This week’s theme is…Rondos Old & New! When we hear music, our minds are constantly, and subconsciously, asking a very simple but important question: “is what I’m hearing right now the same or different than what I’ve heard before?” Musicians understand this important principle and so strive to balance the opposing forces of familiarity and contrast throughout their works. Too much of the same will get boring; too little of the same will become incoherent. The traditional forms that have governed music for centuries reflect this, most especially the rondo with its distinctive refrain that keeps coming back after we hear contrasting sections. The rondo has given musicians a basic but powerful and effective way to organize their musical materials in time for almost a millennium. This week we listen to examples from all across history.
Rondos Old & New, Day 2 – “Se l’hore volano” from Il Sant Alessio by Stefano Landi
The Renaissance gave so much to Western thought: a renewed interest in Greek philosophy and drama, scientific advancement, the seeds of the Enlightenment, and new heights of aesthetic achievement in all of the arts. It was not without its shadow side of course; nothing ever is. One peculiar side effect of the Renaissance was a particular breed of powerful family dynasty. These found a special kind of expression in Italy with its deeply convoluted integration of temporal and ecclesiastical power as these inordinately ambitious families did everything they could to place members of their kin into the ranks of the College of Cardinals, for this was, and still is, the only potential road to the papacy.
Something of a prototype for organized crime, these family names resonate with power and intrigue for their associations with unscrupulous business practices, ruthless political machinations, and carefully-engineered splendor which emanated from their imposing public facades, foreshadowing the modern arts of marketing and public relations. The Medici are probably the best-known of these families. Stories of their exploits are widely told. But there are others: the Borgias, the Gonzagas, the Sforzas. You wouldn’t be surprised to come across those names in a Mario Puzo novel, would you? These families rubbed against each other in territorial disputes, generating intrigue, sometimes even murder, much like the organized crime we know in today’s mafia. Many of these families were favored with the elevation of a pope hailing from their name, after which the emboldened clan could count on special favor and benefit as the pontiff in their corner made his decrees. One such family, which secured the papacy in 1623, was the Barberinis. I’m not sure why, but their coat of arms features three bees, and is found to this day all over Rome, so great was their political influence there during the later years of the Renaissance:
The roots of the Barberini family’s wealth and power go back to the eleventh century when its ancestors settled in Florence, but it wasn’t until the early 1500s that two Barberini brothers, Carlo and Antonio, found true success as merchants of grain, textiles and wool. Shortly thereafter Antonio became tired of Florence’s ruling Medici (there was bad blood between the two families; it was, at times, deadly) and moved to Rome, followed in short order by his nephew Francesco. Here they significantly grew their fortune and all but purchased political and ecclesiastical offices. The height of Barberini power came in 1623 when Maffeo was crowned as Pope Urban VIII. While his papacy was probably passable, it was somewhat mired in a rather alarming level of shameless nepotism as he granted incardination, lands and titles to his kinfolk, who swarmed (like bees some have said) to Rome from all corners of Italy in order to partake in their share of family favor.
It is easy to become disgusted upon learning of such flagrant abuse of power by families like the Barberinis once the opportunity presented itself. It seems so typical of the human nature that disillusions so many of us. But this kind of power is a double edged sword too. Dynastic families like the Barberinis, abuses and excesses aside, are at their best when they become philanthropists and patrons of the arts, as the most emphatically Barberini did. They wielded their considerable wealth to provide important opportunities to architects, painters, sculptors and musicians, some of whom proceeded to create works that still stand out as masterpieces, and secured the family’s legacy. Foremost among them was the sculptor and architect Gian Lorenzo Bernini.
With Urban VIII’s elevation Bernini was granted a near monopoly on papal and Vatican art. The Baldacchino (canopy) straddling the altar at St. Peter’s Basilica is a Bernini design from this time.
Bernini refined his craft of sculpture by the abundant opportunities granted to him through his papal patron. Bernini’s sculptures for Rome include the Ecstasy of St. Teresa…
…and the great fountains of Rome, including the Fountain of the Bees, sculpted in honor of his patron family. Bernini’s sculptures seem to capture grand, dynamic gestures despite of being frozen in marble. His motionless subjects are somehow alive with motion and context.
How is that for an obsequious tribute? I can imagine Urban VIII scrutinizing it thoughtfully, his hand perched upon his chin, and concluding: “I like it!” Incidentally, if you view the sculpture from just the right angle you can discover the Bernini coat-of-arms.
Bernini also contributed his architectural skills to the Barberini’s Roman palace, completed in 1633. It’s a modest affair with a little courtyard that’s great for intimate gatherings. Don’t invite too many of your friends as they might not fit:
It also must boast a theater, because it is thought to be where a famous opera written by another Barberini commissionee premiered in 1632. The composer is Stefano Landi, a singer who settled in Rome early in the 1600s. He seems to have gotten along well with the Berninis and was presented with abundant musical opportunities after the coronation of Urban VIII. Around that time he was invited to join the papal choir on a half salary, the other half of which was paid to Gregorio Allegri, known for his haunting Miserere with that soaring soprano part:
Landi was navigating the divide between two styles, one old and one new, that were engaged in a pamphlet war. The old style, primo prattico, was polyphonic like Palestrina; the new style, secondo prattico, was monodic like opera. Landi seemed to like both of them, and mixed the two in his opera Saint Alexis, probably the best-known Roman opera of his time. Opera is secular, but this one is based on a sacred subject, the inner life of Alexius of Rome, a 4th century saint who renounced his worldly possessions to lived under his parents’ stairway, living out his years in poverty while teaching catechism to children. The opera is a little like a Bernini sculpture: graceful but with hard edges and a heavenly core that seems to reach beyond this world. It also may be a little kitschy, like a religious icon purchased for household devotion.
The new art of opera was making use of solo singing with instrumental accompaniment, different than the dense, busy sacred polyphony to which it was reacting. New forms and textures were possible, and Landi made use of strophic songs and ritornellos, both of which are related to the rondo. Strophic just means that there are verses, all of which have the same tune. A ritornello is an instrumental refrain that returns in between sung episodes. Landi makes effective use of both techniques in the scene which introduces the protagonist. Here is Saint Alexis’ first aria, “Se l’hore volano”:
Do you hear how the verse always has the same music, interspersed with that winsome instrumental ritornello which seems to illustrate Alexis’ yearning for heaven? Following his monologue, the two pages Marzio and Curzio, to provide comic relief, sing in quite the opposite sentiment, but the form is the same and you can hear the repeated music in their strophes with the chirpy ritornello interspersed between them.
Saint Alexis is an interesting glimpse into a junction of musical styles. Not quite Renaissance, not quite Baroque, it was written during a time of transition between the two, and also a transition away from the power held so tightly by the mighty dynastic families of Renaissance Italy whose wealth occasionally bore fruits like the music of Stefano Landi and sculpture of Bernini.
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