Reeds (part I)

It is now time to return to the early seventeenth century and pick up the story of the reeds. The late Renaissance is often characterized by the variety of its reed instruments, a variety made evident in Syntagma II of Praetorius. Of course, the full panoply of instruments was not available in all geographic areas or to those in all social strata. As students of performance practice, it should be our focus to determine the limitations of the use of these instruments as well as their possibilities. Fortunately, there have been some excellent modern studies that have addressed these issues in detail, combining archival and iconographic information with that provided by the treatises and the existing instruments themselves.

Developments of the Late Seventeenth Century (part II)

Also surviving the Interregnum in England was the name “recorder,” even though the new form of the instrument was greeted by some as a newcomer and not as part of a continuing tradition. For instance, John Hudgebut, in his preface to A Vade Mecum (the first tutor for the Baroque-style recorder, published in 1679), says, “though the Flagilet like Esau hath got the start, as being of a more Antient Standing, The Rechorder like Jakob hath got the Birthright.” Soon the name “recorder” begins to disappear, being replaced by flute douce, flute a bec, or simply “flute” — the name it would carry through most of the eighteenth century. Thus, in the few years between the working careers of Matthew Locke (one of the last, it would appear, to use the Renaissance-style flute consort and Purcell, the word “flute” had taken on an entirely new meaning. It is quite certain that for Purcell, “flute” meant recorder; he did not know (or in any case employ) the transverse flute at all.63 In its limited seventeenth-century appearance in England (notably—perhaps exclusively — in James Talbot’s notes on instruments, ca. 1695), the latter is called by its French name flute d’Allemagne, suggesting that it was not quite yet a naturalized citizen.

Developments of the Late Seventeenth Century (part I)

At some as yet undetermined point after Mersenne’s writing, the recorder and flute underwent the radical alterations that produced the forms we now call “Baroque.”

Both were given three joints: a cylindrical head, a tapering body, and a foot (tapering on the recorder, generally cylindrical on the flute). The flute was given a closedstanding key for D♯/E♭ (a difficult half-hole fingering on the keyless Renaissance flute), and both instruments were graced with ornate exterior turnery. Along with these changes in morphology came changes in pitch, nomenclature, and intervals between sizes—changes that represented especially radical departures for the family of recorders. (It is meaningless, in fact, to speak of a “family” of flutes in this period, since most of the evidence—sparse at best—concerns one size, the one we would now call the “concert flute,” or simply “flute.”) As mentioned above, the Renaissance habit of separating family members by fifths was given up in favor of alternating fourths and fifths (as with most modern orchestral woodwind families); the result is the “C and F” alignment of recorders with which we are still familiar. In France itself—still thought to be the origin of the new designs—the pitch standard to which recorders and flutes were now made was very low (a' = 392 to 405 or so, judging by extant examples). Such a low pitch was already quite normal for Renaissance flutes, as we have seen, but it was unusual for recorders. The change in both nominal pitch and pitch standard had a particularly drastic effect on the alto recorder, now the dominant solo member of the family. The real pitch difference between an old alt in g' at high Venetian pitch (a' = 460 or so) and an alto in f' at a' = 392 is a fourth; the new instrument is actually closer in pitch to the old tenor.

Late-Renaissance Winds (part III)

Recorders and Flutes (II)

Mersenne’s set of recorders is—on the surface, at least—not all that different from Praetorius’s. Unlike Praetorius, however, he divides them into two groups, a petit jeu and a grand jeu, which, he says, can be “tuned” (i.e., played) together, just as are the small and large stops (jeux) of the organ. The petit jeu consists, he tells us, of three sizes, separated by fifths: dessus, taille (which also serves for the haute-contre), and basse. This information is thus in accord with standard Renaissance practice, as explained (for example) by Philibert Jambe de Fer almost a century earlier. Mersenne gives no specific pitches for any of his recorders; we can only assume a continuance of the traditional f, c', and g' (sounding) pitches for the instruments of the petit jeu. The problem comes when we consider their physical measurements. His length for the basse (two and three-quarters pieds, or about 893 mm) is reasonable enough, being in the neighborhood of the length of Praetorius’s bassett. (Unfortunately, Mersenne fails to clarify whether his measurements are of total lengths or
sounding lengths, making exact comparisons impossible.) But his taille measurement of one pied five pouces (460 mm) is far too short; it is midway between what we should expect for taille and dessus proportioned to such a basse. However, the worst is yet to come; he claims that the dessus is but eleven lignes (less than an inch!) in length. This is of course ridiculous, but even at eleven pouces (298 mm) it is too short to stand at a ninth above the basse. It is close, however, to the length of Praetorius’s discant in c'', suggesting that there was (unbeknownst to Mersenne) a fourth size of recorder in the petit jeu in France—not surprising, given developments elsewhere.

Late-Renaissance Winds (part II)

Recorders and Flutes (I)

Praetorius begins his discussion of woodwinds with the recorder. By his time, the original set of three sizes (ones we would now call alto, tenor, and bass) had expanded considerably; he lists eight sizes: klein Flötlein or exilent in (seven-fingers) g'', discant in d'', discant in c'', alt in g', tenor in c', bassett in f, bass in B♭, and grossbass in F. Such a complete set — presumably with some duplications of certain sizes, following his earlier recommendations — was available from Venice for about 80 Thalers, he says, and indeed those illustrated resemble surviving examples of Venetian manufacture. These are characterized by a plain, robust, one-piece construction, a comparatively wide bore, and a voicing that favors the low register; sizes larger than a tenor are fitted with a key (for the bottom note), which is covered by a protective barrel or “fontanelle.” The majority of surviving examples have what has been called a “choke” bore: the top end is basically cylindrical but begins to contract near the upper fingerholes and then widens out again at the bottom. The contraction itself is what makes the larger recorders feasible, for without it, the fingerholes have to be impractically large and finger stretches become impossible.

It is the expanding “foot” section that distinguishes this bore profile from that of the Baroque and modern recorder, whose foot-joint bore continues instead to contract. This terminal contraction is responsible for the success of the Baroque highnote fingerings, which generally do not work on Renaissance-style recorders (except on some of the smaller ones, provided they have comparatively large fingerholes; see, for instance, the modern instruments based on the late seventeenth-century “transitional” set by Hieronymus Franziskus Kynseker of Nuremberg). In fact, Praetorius mentions that the larger recorders—those with keys, it would seem from the chart of ranges — are ordinarily limited in range to a thirteenth, while the smaller ones can generally reach a fourteenth; certain extraordinary players, however, can force another four to seven tones beyond the standard range. (Has he been reading Sylvestro Ganassi about this?)

Late-Renaissance Winds (part I)

The Sources

We owe much of what we know about instruments of the early seventeenth century — and, indeed, about Renaissance instruments in general—to two remarkable writers, Michael Praetorius and Marin Mersenne. Each produced a comprehensive treatise on musical theory and practice: Praetorius, Syntagma Musicum (in three volumes, 1614–204), and Mersenne, Harmonie universelle (1636–375). The two authors are often lumped together, but despite their shared thoroughness they could hardly be more different in style and approach. Praetorius—Lutheran composer, organist, and Kapellmeister—is always the more pragmatic; Mersenne—Jesuit priest, mathematician, philosopher, and scientist—the more speculative. Praetorius’s information appears to flow from his own practical experience, while Mersenne’s often seems a secondhand acquisition (which he does not always understand in depth). Rare is the page in Mersenne’s instrument descriptions without some inexplicable ambiguity or frustrating lack of clarity. (Not that Praetorius himself is without errors or inconsistencies, but his usually have some simple explanation.) Mersenne treats verbally of matters (such as instrument dimensions) that Praetorius entrusts to the carefully drafted plates of the Theatrum instrumentorum (the appendix to Syntagma II) to communicate; such verbal descriptions are naturally prone to error. Perhaps it should be mentioned in Mersenne’s defense, however, that his text simply has more information about instruments than Praetorius’s (including fingering charts and musical examples), providing more places for things to go wrong.

Woodwinds

Of all the centuries in the recorded history of Western music, the seventeenth witnessed the most thoroughgoing and decisive changes in the nature of woodwind instruments. While the sixteenth century had produced some remarkable developments, resulting in the rich and varied instrumentarium of the late Renaissance, these can be viewed as essentially evolutionary in spirit; they consisted of expansions of existing families and the invention of complementary types intended to serve with them and round out the palette of instrumental colors. The developments of the mid- to late seventeenth century were, by comparison, nothing short of revolutionary, consisting of complete remodelings of a limited number of Renaissance winds — flute, recorder, shawm, and curtal—to produce radically new types that ultimately eclipsed their progenitors (not to mention their few remaining rivals, such as the cornett). The affinity between these new forms (Baroque flute, oboe, and bassoon, in particular, the recorder representing something of a special case) and our own seems clear; we recognize them more as youthful versions than as ancestors of our modern designs despite the tremendous technological gulf between them.

Choral Music in Italy and the Germanic Lands (part IV)

Intonation is one of the most critical aspects of this style; florid lines require harmonic clarity which only good intonation can give. Nevertheless, intonation and tuning would themselves have varied with the performance context. When singers were unaccompanied, they would likely have sung simultaneous octaves, fifths, and thirds as close to pure as possible. But when they performed with instruments, we must assume that they adopted the instruments’ tuning. This is of particular concern with regard to the fretted strings and keyboard instruments, especially the organ, on continuo parts. Fretted strings such as lutes and viols can make some concessions to just intonation through the use of double fretting or variable finger placement and pressure at the frets, but keyboard instruments are completely inflexible, and any instruments or voices performing with them must match their pitches.

In the early seventeenth century, matching keyboard pitches often meant performing in quarter-comma meantone, which provides perfectly lovely pure thirds as long as one keeps to the right keys. By the time of Buxtehude, however, the use of a wide variety of well-tempered tunings were coming into vogue in Germany, especially the temperaments of Andreas Werckmeister. The greater chromatic flexibility permitted by these temperaments was balanced by the fact that more chords were slightly out of tune, although not as badly as the wolf chords of the meantone system.