interval of the overall C (major and minor) tonality of the work. However, in this context the interval consists of the third and seventh scale degrees of the key of A-flat major. The movement retains the feeling of cantabile throughout, even as occasionally the inner voices become more melodically active. The treble melody is marked with long slurs throughout, most of which last a (slow) measure or longer.
This movement has more phrasing marks and more shadings of dynamics than the other movements. The absence of a metronome marking may suggest an assumption on the composer’s part that the tempo and rhythm will be freer than might otherwise be normal, even that it will be free enough to render the initial setting of one very precise tempo inappropriate. All of this is in keeping with the purely musical notion of cantabile, and perhaps also with something about the composer’s sense of what is implied by the concept of prayer.
From a playing point of view, this movement divides into two parts: those measures, such as the first four, or mm. 33–50, in which the principal melody is alone in the right hand, and those, such as mm. 5–12, in which the right hand also takes some of the slower accompanying notes. (Oddly enough, there is an almost identical amount of each.) When the melody is alone in the right hand, it is physically quite easy to create legato and to shape and time the line in whatever way the ears and mind suggest. This is harder when the hand also has other notes to play. This will suggest specific approaches to practicing and learning the movement.

Fourth movement
The last movement is Toccata. It is, until the grand ending, a pure perpetuum mobile—that is, a piece in which there is one note value that is always present and is the shortest note value in the piece. (In this case it is the sixteenth note.) These sixteenth notes almost always outline chords, and the notes of those chords are usually also present elsewhere in the texture in slower notes. The opening is a typical example of this (Example 3).
With the kind of organ sound that the composer would have expected—nineteenth-century French foundation stops and reeds in a well-closed swell box—in the kind of very resonant room that would have been normal at the time, at the indicated tempo (quarter-note = 132) this writing is mostly pure texture, with a dose of rhythmic impetus. The notes are not heard as individual, let alone particularly crisp, notes. Slower-moving themes, such as the pedal line that enters in m. 3 or the various forms of syncopated quarter notes that first enter in m. 20, will seem to cut through this texture rather than interact with it contrapuntally.
The sixteenth-note patterns are, in themselves, fairly easy. That is, they fall under the fingers naturally. The challenge for many students will be to prepare these patterns well enough that the movement can go fast enough for the texture and rhythm effects to work well. In performance it is important that the perpetuum mobile sixteenth notes neither seem to interfere with or to be interfered with by the other lines.

About Boëllmann
This is a very well-known piece by a not very well-known composer. Boëllmann worked in the shadow of the other great French composers of his day, and of the organ composers in particular. Or at least he seems to us to have done so. Perhaps this is mainly because he had, unfortunately, a very short life and left less music than he might have. Many of us who know the Suite Gothique do not have a lot of context for it. As part of the preparation for working on the piece, I would suggest that a student explore that context a little bit. There are recordings of Boëllmann’s chamber music and other non-organ music, and this music is worth getting to know. Boëllmann lived in the household of Eugène Gigout from the mid-1880s until his death in 1897. (He had married Gigout’s niece.) Gigout published his famous Toccata in 1890. It is obvious on its face that Boëllmann was influenced by this piece in the composition of the Toccata that forms part of this suite. A student who doesn’t know the Gigout work should listen to it. Also, organ music and, perhaps especially, other music by such composers as Franck, Widor, Saint-Saëns can form an important part of this context.
Next month we will zero in on specific technical aspects of working on and learning the first movement.

 

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