Welcome to my final post on music history! For today’s topic, I shall be reflecting on some Viennese music from before Mozart’s time, then on Mozart’s Piano Concerto No. 9 K. 271 in E-Flat major “Jeunehomme”, as well as some readings on this latter subject.

Before we look in depth at Mozart’s Piano Concerto in E-Flat, let’s turn briefly to the city and composers that largely shaped him.

Vienna, or Wien, was a multicultural city even back in the 1700’s. The seat of Austrian Hapsburg power, Wien sat at the heart of Europe, surrounded by diverse peoples: Germans, Italians, Croats, Hungarians and the Czechs, to name but a few, with the Ottoman Empire right on their doorstep (I mean very literally, come 1529 and 1683). Out of this bubbling, (largely) Catholic Realm, religious music took a predictable turn towards the more joyous and uplifting strain, found nowhere else in Europe at the time.

Church services were grand and opulent; the standard setting of a service was a choir and full orchestra, leading to wonderful works of music, such as Czech composer Vanhal’s Missa Pastoralis. Although composed in a recognizable way, this piece is full of unexpected chromaticism and clever mimicking of a bagpipe’s drone (hence the piece’s title Pastoralis). The massed forces available for such music definitely attracted composers, Mozart not least among them when he arrived in 1781. Due to reforms carried out by Josef II, successor to the formidable Empress Maria Theresa, however, these grand practices were halted to save coin. Mozart, not willing to give up the ability to compose for such forces, subsequently turned to orchestral writing.

Before the “Classical” era, there was a smaller era: that of the “Galant”. This era has only been recognized recently, and their composers are largely forgotten, despite their influence at the time and on composers directly after them. Composers such as Hasse, Vanhal and Wagenseil wrote dynamic and intricate works. Wagenseil’s Divertimento in C major Op. 1, No. 2, WV1 is a perfect example of this style of music: highly structured by Baroque standards, with strong interlocking regular phrases, an often bar-to-bar harmonic progression, and a certain penchant for triplet rhythm. I find the use of harpsichord fascinating: the only way to play louder on a harpsichord is to play more

notes, and I think it is done quite tastefully. The coinciding harmonies, especially in the first movement, I find utterly mesmerizing. Music such as this is a clear forbear to works by composers such as Mozart and Haydn.

To give an example of how influential some of these composers were, one need only look at Wagenseil’s life: possibly the most influential of all Galant composers, he was employed at the palace as music tutor to Maria Theresa’s children (among them the infamous Marie Antoinette), and subsequently influenced the musical taste at court. When Mozart first visited the Viennese court in 1762, he well knew who Wagenseil was, seeking him out as he was to perform one of his concertos. True, Mozart then press-ganged the notable composer into being his page-turner, but this still shows how influential and internationally acclaimed some of these composers were.

Even though Mozart is a much more well known composer, some of the information behind his works are only just coming to light, such as in the case of his Piano Concerto No. 9 K. 271 in E-Flat major.

Written in 1777, all that was known about this piano concerto for a very long time was that it had been commissioned/written for a female piano virtuoso. This in itself was extraordinary, as female performers were quite rare at the time; it was thought that a performing woman was, consequently, an ill-bred woman (an idea luckily not encouraged today). The identity of this women was hidden, however, through a combination of selective historic recording which favours male artists over female, and by the Mozarts’ absolutely shocking spelling. Nonetheless, after much speculation and conjecture, in 2004 the identity of the pianist was revealed to be Louise Victoire Jenamy, daughter of Georges Noverre, a theatre director who was friends with Mozart. Many analysts have since claimed many connections, either speculative or factual, between the performer and the concerto, which was imbued by Mozart with several innovations.

In the concerto’s exposition (beginning), the piano starts on bar two. As far as I’m aware, this is the only occurrence in a concerto where Mozart did not use a lengthy orchestral introduction. Other elements unique to this concerto include a messa di voce-style trilling entrance when the piano comes in properly; messa di voce is a singing technique which involves the singer holding a single pitch whilst increasing and reducing volume. Another innovation is the Arioso movement: a lyrical, operatic slow movement, whose structure would appear later in many a Beethoven sonata. These elements, analysts maintain, allude to Mme. Jenamy’s association with the theatre. It is believed that to the original audience, Mme. Jenamy’s history would have been largely understood, in the way that celebrities today are, and these little allusions and foibles would have been much appreciated.

Article A

This is the original 2004 article, where Michael Lorenz published for the first time the correct identity of the mystery women. This three-page article is a very easy and enjoyable read, published in the Journal of the American Mozart Society. I don’t quite know why, but this amuses me. I expect many things to come out of America, but a National Mozart Society was not one of them. Reading through other parts of the Journal, I find this society completely commendable, as a forum for Mozart enthusiasts, as well as their ability to support students in graduate study. So, simultaneously I apologise for my scepticism and take my hat off to you.

A couple more things on the article. I find the inclusion of Albert Einstein’s quote, that

K.271 was Mozart’s “Eroica”, highly entertaining. As a Beethoven fanatic, it is very amusing to read about a work of Mozart’s being compared to a later work by a man who actively admired and tried to emulate Mozart in his younger years.

Lorenz’s contention of an “incorrect name” and that now we can use the proper name for the concerto don’t sit too well with me, however. Mozart did not subtitle his work “Jeunehomme”; likewise, Beethoven’s Sonata op. 27 no. 14 “Moonlight Sonata” was named thus by a (thoroughly deluded) poet, and the hypocrisy of Mendelssohn’s “Songs Without Words” having words is due to his rapscallion publisher: examples accumulate throughout history. Since Mozart never intended to name his concerto, who can say what name is correct?

Article B

Kris Steyaert’s “Mozart with a French Twist: Mademoiselle Jeunehomme revisited” is an interesting read, relying heavily on Lorenz’s article and Wyzewa & Saint-Fox’s book Wolfgang Amédée Mozart [1911] to make his argument in a quasi-mediating/reviewing framework.

In Wolfgang Amédée Mozart, written in 1911, the French musicologists Wyzewa & Saint-Fox claimed that the mystery pianist was French. Correct though they were, they extracted the name Mademoiselle Jeunehomme from primary sources: The Elder and Younger Mozarts’ letters. There are several issues with their claim: spellings in the Younger and Elder Mozarts’ letters (especially where French was concerned) were famously approximate, and in the letters, there were three different spellings of “Jenamy”, none of which were actually “Jenamy”. Wyzewa & Saint-Fox were also not allowed to handle the original documents, and instead had to rely on French reproductions, which had Francocized the names. Wyzewa & Saint-Fox then altered these names further, then created a new name which they claimed would have been the common and rightful spelling: Jeunehomme. These views went relatively unchallenged until Michael Lorenz’s article in 2004. It appears that Steyaert’s article is mainly trying to temper Lorenz’s argument and accusations against these two French musicologists. As he argues, there was ample room for error in this situation. I tend to agree with him. However, as pointed out by Steyaert, in the appendix of Wolfgang Amédée Mozart the authors lay the foundations for the discovery of Victoire Jenamy by bringing up a link to Claudius Jenamy, the Grandfather of Victoire Jenamy’s husband. Although they must be credited for this clue, Wyzewa & Saint-Fox must also be credited with the purely fabricated comment: “Mde. was one of the most celebrated virtuosi of her day”. I would also like to point out the fact that Wyzewa & Saint-Fox presume to give the title “Mademoiselle” to “Jeunehomme”. This, I think, is because that they presume that, like the majority of female performers of the time, the mystery women was unmarried.

Welcome to this week’s blog post! Today, I will be looking at the church in music, c. 1700’s England. I will be reflecting on an extract of Nicholas Temperley’s The Music of the English Parish Church (1979), pg’s 1-4, and will also look at one tradition of rural music making, West Gallery Music.

Religion has affected music, there is no doubt of that. Until this century, church music made up possibly one of the greatest proportions of the vocal repertoire. Religion has shaped the lives and minds of states, people and composers, and this comes out in many societies as very distinctive and sometimes imaginative flavours of music. As an atheist, I neither support nor object to this, but am very interested to see its effects on musical practice from a purely objective point of view. Anything that inspires interesting and beautiful music is fine by me.

Temperley’s introduction to his book is a very interesting read on this subject, eloquently written and easily readable. The overarching point that I take away is of the fractured, disparate nature of the Church of England, which allowed rural church traditions such as West Gallery Music to live and thrive. The different views by the different sects on how music should relate to worship is very interesting especially; the Puritanical view of having music easily understandable and existing to reinforce the scripture is not wholly unexpected, nor that the common people just wanted to listen to good music, but that the Quakers thought music unsuitable for church is very surprising to me. This viewpoint is and was very rare, thank goodness.

Due to the outcome of the English Civil War, the Anglican Church went through a Puritanical reform in the 1640’s, and the Puritans’ views on music were put into law. However, as discussed by Temperley, the Law and Church of England at the time proved to be equally disparate and convoluted, only protecting the church from flagrant disregard and eccentricity, with little power to enforce its will in the counties, allowing for some creative freedom.

Most rural churches and parishes couldn’t have afforded an accompanying organ. Subsequently, the minister would have led the congregation by chanting the verse with relative musicality, and the congregation would chant it back. Being untrained singers, this had predictable effects: as people tried to stay together, the pace got slower and slower,

whilst as far as notes were concerned, they would overshoot, slide and ornament to their heart’s content, adding whatever fit their own concept of beauty. The result, while beautiful in its own way, was not exactly tuneful.

West Gallery Music (named thus because the choir, or “quire”, would have been situated in the upper gallery at the back of the church, which would almost always be in the west as most churches of the time were built facing east) has many similarities with this earlier tradition. Rising in the 1740’s, West Gallery Music, or “Psalmody” as the practitioners described it, was basically the pleasing and tuneful setting of psalms.

A slightly polished version of Psalmody. For possibly a more authentic hearing of West Gallery Music, click here and scroll down to the recording of As Shepherds Watched Their Fleecy Care.

Instruments such as viols, bassoons and oboes were brought in to accompany the choir, and ornamentation of the melody was totally left to the singers. West Gallery Music is very folky, with much of the music leading in the tenor, and involves many shakes and licks that would be recognized by many folk artists today. It also reminds me of the Australian group The Seekers. The texture and timbre between the two feels very similar. As the West Gallery tradition did transfer to Australia, might this be no coincidence?

Of course, not all interpretations were tasteful, and some were downright vulgar, but West Gallery music nonetheless gained a particular flavour and notoriety, surviving in that no-mans-land between “art music” and “folk music”, having some interpretations committed to paper and had a few composers, attracted by a possibly lucrative enterprise, compose for the genre,  but on the whole remained an oral tradition, leading to a different style in almost every parish. As Temperly so eloquently puts it, “… an even greater source of variation is in the auditory context of the liturgy. Though the words themselves are laid down, it is not always certain whether they are to be said or sung and by whom. If they are said by the minister, his personal manner and emphasis will of course have its effect. If they are sung, the full resources of music, with all its powers over the emotions of men, are admitted to the service. On the use and selection of music the rubric is silent. Nor does it either authorise or forbid the introduction of instrumental music before, after, or during the service.”[pg 3]

With this very well-expressed reason for accepting such wide varieties of religious expression in the very doctrine of the Church, such interpretations must have been fine.

Well, not really. Thanks to the Oxford Movement during the 1850’s, a reformation of the

church took place. The Church finally got their act together, and instead of the Church’s money going towards the Bishop’s new horse and carriage, it was spent on the counties; new churches were built, and, thanks to the industrial revolution, cheaply made organs were also provided. West Gallery Music had been one of the Oxford Movement’s targets for a while: they generally objected to the bad singing, flagrant ornamentation and use of instruments (which in some circles was viewed as satanic – thankfully a view that does not seem to have survived into the modern age), which they thought made a mockery of God.

West Gallery Music disappeared, but not forever. The traditions had spread to other parts of the British Empire, to places such as Canada and Australia, and thanks to many contemporary accounts and those few interpretations and compositions written down, the tradition is now being revived. If you would like to visit the site of the West Gallery Music Association to find out more information about this fascinating tradition, simply click here.

So, we now venture once more into the world of Opera, this time looking at “English” Opera. I say “English”, because although the music was written in England, and it was arranged specifically for the English stage and premiered there, that was about as English as early Opera got: Handel wrote the first successful English Opera, and of course Handel was German; the Opera libretto was in Italian, written by an Italian (one Signor Rossi). In fact the whole style is very much after the Italian style popular at the time.

When Handel arrived in London in 1710, Great Britain was politicaly fraught (to put it mildly). The English Civil War (1642-46) and the Glorious Revolution of 1688 had both resulted in Parliament overthrowing/deposing the current monarch. This created the early precursors to modern political parties, the Whigs and Tories, whose squabbling spilled out regularly into daily life through aggressive pamphleteering. At this time as well, there was the risk of a renewed autocratic monarchy with the succession of the Hanoverian Dynasty after Queen Anne’s reign. Scotland and England had just united in 1707, and soon after Handel arrived, the Treaty of Utrecht was signed, bringing an end to the Spanish war of Succession and the threat of a united France-Spain superpower. Whilst Britain celebrated, Handel’s Hanoverian employers did not. Handel navigated all these political intrigues very astutely (despite being fired by his Hanoverian employers), taking advantage of opportunities to start Opera in London.

The gentry, thanks to the post-revolutionary atmosphere, were amazingly vague; what constituted for a class or caste was very fluid, and the strict rules of class and fashion were no longer as relevant. The court was no longer the place of ultimate intrigue; apart from the House of Lords, much of the country’s ruling elite socialised in clubs, which gave the perfect opening to insert an Opera House; with a generous sponsorship from the royal family, it would be the darling of London social life.

Despite this, there seems to have been much scepticism: the English were very nationalistic, and like Louis XIV’s France, were suspicious of foreign arts, especially those they could not even understand! They also had there own tradition of spoken theatre. Added to this was a religious issue: the Anglican church had split away from the Roman Catholic church in 1534, and since then a healthy fear of all things Popish was encouraged by the ruling classes (even though the few catholics in the north of Britain were relatively well-behaved). Italians were papists, so this must be a conspiracy to invade the country!

Handel’s first Opera, Rinaldo, is an interesting choice as his first attempt at Italian Opera in England. Based on the same plot as Lully’s Armide, the opera follows the story of Rinaldo, a famous (but made up) christian hero, taking part in a crusade to retake Jerusalem. Armide, or Armida in this version, is a muslim sorceress who has launched a vendetta against Rinaldo for releasing prisoners of hers. To cut a very long story short, Armida trys to kill Rinaldo, falls in love with Rinaldo; Armida casts spell, Rinaldo falls in love with Armida; Armida feels guilty, calls up the goddess of hate to return her hatred of Rinaldo, which backfires when the goddess of hate instead curses her to forever love Rinaldo; Rinaldo escapes enchantment, escapes palace, and Armida is left alone with an eternally broken heart and a chariot pulled by dragons. The End. There are of course many nuances to this story, but we will only deal with those relevant to Act I. What makes this an interesting choice for the first plot of English Opera, is that the plot had been used before, at least once in Lully’s Armide. To write the Opera in Italian, and to actually premier it in that language, seems very brave. Although it would be more work, premiering Rinaldo in a language the audience could understand, you would think, would be a much safer way to start. However, Rinaldo was a success, I think partially because of the horrendous amount of flattery stuffed into the original programme’s dedication and preface, not just of the Queen, but also the English people, practicing on their credulity by claiming that English Opera be the most splendid of all, something that not many Englishmen would have been used to hearing (the Germans famously referred to England as “Das land ohne Musik“, “the land without music”).

So without further ado and with that relevant background, let’s take a look at Act I of Rinaldo.

The Overture.

The orchestral overture to Rinaldo is very long (six and a half minutes!), but is thankfully very beautiful. I especially love the recurring violin solo; I can very much imagine this music playing while the audience took their seats, and it actually reminds me of the very long opening credit sequences in old Disney movies, like Sleeping Beauty.

Scene I.

Scene I opens with the four Christian Generals, Godfrey, Almirena, Eustatio and Rinaldo, discussing the march on Jerusalem. Godfrey, the leader of the Christian forces, wishes to march on Jerusalem as soon as possible, and is backed by his brother Eustatio, and Rinaldo’s fiance Almirena. Rinaldo, however, wants to pause and marry Almirena as soon as possible. I find the exchange between these four characters quite amusing; there is an air of fractiousness about the participants that I feel is accentuated by the frequent alternation between the singers and the orchestra. You can really tell that three are trying to convince Rinaldo, and you can sense his only grudging ascent to their wishes.

Scene II.

A herald arrives from Jerusalem, announcing that the king of Jerusalem will come and parlay. There is a brief discussion on whether they should allow him to come, and upon agreeing, Eustatio launches into a long aria, optimistically wondering what King Argante wants to talk about. Accompanied by cello and harpsichord, the music sets up an air of nervous expectation.

Scene III.

Expectation fulfilled! The beginning of scene III is hilarious; a trumpet fanfare interrupts Eustatio, and Argante marches onto the stage, launching into a hugely impressive, bombastic aria. Veiled with insults and disdain, Argante nevertheless pleads for a three-day truce. Godfrey, equally disdainful, agrees as they can afford to be generous, basically going on about how amazing  the Christians are for being so magnanimous in victory.

Scene IV.

A very short scene. Argante, now alone, is much less confident; he’s nervous and despairing about the invasion of his lands, and calls Armida to him to alleviate his pain. The music is very pensive, and how Argante sings seems almost self-conscious after the bombastic nature of Scene IV I feel is just genious to create character depth.

Scene V.

This is a powerhouse scene, and probably my favourite of the whole act. The music is absolutely wonderful: fast and furious strings and harpsichord, and Armida, sung by Cecilia Bartoli, is just phenomenal! I also doubled up laughing, because with this production the “dragons” or evil spirit equivalent are eight or so hands in black suits with what look like squids on their heads, who roll on stage, sway around a bit then roll off again (there is a very funny moment where one of the spirits goes on the wrong side when they are about to go off, and has to roll across nearly the entire stage, forcing Argante to jump over him). Argante, who is obviously infatuated with Armida, plans with her how they can possibly beat the Christians. They decide that obviously without Rinaldo, the Christians are next to useless, so decide to try to deprive the Christian forces of him …

Scene VI.

A very annoying scene, for me at least. Rinaldo and Almirena have fun in a grove that has been enchanted by Armida (IT’S A TRAP!). The music is nice enough, very pastoral and reminding me of Bach’s Sheep may Safely Graze in places, and I must admit the love duet at the end is absolutely beautiful now that I’ve watched the performance: a song of innocent love. The innocent frolicking on stage, though, is very annoying and makes me gnash my teeth at times, and the famous bird song? One of the evil spirits crawls to the front of the stage with a small branch with fake birds on it, which he shakes around a bit whilst a piccolo makes bird impressions. I know they probably couldn’t do what they did in the original, releasing wild birds onto the stage, but whilst I did rather enjoy the touch of the evil spirit (it is, after all, Armida’s trap in the works at this moment), I do think it slightly ruined the mood, and the scene overall is a bit too silly.

Scene VII.

Armida kidnaps Almirena, duels with Rinaldo (they need to work on their sword fighting), and are spirited away by evil spirits. Rinaldo is left alone, and oh my goodness his grief aria is incredibly beautiful: slow, sonorous and wandering. The moment of absolute, dejected stillness from Rinaldo at the end is utterly breathtaking. With an increasing experience of Opera, I can see that this is a common affectation: it is very effective.

Scene VIII.

Godfrey and his brother Eustatio try to console Rinaldo. Eventually, Eustatio launches into a very driven, vaguely militaristic passage, where he convinces Rinaldo to use his grief and anguish to fuel him to conquer Jerusalem and go after Armida, reclaiming his love. Eustatio gets quite animated, marching around the stage and at one point skirmishing with the conductor of the orchestra (they are much better sword fighters).

Scene IX.

Rinaldo finishes the act with a heavily ornamented, uplifting aria backed by the orchestra, venting steam and vowing vengeance. The long upward runs I think are an excellent example of word painting, signifying the characters rise in spirits.

Overall, I enjoyed Act I of Rinaldo. At times I found it hard to follow the original libretto from the Opera, and upon making sure that both the video and libretto were of the 1711 version (Rinaldo went through several rewrites, before falling out of the performance repertoire before Handel’s death, being revived only recently), I have concluded that not all the arias and recitatives have actually been sung in the production I listened to (provided above). I noticed that all the recitatives were accompanied by cello and harpsichord, which were improvised back in the day. Considering the reputation of especially the cello improvisors of the day (they were told off for being too crazy!), I think it would have been nice to hear some more adventurous improvisation. Otherwise, I really enjoyed listening to this Opera.

 

For this third blog post, I’ve decided to talk about the apparent animosity between the French and Italian musical styles during the Baroque, providing a commentary and reflection on some of the readings we have been given, including articles by François Raguenet (from 1702) and Jean-Laurent Lecerf de la Viéville (from 1704) in Enrico Fubini’s Music & culture in eigteenth-century Europe: a source book (1994), which argue for or against French music vs. Italian music. Unfortunately I can’t provide you with a copy, otherwise I’ll probably be sued/fined for copyright infringement, but hopefully you can still appreciate some of the humour, even second-hand.

France’s antagonism towards “alien” groups during this period really starts during the Thirty Years War (1618-48), one of the bloodiest religious wars in Europe’s history. Although the largest neutral Catholic power, France under Louis XIII nonetheless started a process of centralization under an absolute monarchy (whose power in the autonomous/pretty-much-independant provinces had been historically very weak), the Protestant Huguenot population serving as a handy scapegoat.

During Louis XIV’s reign, Italy seems to have served a similar, if much less violent role as scapegoat. Under the artistic patronage of the King, professionalisation in particular areas was encouraged to start a trend in national style that differed from those styles found in other parts of Europe, especially those in the Italian states, the purported cultural capital of Europe. This was again a way to try to centralize the arts under the monarchy, creating a unified national style that would simultaneously strengthen the state’s image and weaken the provinces’ individual identities.

Both Raguenet’s and de la Viéville’s articles are quite amusing. Ragunet, fighting for the cause of the Italian style, relies on measured argument and an endearingly contemptuous view of the French style, which he degrades as safe, comfortable and cautious, extolling the bravery and adventurousness of the Italians, pointedly recalling that Lully, the darling of the French music scene, was himself Italian. De la Viéville on the other hand relays his argument wittily, writing in the style of a conversation between a set of friends (the Chevalier [presumably himself], the Countess and the Count), routinely quoting and deriding musicological rivals, as well as using food analogies on almost every page to enforce his argument! Both use the point that Italian music is daring, adventurous, and much more willingly dissonant, while French music is “natural” (de la Viéville uses the “If God had given us wings…” argument at one point), with carefully considered use of chords and dissonance in very few places. Ragunet claims that the Italians have much more talent for creating beautiful, evenly expressed four-part works, whilst the French are happy to get the top and bass lines right. Both also use the argument of inherent national or racial differences in temperament; this sort of argument always makes me slightly uncomfortable, but I can see that this sort of view would be widely encouraged by an absolute state, especially one pursuing an isolationist policy. I can’t help wondering what Monsieur’s de la Viéville and Ragunet would make of a bit of Bartók or Liszt, or how de la Viéville’s “too-spicy Italian stew” analogies would fare or change with the introduction of exotic spices from the Indies that would arrive in large volumes within the century.

Up until this year, there was no way anyone could have made me listen to Opera or Musical theatre; it’s the one genre of music I’m genuinely funny on. Now, however, I would amend my stance: I will listen to opera depending on the singer and the circumstance. There are some notable exceptions to my rule-of-loathing: for instance the last act of Shostakovich’s Lady Macbeth of the Mtsensk District (it gives me goosebumps), and to my surprise French Baroque Opera.

Listen until the choir comes in.

Possibly to the surprise of many, Opera in France got off to a fairly rocky start. As it was invented in Italy, the French monarchy were fairly against it, as at the time Louis XIV sought to centralise the arts in France, to better serve the state and paint the monarchy in a good light – basically using music as a form of state propaganda. As an overtly foreign art form, Italian opera would stand little chance, and to make matters worse opera was of course in Italian: no one in France, except maybe the aristocracy, would be able to understand it! Although there was a healthy tradition of musical theatre and musical dance in France, the recitative style, on which Italian opera hinged, was thought impossible to use in French, for reasons of grammar discussed in the previous post.

Nonetheless, there were efforts to convert the King to the ways of opera. Cardinal Mazarin, Chief Minister for Louis XIV during his regency and himself a fan of opera, attempted to convert the King by hiring the renowned Italian Opera composer Francesco Cavalli to write an opera for the marriage of Louis XIV to Maria Theresa of Spain, Hercules in Love (guess who Hercules was meant to be). This did not succeed, however, as the opera and theatre were not finished in time. When the opera was at last finished two years later, it was never to be performed as by that time Cardinal Mazarin had died, and there was no one of sufficient stature to support the premiere of Italian opera.

These delays and negations were also partly due to none other than Jean-Baptiste Lully, one of the foremost court composers, whose machinations and scheming behind the scenes ensured his Italian rival’s failure, ensuring his own position. Lully famously declared that recitative in French was impossible. 10 years later he wrote the first French opera, which     included recitative.

The Académie d’Opéra was founded in 1669 by Pierre Perrin, who received a 12 year licence from the King to compose opera. When Perrin was thrown into debtors’ prison, Lully stepped in and managed to gain the sole rights to compose opera; any stage production that used more than six musicians was classified as an opera, and would be fined accordingly.

Lully then managed to piece together a system for French recitative, using the heightened-speech declamatory style of the actors and actresses of the French theatre as a foundation. Working with librettist (script writer) Phillipe Quilnaut, Lully premiered his first opera, Cadmus et Ermiune, in 1673. For the next 14 years, he averaged one opera a year, which would be first premiered at Versailles, then in Paris.

French opera was categorized by a number of things. The styles used were usually very diverse, including duets and dances as well as the recitative and aria, and the sections were usualy much shorter and more modular, making French opera more versatile. The French did not use Castrati, boys who had been castrated to keep their higher voices into adulthood, as the felt they were unnatural, and instead used both male and female singers. The supporting orchestra got larger and larger, able to sustain and make massive sounds and effects like storms. Generally, a lot more dance was incorporated into French opera, and the success of the genre lies in the singers’ musical expression rather than overt virtuosity. I think this is possibly why I prefer French Opera; I find the inherent musicality much more appealing than over-the-top drama – though that is not saying that French Opera does not have drama!  Although I admit I have a very limited knowledge of vocal music, I have never heard the use of silence in Baroque music like in the transitional passage in Act II, Scence 5 of Armide. The utter breathlessness, and other musical effects the singer uses are just stunning.