This week’s theme is…Music About Animals! Our animated companions on Earth, animals have been our friends, food, foes, and fascination. They constantly populate the art of humans, from literature to sculpture, poetry to music. This week we listen to music inspired in some way by animals.
Music About Animals, Day 2 – Concerto for Violin and Orchestra, “Frogs” by Georg Philipp Telemann
To me, Telemann stands out a bit from the other luminous figures of the high Baroque. He’s not quite as well known as the the others, although most would acknowledge that he deserves to be uttered in the same breath as Bach, Handel and Vivaldi. His music just feels a little…different. Where Bach and Handel are stocky and solid, Telemann’s light, airy music floats on the breeze, all the time. Where Vivaldi is vigorous and busy, Telemann seems relaxed and carefree. And he essentially spoke the same language as the others. He could write Germanic polyphony with utmost facility – Handel once said that Telemann could sit down and write a composition in 8 voices as quickly and easily as others could write letters. But his counterpoint is creamy, soothing, fragile and delicate in contrast to Bach and Handel’s well-hewn brickwork. He wrote figuration a la Vivaldi, but whereas that of Vivaldi is propulsive, driven and incessantly goal-oriented, Telemann’s good-natured figuration meanders sunnily and takes its time to smell the flowers. And don’t take these comparisons as criticism – Telemann’s music is delightfully transparent and uplifting; he was extraordinarily well-respected in his day (see this post). Handel, upon hearing rumors of Telemann’s death, expressed to him in a letter his delight at his discovery that they were in error, and sent him some fine flowers for his garden on the next available ship.
But Telemann’s music seems to be crafted according to somewhat different principles than his great contemporaries. Where Bach, Handel and Vivaldi left finely-tuned contraptions, Telemann wrote like perfume in the air (cue Debussy…)
As such, Telemann anticipated many trends of the upcoming Rococo and Classical styles which prized orchestral transparency, melodic breadth, slower harmonic rhythm, and an often sweet and dainty character. Bach had nothing to do with Rococo textures, but his sons ate it up, making a deliberate stylistic break from their stodgy old man. Handel and Vivaldi, too, did not quite dip their toes into the light, clear, Rococo waters (although some of their later works almost touch the surface), but Telemann was ahead of his time, anticipating these stylistic hallmarks. Perhaps that is why he was so feted in his day, enjoying success in so many places, and winning priority over Bach in the estimation of the German folk. As such, Telemann wrote musical statements that would seem strange in the hands of the others, but which work surprisingly well in his.
While Telemann was prolific, his total number owing a great deal to the unbelievable production of German church cantatas (more than 1,000!) and his impressive production of orchestral overtures (600), his solo concerto production ain’t got nothing on Vivaldi (see this post). Vivaldi, the father of the concerto, wrote more than 500 for all different kinds of soloists and concertino groups – discovering their variety is truly a delight – but Telemann barely wrote 100. Still, his concertos touch on an impressive array of instruments, ensembles and orchestral colors, and there is something in there for everyone. His concertos breathe differently than Vivaldi’s, wandering with slow, nuanced footwork where Vivaldi’s enthusiastically run. But that’s part of the fun. Like Vivaldi, Telemann sometimes evoked extra musical associations in his pieces, although the overtures provide a much more comprehensive sampling of this tendency. But there is this quirky concerto:
Do the sounds of that concerto remind you of anything? Telemann is the only one who could have written this, so odd and cheeky are its features. I get the sense he didn’t take himself quite so seriously as the rest, even Handel who was known so often to have roared with laughter. The concerto is about frogs, and the solo part with its raspy croak, created by playing the open A string along with a fingered A on the D string for a strong blast of A, is jolly good fun. The solo part practically twangs like a fiddle, evoking the joys of the country, perhaps the location of the frogs. Do you hear how long the solo episodes go on, ringing out the same notes? You would never hear that in Bach, Handel or Vivaldi – everything in their music is so ever-active, propelling from one harmony to the next. Only Telemann would sit so long on the notes as his frogs croaked away. The solo parts of concertos by Bach and Vivaldi are so densely packed with complex and florid figuration, designed for the fulfillment of the virtuoso ego (mostly), but Telemann’s solo part in the Frog Concerto sounds almost minimalistic, like Philip Glass centuries before his time (see this post). What ambitious violinist would seek out a bizarre and static solo part like this to flex his virtuoso muscles? You would have to be pretty comfortable telling the music’s story and renounce the personal glory of showing off. Not that Bach’s concertos afford abundant opportunities of this, but the solo parts are certainly more soloistic.
Telemann, something of a prophet, predicted the sound of Europe’s music several decades before it arrived. He soon fell out of favor as Bach, Handel and Vivaldi overtook his prominent place in the public’s ear. In fact, they still overshadow him, but for many musicians, Telemann is a reliable source of pleasing, accessible music that is fun to play, easy to put together, and worthy of study for its detailed craftsmanship. He spoke something of a different language than his prominent contemporaries, and thankfully so, for there is no one else quite like him, possessing all those qualities. Telemann’s music runs alongside that of the mainstays of the high Baroque, dancing on the air as the others tramp firmly upon the ground out of their solid construction. He makes us look up, even if our bodies are firmly rooted on the ground, broadening our perspective, and reminding us that there is more to life than where our feet make contact.
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