The Bach Cello Suites

A Companion

STEVEN ISSERLIS
To David Waterman (a.k.a. Uncle Silly) with thanks for over forty-
five years – and counting – of close friendship
 Contents

Title Page
Dedication
Introduction
The Magic of the Suites

THE STORY

PART 1
J. S. Bach: A very brief biography

PART 2
The Genesis of the Suites
Why?
For Whom?
For What?
When?
Which?
How?
Schumann and the Suites
Casals and the Suites

THE MUSIC

PART 3
Dance Suites!
History of the Suite
 The Movements
Preludes
The Dances
Allemandes
Courantes
Sarabandes
Minuets
Bourrées
Gavottes
Gigues

PART 4
Questions and Rules (the didactic section)
Answers to Fourteen Frequently Asked Questions
Rules for the Player

PART 5
Could There Perhaps Be a Story … … Behind the Suites?

PART 6
Movement by Movement: Thirty-six (or forty-two) moments of
perfection

Glossary of musical terms

Bibliography
Acknowledgements

Image credits
General index
Index of works
About the Author
By the Same Author
Copyright
 Introduction

This book is intended for music-lovers of all shapes and sizes, ranging
from the casual listener to the performing musician. My simple aim is to
amplify, if possible, the enjoyment and understanding of those listening
to Bach’s cello suites by offering my own, very personal, observations on
the music. Everyone who loves the suites will have his or her own views,
which may be radically different from mine; that’s fine – as it should be,
in fact. Mine are constantly changing, and will continue to do so long
after this book is in print – again, that is to be expected. Music as all-
encompassing as this can be heard, seen, thought of, felt in an infinite
variety of ways. My hope, ultimately, is that these reflections on the
suites will be taken for what they are intended to be: a continuation of a
discussion that will endure for as long as we listen to music – as well as
an act of homage to some of the greatest works ever composed.
I am no musicologist, and am deeply grateful to the authors of the
many articles and books that have helped me form an overview of the
history and provenance of the suites. This is not in any way an academic
tome. If the reader can read music, so much the better; but it is not
essential. There is, in a few places, some very basic analysis of key
moments within the suites, because that was the only way I could find to
describe those passages; but those analyses are short – and can be easily
skipped, if they’re not to your taste. A glossary – to be glossed over,
perhaps – is provided at the end of the book.
This is not really a volume to be read all at once, but rather one to be
used as a friendly companion before or after listening to (or playing) the
suites. Or in the case of Part 6, perhaps even – horrors! How dare I
suggest anything so sacrilegious? – while doing so. Shame on me – I’d
better begin the book proper forthwith, before I further offend the God of
Music that is Bach.
 The Magic of the Suites

It is extraordinary how Bach’s cello suites, largely unknown for some

two hundred years after their composition, have now captured the
imaginations, minds and hearts of music-lovers all over the world. For
cellists they represent a musical bible; for listeners, scarcely less. They
are discussed, analysed, made the subject of fantasies, arguments and
quarrels, appropriated by players of countless other instruments; and yet
despite this overkill, and perhaps heightened by the lack of a manuscript
in Bach’s hand or any definite information about the circumstances of
their composition, they maintain their air of pristine mystery.
The slightly frustrating thing about this sense of an inscrutable secret
is that the suites themselves really aren’t that mysterious. They consist
primarily of dance music, readily communicative, not especially
complex; Bach, unlike some composers, did not seek to hide his message
under a veil of convolution. It is, above all, deeply human music, telling
an emotional story that should be easy to understand. So many editions
(well over a hundred), so many recordings (well over two hundred) and
too many words (probably millions) have somehow obscured the clarity
of these wonderfully direct works. (This, of course, is why I’ve recorded
the suites and am writing this book. Hmm. At least I’ve never done – and
shall never do – an edition!) Is there a story behind the suites? Just
possibly (more on that later). But above all, they consist of pure,
unbelievably beautiful music, written by an eminently practical composer
for the most basic of forces: one player on four strings, with a bow. They
are inexhaustibly moving, because that composer was an incomparable
genius who mastered every genre to which he turned his attention,
blessed with a (musical) heart and vision that overflowed with just about
every emotion known to man or woman – except, perhaps, for
embarrassment …
As you can probably gather from the above, my reaction to the suites
is essentially an instinctive one. Of course, I study and read about them
endlessly; every scrap of knowledge can help form an interpretation, and
may perhaps add conviction to one’s performance. Ultimately, though,
the truth lies within the music, not in anything outside it; and it is chiefly
the emotional/dramatic/spiritual narrative of the suites, taking us on a
vast journey, from peaceful meditation through deepest suffering to
radiant exaltation, that I intend to examine here.
First of all, however, some history, most of which I have gleaned,
magpie-like, from various distinguished scholars. And a most fascinating
– if at times bewildering – history it is …
THE STORY
 PART 1

J. S. Bach: A very brief biography

Johann Sebastian Bach was born in the town of Eisenach (where Martin
Luther had attended school about 190 years earlier) in 1685, on what was
then 21 March but now, thanks to the change to the Gregorian calendar,
answers to the name of 31 March. Bach’s family were almost all
musicians; particularly appropriate, since their surname – aside from
meaning ‘brook’ – is one of the few that can be entirely converted into
musical notes (in the German system the letter B is used for the note we
know as B flat, the letter H for our B natural). Orphaned before the age of
ten, little Bach was taken in by an elder brother, Johann Christoph, an
organist, who made a start on J. S.’s musical education; it can be assumed
that the latter was a more than willing pupil. The obituary published a
few years after Bach’s death – written by Johann Friedrich Agricola, a
musical theoretician, in collaboration with the most famous of Bach’s
four renowned composer sons, Carl Philipp Emanuel – tells us a rather
charming, if sad, story. Shortly after commencing his studies, little
Johann Sebastian longed to play more challenging pieces than those his
brother was giving him. Having espied a manuscript volume of
promising-looking keyboard works belonging to Johann Christoph, he
begged to be allowed to learn them. His brother sternly prohibited it, and
shut the volume away in a bookshelf secured with a latticed front. He had
not reckoned, however, with the delicacy of little Bach’s hands; waiting
until his brother was safely in bed, Johann Sebastian would steal up to
the cupboard, push his fingers through the small holes, roll up the volume
and extract it. Although he was not allowed a candle of his own (his
brother sounds as strict as any father), he would copy the music on nights
during which the moon shone through his window. Alas, scarcely had he
completed the mammoth task, which had taken him six months, when
Johann Christoph found out, and as a punishment hid both original and
copy; our Bach had to wait many years, until after his brother’s lamented
death, before he could recover them.
 Despite this setback, J. S.’s musical studies must have progressed
brilliantly, and in 1703 he was engaged for his first proper job, as
organist in the town of Arnstadt. It cannot be said to have gone smoothly,
however. Bach was perhaps not the ideal employee: aside from his gripes
about the musical idiocies of the town council, he managed during this
time to get into an unseemly brawl with a bassoonist, who accused him
of having insulted both his playing and his instrument; to take three
months’ unauthorised leave; to quarrel with various students; and – ahem
– to be accused of inviting a ‘stranger maiden’ to make music (!) in the
church. (In later life, Bach forbade the telling of many stories from his
early life. I wonder what else happened?) Furthermore, the council
complained that at the organ Bach ‘mingled many strange tones’ to the
chorale, thereby confusing the congregation. It must have been rather a
relief to some of the Arnstadt councillors, if not to the music-lovers,
when in 1707 Bach resigned and went to take up a new job in nearby
Mühlhausen. Here, once his new employers had mastered his admittedly
complicated surname (in the first of the few surviving documents they
call him Herr Pach, in the second Herr Bache), things seem to have gone
better. Nevertheless, the following year he accepted a more lucrative and
prestigious offer of employment in a major town, Weimar, where he was
to remain until 1717. Despite the brevity of Bach’s stay in Mühlhausen,
one very important event in his life occurred there: he married his second
cousin, Maria Barbara Bach.
Bach’s life in Weimar appears to have been busy and successful:
originally appointed as court organist and ‘chamber musician’, he was
further honoured within a few years by the title of ‘Konzertmeister’. He
was also paid to repair smaller keyboard instruments, and particularly to
inspect the many organs being built or overhauled at churches in the area;
moreover, he was becoming well known as a teacher. On the personal
front, six of his children were born in Weimar (though that includes a pair
of short-lived twins); these included the composers Wilhelm Friedemann
and Carl Philipp Emanuel. He was on friendly terms with many musical
celebrities (Georg Philipp Telemann stood as godfather to C. P. E.Bach);
and he was mentioned in print for the first time, by Handel’s old
friend/enemy Johann Mattheson (1681–1764). Many cantatas, and much
of his organ music, were written during these years. Alas, after the death
of his original employer, things gradually deteriorated, and late in 1717,
Bach demanded to be released from his position, in somewhat tactless
fashion – and was put in prison for almost a month. It can’t have been
pleasant – and presumably the children were traumatised; but he was
eventually freed, and dismissed in disgrace. Now he was at liberty to
accept an even more lucrative offer (like most of the great composers,
Bach was quite fond of money), at the court of Köthen.
Here his employer was Prince Leopold, who was passionate about
music; he sang, and played the violin, viola da gamba and harpsichord.
Bach and Leopold were on such good terms that the prince agreed to be
godfather to the last of Bach’s children with Maria Barbara, a boy
auspiciously named Leopold Augustus (though sadly the infant did not
profit from the name, perishing within a year). Even though religious
compositions were rarely required, owing to the Prince being Calvinist
(meaning that services were conducted without music) – and despite the
lack of fine organs in the town – the position in Köthen seems to have
been excellent for Bach. His appointment was as Kapellmeister, a step up
from his positions in Weimar, and he seems to have been properly
appreciated at last. Most of the few cantatas he wrote here were to
celebrate birthdays and other festive occasions; but he was able to
produce a large body of instrumental masterpieces that were – outwardly,
at any rate – secular in character. It was here that he wrote, or at least
completed, the works for solo violin (by 1720) and, by extension,
presumably the cello suites; the ‘Brandenburg’ concertos; probably most
of the first book of The Well-Tempered Clavier; and much else.
But tragedy was to strike: in the summer of 1720, having
accompanied his employer while Leopold took the waters at Karlsbad,
Bach returned to find that his wife Maria Barbara had died in his
absence, and was already buried. (This may perhaps have inspired him to
compose the monumental Chaconne that concludes his D minor Partita
for solo violin.) By the following year, however, life was already looking
up; on 3 December 1721, he married his second wife, Anna Magdalena
Wilcke, a singer who was twenty years his junior. It can be assumed that
Bach celebrated in style, since he purchased three barrels of wine for the
occasion. From the few hints one can glean from the scanty surviving
correspondence, Anna Magdalena sounds wonderful: an accomplished
and celebrated singer who gave frequent concerts with her husband, as
well as copying out much of his music; a lover of plants and birds; and –
one can conjecture – a kind stepmother, as well as loving mother. To
assist her musical education, Bach compiled two generous volumes,
known as the ‘Notebooks for Anna Magdalena Bach’ – mostly keyboard
pieces, mingled with some vocal works. Anna Magdalena also, in her
spare time, gave birth to no fewer than thirteen children – of whom, alas,
only six survived into adulthood.
It seems, as far as we can tell, to have been an immensely happy
marriage – as, we are told, Bach’s first marriage had also been.
Unfortunately, on the professional side, life was less rosy. Just eight days
after Bach’s wedding, his employer (like Bach the first time around)
married his cousin, the Princess Friderica; alas, she had no interest in
music. From this point on, Bach’s relationship with Leopold seems to
have deteriorated, and it is no surprise that in 1722 Bach should have
applied for a vacant post in the great city of Leipzig. In a way, it was a
downgrade, since he would be Kantor rather than Kapellmeister here
(although he did officially retain his title of Kapellmeister of Köthen until
Leopold’s death in 1728); but still, the role of Kantor at the
Thomasschule – the school associated with the famous Thomaskirche –
was significant by almost any standard, with duties far more varied and
challenging than those at any of his previous tenures. He was by no
means first choice for the post, the city council accepting him only
unwillingly, after more ‘prestigious’ candidates, such as Telemann, had
withdrawn. (The councillors even had the cheek to say that ‘since the
best could not be obtained, mediocre ones would have to be accepted’.)
Nevertheless – after emerging with flying colours from a religious
examination conducted by two tough professors of theology – Bach was
eventually offered the job, one of the bigwigs expressing the fervent hope
that Bach’s music would not be ‘too theatrical’. In May 1723, Bach and
his family – including by now the first of Anna Magdalena’s children –
made their grand entrance into Leipzig in two carriages, preceded by
their luggage carried in four wagons. (I hope that the councillor who
worried about Bach’s theatrical tendencies wasn’t watching.)
Predictably, Bach’s relations with his employers were less than
perfect, but it is with Leipzig, where he was to remain for the rest of his
life, that we chiefly associate him. He worked unimaginably hard, often
producing a cantata a week, and for several years giving weekly concerts
at a local coffee-house; tuning all the instruments of his orchestra, and
leading the group from the violin or harpsichord; dazzling audiences and
congregations with his organ-playing; training and conducting the choir
from the Thomasschule, and giving instrumental lessons to some of
them; travelling around to inspect organs in various towns; playing and
singing with his family, as well as teaching them and many private
pupils; working as musical director for the famous local university;
acting as host for large entertainments, if one is to judge from the amount
of crockery and cutlery he owned (C. P. E. Bach writes that no eminent
musician would pass through Leipzig without visiting the household –
‘his house was like a beehive, and just as full of life’); getting involved
with both the design and dissemination of new instruments (including,
towards the end of his life, Gottfried Silbermann’s new fortepiano, which
Bach praised and also helped to improve through his perceptive
criticisms); taking care of his own instruments – we are told that nobody
could tune a harpsichord or clavichord to his satisfaction other than
himself; and above all, of course, composing, composing, composing –
endlessly. It is said that it would take someone many years of twenty-
four-hour-per-day labour just to write out the music Bach left behind –
even leaving aside the plethora of missing works. Alongside around two
hundred surviving cantatas (and undoubtedly many more than that, since
a fair proportion of them have been lost), it was in Leipzig that he wrote,
among innumerable other masterpieces, the St John and St Matthew
Passions; most of the works for solo harpsichord and many for organ;
oratorios and concertos; and, later, the ‘Goldberg’ variations, The
Musical Offering, The Art of Fugue and the Mass in B minor. And yet he
found time – and energy! – during these Leipzig years to do his bit
towards co-producing twelve further children with Anna Magdalena.
Miraculous.
After twenty-seven years of these unparalleled achievements, Bach
died from a stroke, blind (probably from diabetes) and presumably
exhausted, on 28 July 1750. He was buried in Leipzig but, shockingly,
soon lay largely forgotten; it was not until 1894 that the body – a body –
was exhumed, from a site held by tradition to be the resting-place of the
great Kantor, and subsequently buried for all to see and worship at the
front of the (much-altered) Thomaskirche. The only slight problem is that
it may not be Bach at all …
 In general, the story of Bach’s life and his subsequent reputation is not
without controversy: it throws shame on some, glory on others. Shame on
those who were so cavalier with his music as to have allowed so many of
his works to be lost – probably around a hundred cantatas, many
concertos and other instrumental works, and at least one Passion – as
well as the manuscripts of countless pieces, including that of the cello
suites; shame on critics and writers, from Bach’s contemporary Johann
Adolph Scheibe onwards, who have accused him of writing turgid, over-
intellectual music (can’t they hear the profound humanity, the fathomless
compassion, the lovable humour?); much shame on the Leipzig
councillors, who described him as ‘incorrigible’ and were already
auditioning potential successors for his job the year before Bach actually
died*; shame on those behind the decision to destroy – as late as 1903 –
the buildings of the Thomasschule in which Bach lived and worked; and
shame on those who did nothing for Bach’s impoverished last surviving
child, Regina Susanna, who lived until 1809. (One of those who
eventually tried to rectify this was Beethoven, who wanted to help ‘the
daughter of the Immortal God of Harmony’, as he put it.) Glory, on the
other hand, to Johann Nikolaus Forkel – musician, author and the so-
called ‘father of musicology’ – for putting so much work into research
for his pioneering biography of Bach; glory to Carl Philipp Emanuel,
who seems to have made the most effort of all the children to preserve his
father’s legacy. (The other sons were perhaps a bit less respectful; Johann
Christian, the youngest son, was even said to have referred to his father
as ‘The Old Wig’ – one hopes it was affectionately meant. And possibly
explained by the fact that his father apparently described him as ‘stupid’
– also, one hopes, affectionately said … In any case, Mozart was very
fond of J. C. Bach, so he can’t have been all bad.) Glory too to Baron van
Swieten (1733–1803), early patron of C. P. E., who introduced Mozart,
and presumably Haydn, to the music of J. S. Bach and Handel; glory to
Felix Mendelssohn, whose passionate championship of Bach’s music,
and whose revival of the St Matthew Passion in Berlin in 1829, when he
was just twenty years old, proved a turning point; and, much later, glory
to the Catalan cellist, conductor, composer and humanitarian Pablo/Pau
Casals, who managed, through his fervent devotion and magnetic
performances, to popularise the cello suites …
Two gentlemen to whom I should really pay royalties for use of their material
in this book: Johann Nikolaus Forkel (1749–1818), whose marvellously
appreciative and informative biography of Bach – the first to be written –
appeared in 1802.
 And Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach (1714–88), who supplied Forkel with much
of his information, and wrote there and elsewhere about his father with all
due deference. (And was a major, albeit utterly different, composer in his
own right, his music and writings having a strong influence on Haydn,
Mozart, even Beethoven.)

* Bach wasn’t always charming to them either, it must be admitted; in one rather shocking
letter, for instance, he complains that the healthy winds that year have robbed him of fees
for playing at funerals.
 PART 2

The Genesis of the Suites

According to the great humanitarian, theologist, organist and Bach

scholar Albert Schweitzer, Bach ‘answered ALL the questions brought
up by his students’. Lucky students, is all I can say. Would that he could
visit us now, if only for a few hours, in order to enlighten us; but given
that that is rather unlikely, all we can do is look at all the many doubts,
uncertainties and queries revolving around the suites, and get as close as
possible to answers – which, I have to warn you, will not always be very
close. Oh well – we can but try. Here goes:

WHY …
… did Bach write the suites?

What could have prompted Bach to write for unaccompanied cello?

Annoyingly, there is all too much that we shall (probably) never know
about this. There was already quite a bit of music for unaccompanied
cello in existence, by composers such as Giuseppe Colombi (1635–94) –
his Chiacona for ‘basso solo’ (presumably a close relative, at least, of the
cello) – and Domenico Gabrielli (1659–90) – his famous Ricercari. As
the names imply, however, the phenomenon seems to have been confined
exclusively to Italy, and it is unlikely that Bach, who was never to
venture beyond his own small corner of eastern Germany, would have
known, or even known of, these works. (He did know, and actually
transcribed, some of the music of Vivaldi, who by the time Bach wrote
the suites had already embarked on his series of cello concertos – twenty-
seven or twenty-eight at the last count; but Bach was presumably
unaware of these works, since they were not published at this time.
Incidentally, Bach omitted, as far as we’re aware, to write a single cello
concerto himself – frustrating.) So why did Bach consider the cello a
suitable instrument for unaccompanied music? He wrote no ‘continuo’
(i.e. accompanied) sonatas – a far more common genre – for us cellists;
only these suites for a lonely cello, as well as many wonderful orchestral
parts, including several ‘obbligato’ accompaniments to vocal arias.
Although there seems to have been no precedent in German-speaking
countries for unaccompanied cello works, there were quite a few such
pieces for solo violin. Apart from the one that is most famous today, the
unaccompanied Passacaglia that concludes the celebrated series of
‘Mystery’ sonatas (with continuo, aside from that movement) by
Heinrich Biber (1644–1704), there were compositions for solo violin by
several other Germanic composers. As a young man in Weimar Bach
may well have known a violinist/composer called Johann Paul von
Westhoff, who is said to have been the first to publish music for
unaccompanied violin. Even earlier was Thomas Baltzar, who had been
born in Bach’s area, in the city of Lübeck, in 1631. He seems, in fact, to
have specialised in dazzling people with his works for the
unaccompanied instrument, receiving a five-star review from Pepys’
nearest rival diarist, John Evelyn, after the latter heard him playing in
London on 4 March 1656:

so perfect & skillful as there was nothing so crosse & perplex …

In Summ, he plaid on that single Instrument a full Consort.

So there were at least models for Bach’s famous violin sonatas and
partitas; and Bach’s own manuscript of these works describes them as
‘Libro 1’, leaving open the distinct possibility that he may have thought
of the cello suites as the second book of a two-part musical tome. (It’s
also possible, however, that the six sonatas for violin and keyboard were
supposed to comprise ‘Libro 2’.) But whether or not conceived as a vast
whole, the sets for solo violin and cello are very separate, the violin
sonatas – as opposed to partitas – in particular far more densely written,
with their complex fugues. The partitas are also markedly different from
the cello suites, in terms both of string writing and of form. I have often
wondered what the distinction is between a partita and a suite, since both
are more-or-less large-scale compositions comprising several dance
movements. In the case of these particular works, at any rate, I believe
that the difference is that the violin partitas are freer in design than the
cello suites. Only the third Partita opens with a Prelude; and to the
second, the D minor, Bach appends the mighty Chaconne. The suites, in
contrast, are in fixed six-movement form, each beginning with a Prelude;
only the two-dance sets that make up the fifth movement vary in genre,
those of the first two suites being Minuets, those of suites 3 and 4
Bourrées, 5 and 6 Gavottes.
So there are formal and technical differences between the violin and
cello works; but there is also a basic difference in atmosphere. Bach was
apparently an excellent violinist, at least until his later years (and also an
accomplished violist, like so many great composers: Haydn, Mozart,
Beethoven, Mendelssohn, Dvořák, Hindemith, Bridge and Britten,
among others); but there is no evidence that he played the cello. The solo
violin works make full use of four-note chords and contrapuntal textures
in a way that Bach does not attempt with the cello, the result being that
the cello suites seem to be somehow more intimate, conceived not as
concert pieces (or teaching pieces, as Bach’s contemporaries seem largely
to have considered the violin works), but more as meditations.
On the other hand, it’s also true that the writing for cello is perfectly
suited to the innate qualities of the instrument – as much as if not more so
than in any subsequent compositions. So who, if anybody, was advising
Bach?

For WHOM …
… might the suites have been written?

Well, it is possible, even though undocumented, that Bach played the

cello himself. Curiously, in one of the few pictures dating from Bach’s
lifetime that was at one point believed to portray the great man, a family
group depicting a father and three sons, ‘Bach’ is holding a cello (albeit a
small one – perhaps a violoncello piccolo); but since the portrait seems
unlikely in the end to be of the man himself, that is probably a red
herring.
In Weimar Bach had in his orchestra two cellists (and only three
violinists, not including Bach himself), so it is certainly possible that one
of them may have given him the idea for the suites. The two most likely
candidates, however, are two men who worked with Bach in Köthen: first
would be the famous gamba player Christian Ferdinand Abel, for whose
daughter Bach stood as godfather. (Abel’s son was much later to found
the famous Bach–Abel concerts in London with Bach’s youngest son,
Johann Christian.) The main problem with this theory is that it would
necessitate Abel senior having doubled as a cellist – for which there is no
real evidence. It is true that he is in some modern sources described as a
cellist (and even violinist) as well as gamba player; this is probably,
however, because he played the ‘violoncello piccolo’, which is a very
different instrument from the real cello – in some ways more like a
gamba than a cello. The portrait mentioned above, of the gentleman
holding a violoncello piccolo, may well in fact be Abel with three of his
children. The other obvious candidate would be the cellist of Bach’s
Kapelle at Köthen, Bernhard Lienecke, about whom we know very little.
(Although, in an intriguing morsel of trivia, we do know that he stood as
godfather at a christening in Köthen in September 1721; two of the other
godparents on this occasion were Bach and Anna Magdalena – the first
time their names are listed next to each other.)
Or perhaps it was just that Bach, with his restless curiosity, became
aware of the possibilities of this emerging instrument, the cello, and
wanted to write for it. Again – we shall never know for certain.

For WHAT …
… instrument were the suites intended?

Well – cello, presumably; but alas, it isn’t quite as simple as that. (It
rarely is in this story.) For a start, the mainstream cellos that Bach would
have known – now thought of as baroque cellos – were markedly
dissimilar to our modern instruments: the neck and fingerboard were
shorter, the strings made of other materials, the overall set-up different.
But, more confusingly, the term ‘violoncello’* was loosely used at that
time; in addition to the baroque cello, it covered a variety of other, related
instruments. We are used to seeing today’s players of the baroque cello
holding it between their knees, without the modern ‘spike’, or ‘endpin’ † ;
but some of
these other instruments were placed on a cushioned chair, or held on the
shoulder (must have been uncomfortable, even if they were smaller than
normal cellos). There were several of these now mostly obsolete animals
around at the time: the aforementioned violoncello piccolo (as implied, a
small cello), for which Bach wrote quite a few parts in cantatas; the
violoncello da braccia – braccia meaning ‘arm’, as opposed to gamba,
meaning ‘leg’ (as in the viola da gamba); the viola da spalla (or
violoncello da spalla), spalla meaning ‘shoulder’; the viola pomposa; etc.
Further muddying the waters, some of the names may have been
interchangeable: for instance, both the violoncello da braccia and the
violoncello da spalla may in fact have been the same instrument as a
violoncello piccolo.
In three of the four eighteenth-century copies of the Bach suites, they
are unequivocally described as being for cello; but in what is probably
the earliest copy, by Johann Peter Kellner (1705–72), the title page
announces ‘Sechs suonaten pour le viola de basso’. However, since he
gets the title wrong and can’t even stick to one language, perhaps one can
discount his evidence. (To be fair, Kellner’s description of the suites as
‘sonatas’ – which would not as a rule contain dances – was a common
error; even C. P. E. Bach made the same mistake.) Anyway, since the first
four suites are not only written for the normal range of the cello, but
exploit the sonic potential of the instrument (bar any special effects, such
as pizzicato) to its fullest and most perfect extent, it feels like a pretty
safe bet to assume that they were written for the (baroque) cello as we
know and love it – even if Bach might not have objected to the suites
being played on those other instruments. Thereafter, things appear to
become a little more complicated – but only at first glance. The fifth suite
calls for ‘scordatura’, i.e. the retuning of a string – in this case the top
string, the A, being tuned down to a G. (This means that in most copies,
all the notes that are to be played on what was the A string, but is now an
upper G string, are notated a tone higher than they sound, in order to help
the cellist to put his or her fingers in the right place.) The practice of
scordatura wasn’t unusual, however – Biber, for instance, uses it as if
there were no tomorrow; it can dramatically transform the sonorities of a
string instrument. Then we come to the sixth suite, for which Bach
specifies a five-string instrument, with an E string a fifth above the A.
This could possibly signify that Bach expected it to be played on a
violoncello piccolo (which frequently, though not always, featured just
such an upper E string), or on one of those other forgotten instruments.
On the other hand, though, there certainly were several five-string cellos
around; I think it is more likely that it was written for one of those.
Proponents of the violoncello piccolo theory for this suite point to the
inventory of string instruments left by Bach after his death; they include
both a cello and a ‘bassettgen’, which may well be yet another name for a
violoncello piccolo. That was, however, some thirty years after the suites
were probably composed (see below), so it doesn’t prove much.
Furthermore, there’s no score by Bach that specifies ‘violoncello piccolo’
until his Leipzig years, so were he to have had the piccolo in mind for the
sixth suite, that would imply that it was composed somewhat later than
the other suites. As it is, for those of us cellists not enamoured of the
sound of a five-string cello, or unable to get hold of one, we just struggle
along with our four strings, going high up the A string where necessary. I
can’t say it’s easy – but it’s eminently possible; and at least we have an
excuse for playing out of tune …
Anyway, the whole argument would probably have seemed futile to
Bach, who seems to have been happy to arrange his works for any
instrumental combination that was practical.
 This is supposedly a violoncello with five strings; personally, I feel that the
player – said to be Francesco Alborea, also known as ‘Franciscello’, the
earliest superstar cellist – should concentrate more on how he’s going to
make a nice sound with a playing position like that and less on looking into
the camera.

And then there’s the bow: on whichever instrument Bach’s

contemporaries played, the bow would have been very different from the
one used by today’s ‘modern’ players. The baroque bow was more
curved than later ones, which gradually (via the ‘classical’ bow) evolved
into today’s flatter contour. It would also have been lighter, and the two
ends (the ‘heel’ – commonly known, for some reason, as the ‘frog’ – and
the ‘point’) would have looked quite dissimilar to their modern
counterparts. These disparities mean that early bows are pretty far
removed, both in appearance and in feel, from those we know and love
today; and consequently they are employed in a very different way.
Theories about how bows were used in Bach’s time seem to be changing
all the time – both concerning how they might have been held, and which
bowings would have constituted the norm. For instance, conventional
wisdom had us believe for many years that in baroque music all
supposedly heavier notes – including practically all the first beats of bars
– needed to be played with a down-bow, the lighter ones on an up-bow.
However, a few people have now pointed out that the cellists whom Bach
knew in Weimar and Köthen may well have held the bow from beneath,
in the old gamba style, rather than from above; and it turns out that the
rather restrictive down-bow/up-bow, heavy/light rule does not apply to
cellists using the ‘underhand’ technique. (This development pleases me:
I’ve always felt that the only natural way to begin both the third and
fourth suites was with an up-bow – and have been criticised for it,
especially by certain students. Now I can thumb my generously
proportioned nose at such jibes. Ha.) On the other hand – or rather, on the
same, right hand – some differences between baroque and modern bows
remain important, no matter how Bach’s cellists might have held the
former. Such differences include the contrast between the baroque bow’s
predilection for on-the-string bowing, albeit frequently punctuated by
flights into the air in order to return to the heel, and the modern bow’s
tendency to jump away from the string at a moment’s notice to produce a
staccato articulation. Here the arguments about what is more appropriate
for the Bach suites continue to rage, the extreme proponents of modern-
type bowing declaring that they no more want to go back in time in terms
of musical technique than they do with hygiene (i.e. washing perhaps
once a week, and being beset with lice), the ‘historically informed’
obsessives declaring that there is no way to understand Bach’s music
without fully recreating the performance practices of his day. (For what
it’s worth, I stand somewhere in the middle – fascinated by what I know
of baroque bowing conventions, but on the other hand glad of the
freedom for my bow to dance its way into the ether when it feels like
doing so. Regarding that behaviour of my bow in some movements, I can
only fall back on Haydn’s answer to those who criticised him for writing
such cheerful religious music: when he thought of God’s mercy, he
explained, ‘I could not suppress my joy, but gave vent to my happy
spirits.’ Exactly how my bow feels in, for instance, some of the
Courantes and Gigues.)

A ‘baroque’-type bow (actually made in the late twentieth century).

A ‘classical’ bow.

A ‘modern’ bow (dating from the early 1800s). All these bows are from my collection.
Here we have a lady using an underhand bow-hold, with a gentleman looking
on approvingly (though it’s hard to tell whether it’s actually the bow-hold of
which he approves …).
 And here we have another gentleman with a (rather odd) overhand bow-hold,
looking thoroughly pleased with himself – as well he might: he is Giacobbe
Basevi detto il Cervetto, no less, an Italian/English/Jewish cellist and
composer who was born in 1680 and died in 1783 – at the age of 102.

WHEN …
… were the suites written?

Given the lack of an original manuscript, it is impossible to date the cello

suites exactly. It has always been assumed that they were written during
the Köthen years, in the course of which Bach produced so much of his
instrumental music; but one cannot rule out the possibility of them
having been conceived, at least, during the Weimar period. It is also
fairly likely that they were revisited later in Leipzig; Bach frequently
revised his works, or in some cases made new versions of them. Even
though the earliest surviving copy probably dates from as late as 1726,
we can surmise that the suites had probably been composed, at least in
their first version, by the time Bach left Köthen. His own manuscript of
the works for solo violin, specifying them as ‘Book 1’, is dated 1720; in
the much later volume that contains Anna Magdalena’s copy of the cello
suites, they follow straight on from her copy of the violin sonatas and
partitas, and are specifically labelled as ‘Part 2’. Therefore, we can rather
guardedly accept that both sets of masterpieces were probably conceived
and written at roughly the same time. On the other hand, it is just
possible (see above) that Bach intended the sixth suite to be played on the
aforementioned violoncello piccolo – or even a viola pomposa, an
instrument that was probably not even in existence until around 1725. So,
questions remain – what a surprise!
Anyway, as a musician I feel that the precise date really doesn’t
matter that much, other than to historians. What does matter to us
players, however, is the reliability of the several early sources available
to us; and oy vey – that is a veritable can of musical worms …

WHICH …
… of those sources can we trust to have faithfully reproduced
Bach’s original?

Hmm … are you sitting comfortably? Assuming that you are, let’s begin
by listing the ones we have:

Generally referred to as Manuscript A is the copy made by Anna

Magdalena Bach and dated (through the paper used) to some time
between 1727 and 1731. It formed part of the collection of a
violinist named Herr Schwanberger (good name); it’s likely that he
commissioned – i.e. paid for – the copy. This manuscript was
originally bound together with a copy of the solo violin sonatas
and partitas, also in Anna Magdalena’s hand. It is on the title page
 of this source that a note in Herr Schwanberger’s writing describes
the violin works as ‘Pars 1’, the cello ones as ‘Pars 2’; this same
page also tells us that the music is ‘composée par S. J. S. Bach’
and ‘écrite par Madame Bachen son Epouse’.
Another copy, known as Manuscript B but thought to have been
made earlier than A, is in the hand of Johann Peter Kellner, the
organist (and possibly something of a violinist, but that’s
uncertain) mentioned above. Kellner knew Bach, and may have
studied with him at one point. Like Anna Magdalena, he copied
the solo violin works as well, his version of them being dated 3
July 1726; it would seem that the cello works were written out
around the same time.
Next comes a composite manuscript, known to its intimate
friends as Manuscript C, the first part prepared by a horn player
named Johann Nikolaus Schober (c.1721–1807), the second (the
new scribe taking over in the middle of a bar – curious) by that
most widely employed of copyists, Anonymous. This version
probably (how often that dreaded word, along with its boon
companions ‘maybe’, ‘presumably’ and ‘possibly’, occurs within
this history) dates from the 1760s – i.e. some years after Bach’s
death. Schober worked at the Prussian court in Berlin alongside C.
P. E. Bach, so we can fairly safely assume that he was copying
from a source owned by the latter (see below). Manuscript C was
at one point owned by another organist, Johann Christian Westphal
(1773–1829), whose father, a music-dealer, had known C. P. E.
Bach in Hamburg, where C. P. E. spent his last twenty years.
Also copied by Anonymous – but a different member of the
tribe – Manuscript D hails from Hamburg and dates from the late
years of the eighteenth century. It closely resembles Manuscript C,
and was probably (aargh) commissioned by C. P. E.’s daughter,
Anna Karoline Philippina Bach (1747–1804).

So there we have the four earliest surviving copies of the suites. Since
Manuscripts C and D were created during the second half of the
eighteenth century rather than during Bach’s lifetime, it’s tempting to
dismiss them as less relevant; but as it turns out, they have as good a
claim as manuscripts A and B to be faithful reproductions of Bach’s
original – maybe …
Then we have several other versions to consider:

Bach’s original manuscript – or manuscripts? LOST.

A copy owned by C. P. E. Bach, from which Manuscripts C and
D must (almost certainly) have been copied. LOST.
An autograph of the transcription made by Bach of the fifth
suite, transposed into G minor, for lute (a.k.a. the third lute suite).
One might think that this would simplify things, but it turns out
that, interesting though it is to see how Bach both harmonises and
embellishes the music, in the matter of articulation (which
constitutes the major difference between the sources) it
complicates matters still further. Of course …
Finally, there is in addition the beautiful manuscript, in J. S.’s
own magisterial hand, of the violin solo sonatas and partitas,
which one has to examine for comparison during the search to
discover what Bach might actually have written into the
manuscript(s) of the cello suites.

And, not that it’s much use (except to scholars seeking to understand
how Bach was performed in the early nineteenth century), there’s also the
heavily edited first edition of the suites prepared by a French cellist
called Louis-Pierre Norblin; this did not appear until 1824 – so around a
hundred years after their composition. Norblin had somehow heard about
the suites; perhaps he’d read Forkel’s biography of Bach, in which they
are described as being of equal value to the violin works. In a preface to
his edition, Norblin congratulates himself on having found the
manuscript, after a long search in Germany; however, it seems pretty
certain that the manuscript he’d found was either the one owned by C. P.
E. (in which case there is a small chance that it was the – an – autograph)
or manuscript C or D. Anyway, Monsieur Norblin distorts the music with
his addition of masses of tempo indications, slurs and dynamics which,
even if some of them may make a certain musical sense, are just not
necessary; we players need to get closer to Bach’s original, not further
away from it – and then make our musical decisions for ourselves. He
doesn’t even get the title right, designating them as ‘Six Sonates ou
Etudes pour le Violoncello Solo’. Studies indeed …
‘Anyway,’ I hear you say, ‘what’s the problem? You lucky cellists
have four early sources; you just read them all, decide which suits you
best – and hey presto, you have a valid reading of the suites.’ Well, yes
and no; but mostly no. When one plays music as great as this, attention to
each and every detail is what separates a true, speaking performance
from an average, run-of-the-mill one; divining and following the
composer’s intentions – not necessarily literally, but absolutely faithfully,
in what one feels to be the spirit and language of the music – is the chief
duty of the interpreter. And that is an exact science, not a matter for blind
guesswork. In order to provide convincing interpretations, we need to be
convinced.
‘Ah, but are a few disparities that important?’ I hear you continue (my
imagination has good hearing). Well – yes, they are. Actually, strange to
say, it’s not really the different notes that matter the most here. There is
certainly a wide range of contradictory readings of various notes or
chords to be found, but in most cases these are either alternative viable
possibilities or obvious errors that can be quite easily corrected. Of
course, there is much room for discussion, but nothing (I’d say) that lies
at the true heart of interpretation. For example, here is the ending of a bar
from the Prelude to the first suite, where Anna Magdalena and Kellner
have the following:

whereas sources C and D have this:

i.e. Anna Magdalena thinks that these two beats are composed of the
notes A, C sharp, E, G, A, C sharp, D, C sharp, while sources C and D
would have us play A, C sharp, E, F sharp, G, A, B flat, C sharp. Both
look as if they were very deliberately written; either is credible – one just
has to choose. More of a bumper issue is a chord in the penultimate bar
of the Sarabande of the sixth suite. This, as far as I can see, is the only
time where all four sources have different notes. (All the Fs here are F
sharps, as per the key signature.) Anna Magdalena has:

i.e. G in the bass; Kellner says it’s G sharp:

No, you’re both wrong, says source C:

It’s A, obviously.
Ha! I can trump that, crows source D:

It’s A, but with an F sharp beneath it.

So – there are decisions to be made; but I wouldn’t say that they
deeply affect the meaning of the music. Nor do the important
discrepancies lie in tempo indications – Anna Magdalena’s version has
none, the others very few; or dynamics – as with much baroque music,
these are sparse (again, particularly in Anna Magdalena’s copy). The
greatest problem by far, as I’ve mentioned, lies in the specified
articulation, the (many) slurs indicating which notes should be played
within one bow-stroke. Here again, you might be entitled to be dubious.
‘Surely bowings don’t really make that much difference?’ Well, yes –
unfortunately they do. If Iwereto writelikethis – orli keth is – you
mightbeslightly puzzled; and that’s the effect of misplaced slurs in
performance. A very important part of the interpreter’s task in this music
– in any music – is to decide which notes belong together and which
should be separated; which are strong, which weak. Changing the bow
also allows the music/the bow to breathe in the right place – essential.
Without that, one gets an effect like this of a narrative going on and on
lacking punctuation one doesn’t really want that it quickly becomes
incomprehensible music has its commas its semicolons its full colons its
full stops it even has inverted commas phew.
The trouble is that the intention behind misplaced slurs can be
difficult to decipher, to put it mildly. Let’s look at the manuscripts and
see wherein the problem lies, taking as a starting point the first two lines
of perhaps the most famous movement of all, the Prelude of the first
suite, in G major. Here’s Anna Magdalena’s version:
Here’s Kellner’s:

Now Manuscript C:

Then there’s Manuscript D:

 And here (not that it matters much, but it sets the tone for nearly a
hundred years of performances) is the first edition:

True, all the notes are the same – but as for the articulation markings
…
This opening comprises a serene arpeggiated figure rising over three
strings. In the first bar the notes are the principal ones of the home key, G
major: G, D, B. G is the ‘tonic’; D is the fifth, or ‘dominant’; and B is the
third, or ‘mediant’. The fourth note to be heard, A, is the only one not to
belong to the home ‘triad’ of G major – meaning that it would sound
(mildly) discordant if played at the same time as the other three. During
the second beat we get the B and the D repeated twice, this time with the
high B played first, so going down rather than up. The third and fourth
beats are a replica of the first two. Rhythmically, the bar consists of a
repeated pattern of sixteen notes, all of equal duration, called
semiquavers – or sixteenth notes, depending on whether you speak
English or American. (From now on, I’ll use the English terms – for the
UK edition, anyway. Actually, in rehearsal I tend to use the American
version – it’s so much more logical, if arguably less quaintly charming.)
Despite all the words I have just employed in order to describe these four
beats, they are in fact extremely simple, as are the subsequent three bars
– or rather, they should be; but the bewildering disparities between these
copies are enough to cause conscientious players deep grief and
bewilderment. Look at them! (The disparities, not the players.)
Anna Magdalena marks the slurs in the first bar over the B and A –
the two notes that really don’t belong together. Furthermore, although the
basic musical pattern continues unchanged in shape (even if the notes are
different) for the next three bars, she never repeats that slur over the third
and fourth notes of said pattern. In fact, her slurs dance around all over
the place (as they do in her copy of the solo violin works, the
inaccuracies particularly striking when one compares her version with
her husband’s well-nigh perfect manuscript). Hmm … maybe she was
distracted by the plethora of stepchildren and children? Or perhaps she’d
been swigging from the beer that formed part of Bach’s salary, or the
wine or brandy so close to his heart? (To digress just slightly: apparently
one of the chief reasons that people of the time imbibed so freely was
that alcohol protected them from the bacteria present in the water they
drank. That was their story, anyway.)
At any rate, I think we can declare with some certitude that Anna
Magdalena makes a mistake in the very first bar of the very first suite.
Bach’s music is always dictated by a divine logic; there’s nothing
random. As Forkel observed:

With him, every transition was required to have a connection with

the preceding idea and to appear to be a necessary consequence of
it. He knew not, or rather he disdained, those sudden sallies by
which many composers attempt to surprise their listeners.

And playing the first bar the way Anna Magdalena wrote it would sound
too much like a sudden sally in a Leipzig alley, even if there’s nothing
preceding it.
Hmm … it hardly augurs well for the reliability of the whole
manuscript. (Nor is one’s confidence in her attention to detail boosted
later when she gives the title of ‘Courante’ to the Allemande of the fifth
suite.)
Now look at Mr Kellner’s version. (Sorry: do stop me if I’m being
boring.) He at least has the initial slur over the first three notes – but it
also appears to cover the fourth (which could be valid, although it seems
to me odd to group the ‘foreign’ note, A, with the triad). But then,
looking further, his slurs also seem to develop minds of their own,
changing shape every bar; it’s impossible to tell how many notes they’re
supposed to cover. Again, logic and natural musicality suggest that the
slurs should be the same in all of the first four bars; there’s just no reason
for them to differ.
At least Manuscript C is consistent, thank goodness, the first three
notes of each group slurred each time; but Manuscript D, after a
promising start, also goes mad, with the slur starting to creep over the
fourth note, and with an incomprehensible slur over the second beat of
bar 3. What was in the stuff they drank in those days? Meanwhile, the
first edition has firmly decided that the first slur is supposed to cover the
four notes of the group, not just three. As I say, this is possible, even
though I strongly doubt whether it’s correct; and it’s certainly preferable
to later editions, in which the first bars contained just two slurs, each
covering eight notes. This rather slimy bowing became standard for many
years, in fact, and made it well-nigh impossible for the passage to speak
or dance.
Here, complete with utterly redundant crescendo, is the Hugo Becker
edition – the first incarnation in which I, and countless other cellists,
encountered the suites:

So – the first bar of the first of the suites is already causing us

heartache and sleepless nights; and there are thirty-one more bars in this
Prelude, and then thirty-five or forty-one more complete movements
(depending on whether you count the double movements as one or two)
to go. Now maybe you can begin to understand why it is that if you see
someone in the street looking pale and gaunt, muttering to themselves, it
is quite likely to be a cellist who has been studying the Bach suites. Oh
well – there are rewards too …
But WHY are there such differences between the earliest sources?
Well, there are two distinct – at times warring – schools of thought on
this issue: some scholars claim that the massive variants are a result of
the four copies stemming from at least two different versions in Bach’s
hand; while other experts tut-tut and say that this is impossible, that they
were all definitely taken from the same one manuscript – pointing as
(quite convincing) evidence to the mistakes that all four copies have in
common, errors that Bach would surely not have made twice in different
autographs. Proponents of the two points of view are often at each other’s
throats (in print, anyway). It can be quite amusing to witness – as can
many spats among historians, musical and otherwise. I am a member of
various societies devoted to composers – partly because I’m interested in
those composers, and partly because I find it so funny to read such things
as, for instance, Professor Y’s triumphant assertion that Professor Z is
quite wrong to say that Liszt arrived in Bologna on 30 October, because
here is a restaurant bill from a Bologna restaurant dated 28 October. The
next newsletter is then likely to contain a furious letter from Professor Z,
pointing out that the 28 October bill – as all the world (except Professor
Y, evidently) knows – actually dates from the previous year, when Liszt
was between Modena and Imola and stopped off for lunch in Bologna
between 1 and 3 p.m.; with all due respect (i.e. very little), Professor Z
suggests that Professor Y should have done her homework, and perhaps
had her eyesight checked, before making such preposterous allegations.
And so on …How amazed the composers themselves would have been to
witness the fights that occur nowadays over the trivia of their lives;
though not as amazed, I think it’s fair to say, as aristocratic musical
patrons (such as the Margrave of Brandenburg, or Prince Leopold of
Köthen, in Bach’s case) would have been to discover that they are now
remembered solely for their connection with a mere employee – a
humble musician at that. Probably most astonished of all, however,
would have been the composers’ copyists and other helpers, to know that
their lives and work (Bach’s assistants in particular) are now the object of
minute scrutiny, with multiple research foundations and laboratories
devoted to studying their handwriting, the paper and ink they used at
different times, etc. Such attention might seem like madness, in fact …
… but it’s exactly what we have to give to the four copyists involved
here, in order to get a little closer to the truth about the suites.
First, Anna Magdalena: as far as we know, she was a very fine singer
(employed as such in Leipzig at a musician’s salary second only to that of
her husband), though almost certainly less advanced as a keyboard
player; she was evidently much involved with various musical activities
of her husband, giving regular concerts with him as well as copying out
many of his pieces. There is no record, however, of her ever having
played a string instrument. Bach himself, in addition to all his other
accomplishments, was – as already mentioned – an excellent violinist; C.
P. E. recalled that until his old age, Bach played the violin ‘cleanly and
powerfully’. Bach’s slurs, therefore – such as those in the solo violin
works – are the markings of a string player, presumably indicating
bowings rather than just phrasing. (When it comes to slurs, those in
music for violin and for cello will in general be pretty identical.
Sometimes, it is true, at a point where it will feel comfortable for a
violinist to play a down-bow, it will feel more appropriate to the cellist to
use an up-bow, or vice versa; but since there are no down-bow or up-bow
indications in the suites, that detail need not concern us here.) Some
composers who were not practising string players – Debussy, to take one
random example – mark slurs that are impossible to contain within one
bow-stroke; they are there to indicate the shape or character of the
phrase, not precise execution. That does not seem to be the case with
Bach, whose markings are generally thoroughly practical; but Anna
Magdalena, as a non-string player, evidently did not approach that aspect
of her copies with as much care as her husband. Much though she must
have revered Herr Bach’s work (how could she not?), she almost
certainly had no idea of the importance every stroke of her pen would
have for future musicians. How/why could/should she? Besides, she was
probably in a rush.
As for Kellner, he was primarily an organist; he may also have
dabbled in violin-playing, but not significantly. It is surmised that he
copied out both the solo violin works and the cello suites with a view to
arranging them for himself to play on the organ, especially since they are
contained within a large volume of pieces containing mostly keyboard
music. (Similarly, Bach himself was reported to have played his own solo
violin works on the clavichord, and would also presumably have
performed the organ version of the first movement of the E major partita,
which he incorporated within the opening Sinfonia of his cantata BWV
29.) This would explain why Kellner makes no mention of the fifth string
in the sixth suite and why in the fifth, he tries to correct the scordatura
writing and notate the upper tones as they are supposed to sound. (We
know that he was writing from a copy containing the scordatura notation
but attempting to transpose to real pitch, because he makes so many
mistakes.) We can’t be certain, however (just for a change), that this
explains the huge volume of differences between Kellner’s versions and
the others. In fact, there are several mysteries hovering around his copies
of both sets of string works. Why, for instance, does he leave out the
entire first partita for violin (the B minor) as well as several movements
of the other two partitas, and large chunks of some of the movements that
he did copy – in particular the Chaconne, of which some seventy bars
have gone astray? When it comes to the cello suites, he omits the
timeless, haunting Sarabande from the fifth suite, as well as all but the
opening few bars of the Gigue of that suite. One theory that has been
posited is that he was working in both cases from an earlier, incomplete
copy of the music. It’s almost impossible to imagine the fifth suite (the
world, in fact) without that Sarabande; but it is conceivable, I suppose,
that Bach, unsure of what to write as the central movement, temporarily
omitted the Sarabande, and jumped to the Gavottes, as well as leaving the
final movement, the Gigue, unfinished on a draft copy – and that Kellner
somehow got hold of this version. Hmm … as Sherlock Holmes advises
us: ‘When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains,
however improbable, must be the truth.’ Unarguable, but here there are
also other possibilities. This ‘unfinished draft’ idea just doesn’t ring true:
why would everything else in the suites be complete other than these two
movements? Another hypothesis – one that to me, at least, seems far
more likely – is that Kellner was only interested in those movements that
he felt would work as organ pieces. Neither this Sarabande – the only
movement with very few added harmonies in the lute version – nor the
Gigue contain any chords or double-stopping, only single notes; so he
may have given up on them as useless. (This doesn’t explain why he left
a truncated version of the Chaconne; but I leave it to those writing about
the violin works to explain that one away.) Anyway, it shows, I feel, that
his version is not to be trusted implicitly as a faithful transcription of the
master’s final thoughts on the suites – even though he does seem, at least,
to have corrected a few wrong notes found in the other three sources. I
suspect, finally, that one must treat Kellner’s version with just as much
caution as Anna Magdalena’s; or perhaps even more. In his defence,
however, it should be acknowledged that Kellner took the trouble to write
out a huge quantity of Bach’s music, including some pieces that would
otherwise have been lost. For that, and for the fact that he evidently
appreciated the genius of Bach when few did, we should show him some
gratitude and respect – and defend him from the many scholars who have
given him a thoroughly rough ride.
And so to Manuscripts C and D: I think we can deal with them
together because, though by no means identical, they are similar enough
for us to assume that they were copied from the same source; or perhaps
D is a copy of C. But what was the source for C? It’s an important
question. Looking at these two versions in the past, and knowing that
they came into existence well after Bach’s death, I tended to overlook
them – partly, somehow, because the bowings are too sensible and
pragmatic; I assumed that they were the work of a cellist, or cellists, who
wanted to perform the suites and so added their own bowings. But
perhaps – dreaded thought – I was wrong …
And that, I’m afraid, necessitates another digression:

C. P. E. Bach’s copy

It seems fairly clear, given the provenance of Manuscripts C and D, that

they would have originated from the version that we know C. P. E. Bach
left in his estate (and which has since disappeared – naturally). So who
was the source of that source? It appears unlikely that it was J. S. himself,
since in the catalogue of C. P. E.’s collection of his father’s music it is
stated clearly that both the two previous entries, The Art of Fugue and the
15 Inventions and Sinfonias, are in Bach’s hand (‘in origineller
Handschrift’), whereas the entry for the suites tells us merely that it was
written out (‘geschriebene’) and bound (‘eingebunden’). Not a hundred
per cent proof, true; but that does seem to imply quite strongly that it’s
not an original autograph.
 If not by Bach himself, however, the copy might instead – perhaps? –
have been made by a gentleman named Johann Christoph Altnickol
(1719–59). This is conjecture, with no evidence attached; however, it is
possible. Altnickol did write out a lot of Bach’s music; and if it was
indeed he who created C. P. E.’s manuscript of the suites – then this is
serious! Altnickol came to Leipzig in 1744 and, having started out as a
student of Bach’s, seems to have become progressively closer to the Bach
family – coming as close as one could get, in fact, by marrying Bach’s
daughter Elisabeth Juliane Friederica in 1749. Their first son was born
nine months later, and was christened Johann Sebastian; alas, he died in
infancy – unlike Carl Philipp Emanuel’s son Johann Sebastian Bach
(1748–78), who became a successful artist. Forkel even tells us that Bach
on his deathbed dictated his last work, the Chorale Prelude ‘Vor deinen
Thron’ – actually a revision of an earlier chorale – to Altnickol; although
doubts have been cast on the accuracy of this legend, Forkel would not
have recorded it unless he’d had it from a reliable source – C. P. E.? After
his father-in-law’s death, Altnickol and his wife may have assumed
partial responsibility for Bach’s apparently mentally challenged (but
musically talented, of course!) son, Gottfried Heinrich. Altnickol was not
merely an expert scribe, evidently trusted by the Bachs (J. S. himself kept
Altnickol’s copy of The Well-Tempered Clavier Book 2 in his possession
until his death), but also a composer in his own right, a singer, organist,
conductor, violinist – and cellist. He took part, presumably in various
capacities, in the house concerts during which Bach gave almost all of his
performances outside churches in his last years. Is it even possible that
Altnickol might have performed the cello suites during these concerts,
having made a copy for this very purpose, with some
corrections/additions provided by Bach himself? It’s a tempting thought,
particularly since Manuscripts C and D are more performer-friendly than
either of the earlier sources; in a potential parallel, Altnickol’s copy of
the six sonatas for violin and keyboard is generally accepted as the final
version of those works. And he wrote so beautifully.

Altnickol’s manuscript, in his calligraphy-worthy handwriting, of a Sanctus

of his own composition.
 So we can say of this idea that it’s at least imaginable, and also that it
would somehow make sense; but yet again, of one thing we can be fairly
certain – that we shall never be certain. And there are so many other
possibilities: for instance, C. P. E. Bach’s copy could just as easily have
been the work of the same anonymous scribe who entered a fair copy of
‘Vor deinen Thron’ into a volume of Bach’s organ chorales, probably
shortly after Bach’s death; this copyist, whose work first appears around
1742, is believed to have worked later for C. P. E. in Berlin, so that gives
him a fighting chance with the bookies. Then there are the two unknown
copyists who produced a manuscript of Bach’s sonatas for violin and
keyboard that was also in C. P. E.’s possession; and so on. The trouble is
that there are eighteenth-century copies of Bach’s music in well over a
hundred different hands. But I do like the Altnickol idea – keeping it in
the family, as it were …
In the end – who knows?
Nobody. All the witnesses seem to be dead – highly suspicious. A
cover-up, say I.

***

At any rate, I think that, amidst all the uncertainty, this does suggest that
both performers and historians should lavish as much attention on
Manuscripts C and D as they do the two earlier sources. As well as
containing eminently practical bowings, C and D offer us many more
dynamic markings than do either Anna Magdalena or Kellner, as well as
frequent staccato indications, almost entirely lacking in the first two
sources; and in addition – interestingly – some very attractive
ornamentation. Could these embellishments be the work of Bach? As my
friend John Butt pointed out in his wonderfully helpful notes for this
book, Bach frequently inserted extra ornaments into students’ copies of
his own work – as John puts it, ‘For Bach, less is bore’; or as Forkel
observes, rather less succinctly: ‘I confess that I have often felt both
surprise and delight at the means which he employed to make, little by
little, the faulty good, the good better, and the better perfect.’ Musically,
I’d say it was certainly possible that the added ornamentation was
Bach’s; but of course it could also be the work of a tasteful performer
who understood the style of the suites (Altnickol?).
 Manuscript C, despite being the work of two scribes, also has the
virtue of being the most consistently legible of the four, particularly after
Herr Anonymous takes over (although all four manuscripts are
picturesque in their various ways). Looking at Bach’s glorious autograph
of the violin partitas/sonatas, a work of art in itself, I’d say that all the
copies of the cello suites come fairly close to it in terms of general
bowing patterns – particularly Bach’s habit of separating one note within
groups of four, which all our suite scribes reproduce to a greater or
(slightly) lesser degree. The devil is in the details, which vary to an eye-
watering degree. The lute manuscript in Bach’s hand (only marginally
less beautiful than the violin works) doesn’t really help that much, as
mentioned earlier. The trouble is that he writes quite differently for lute,
so that while this undoubtedly authentic source does answer some
questions, it then poses more. Curiously, if a copy of the cello version
wins on the basis of proximity to this lute manuscript, it is Kellner’s; his
version does display some notable similarities, despite that unhelpful
omission of the Sarabande and Gigue.
So finally, the million-thaler question: were they all – including the
manuscript in C. P. E.’s collection, presuming that it was not an original –
copied from the same one manuscript, or from more than one source in
Bach’s hand? Here the pitchfork battles begin: those in favour of the one-
source theory, as I mentioned earlier, point to the errors that all the copies
have in common – most of which can be explained away (if a little
uncertainly in some instances), but not all. To take just one example – all
four manuscripts have a curious rhythmic mistake in common: the upbeat
to bar 1 in the Allemande of the fifth suite is written as a semiquaver,
which makes perfect sense. The corresponding note, however, the upbeat
to the second half of the movement, is written in all the copies as a
quaver. It’s not just unlikely, but – I’d say – impossible on musical
grounds that those two notes are supposed to be of different values. ‘Ha!’
say the one-source brigade; ‘that proves that all four copies stem from
one manuscript.’ ‘Ha yourself!’ counter the two-or-more-sources
contingent; ‘so how do you explain the enormous differences between
Anna Magdalena, Kellner and versions C and D? They’re so utterly
unalike’ – continue the multiple-sources army – ‘that it is quite
impossible that all four can stem from the same foundation.’ And both
camps growl and snarl and recommend delusion therapy for their
opposite numbers. How bemused Bach himself would have been to
observe all this. True, he must have known how far ahead his music was
of any other that he saw or heard (even though he was said to be
‘uncommonly modest, tolerant, and very polite’ to other musicians); but
I’ve no doubt that in his own eyes he was just a thoroughly hard-working
musician, composing (as he used to write on his manuscripts) ‘Soli Deo
gloria’ – ‘To the Glory of God Alone’ – and would have been baffled by
the present near-obsession with his music. Well, as Mel Brooks so wisely
put it: ‘Immortality is a by-product of good work.’‡
Finally, I suppose that the rather uneasy compromise version is that
perhaps Bach wrote the suites out only once, but kept adding to and
altering that one manuscript (though evidently not to the extent of
correcting several mistakes – which is mighty strange). Or that perhaps
source A stems (as does B?) from a manuscript in Bach’s hand, the others
from a lost copy made by Altnickol or another Bach acolyte with
additions by the master. And that, I suspect, is as close as we can get.
(Luckily, at the time of writing, I have enough hair left to allow me to
tear some strands of it without yielding to baldness – unlike, I strongly
suspect, Bach himself underneath that wig. A wig, incidentally, which he
was known to tear off and throw at his musicians in moments of extreme
frustration …)
At any rate, it’s likely that the copyists of the suites did not have an
easy task. If (if!) they were all working from the same autograph, it must
have looked more like this:

From autograph of cantata BWV 9.

than this:
 The opening of the first of the sonatas for solo violin, in Bach’s fair copy.

And so we come back to the other million-thaler (plus some beer)

question: which of the sources is to be trusted most? Well, assuming that
those two hypothetical scenarios – either one working manuscript, or one
such manuscript and another (or others) with additions in Bach’s hand –
are the most likely original sources, there’s a strong possibility that all
four surviving copies have fairly equally direct links to Bach; and so,
after all that, we have to decide for ourselves which of the four
contenders best represents the master’s final thoughts.
Meanwhile, just to add another much-needed layer of complication,
even if there were a copy in Bach’s hand, it might not represent his last
word. With some of his works the autograph is superseded by a later
version in another hand, but with emendations by Bach; this should
probably be seen as the composer’s definitive text – even if that does not
necessarily make it musically preferable to an earlier one.
It’s also quite possible that the reason that there is no fair copy in
Bach’s hand is that he saw no reason ever to make one. In the absence of
any publisher interested in printing them, or a cellist able or willing (so
far as we know) to perform them, perhaps he never bothered; the labour
would have taken a lot of time and energy. And if one looks at how few
obbligato movements for cello – compared to, say, violin or oboe – there
are in the Leipzig cantatas, one can hazard a guess that the cellists
available to Bach there were not virtuosi, as the Köthen ones seem to
have been. (True – there’s lots of exciting stuff in Bach’s Leipzig works
in the continuo department, of which the cello would have formed an
important element; but those parts would have been doubled by a
keyboard, and usually a violone, thus lessening the responsibility of the
cellist.)
As a short postscript to this lengthy disquisition, I have to include a
thought about the lack of a fair copy in Bach’s hand that was included in
a fascinating article about Bach and numbers by the distinguished
musicologist Ruth Tatlow.§ She points out the importance of perfect
mathematical proportions in Bach’s music, demonstrating it with some
amazing figures relating to his works for violin. For instance, in the first
sonata for solo violin, the opening three movements contain 136 bars; the
fourth and final movement also contains 136 bars. In the first partita, the
first six movements make up a total of 272 bars, exactly twice as many as
the last two; furthermore, the sonata has exactly two-thirds as many bars
as the partita. Of course, this could be a coincidence – but then, consider
the following: the total number of bars in the first two sonatas and
partitas combined is exactly twice that of the third sonata and partita.
Then, moving on to the six sonatas for violin and keyboard: similarly,
those first four sonatas contain exactly twice as many bars as the last two.
Not only that, but the total number of bars within the first four works for
solo violin – sixteen hundred – is exactly the same as in the equivalent
works for violin and keyboard; the same is true of the remaining two
works in both sets, each of which contains eight hundred bars in total.
Tatlow also points out that this is only true of the final versions of the
sets – which are in Bach’s hand in the case of the solo violin works, and
in Altnickol’s for the violin/keyboard works. Other versions of the
collections (presuming that Kellner’s truncated Chaconne stems from an
earlier draft, and including Bach’s arrangement of the E major partita for
lute) do not display these perfect proportions. So Tatlow concludes that if
the cello suites had been written out in fair copy, they would have
incorporated minor revisions to ensure that the numbers all added up. In
fact, she does detect some of those proportions within the suites, but only
if one observes some extremely peculiar repeat markings to be found in
Anna Magdalena’s copy, at the end of some of the Preludes. Might it be
possible to play the Preludes twice? Surely not?¶ The mind, it boggleth.
Curiouser and curiouser …
 Turning back, with heads spinning, to the manuscript question for a
final time … (‘Phew!’ I heard you say. Don’t deny it.) We repeat your
question: ultimately, does it really matter that we don’t have the
autograph? Well – yes, it does, in fact. True, we can – we must, in fact –
take our pick from the four versions, and decide upon bowings that seem
logical and natural, and then allow ourselves the option to change them
each time we play the suites. Perhaps this even gives us a certain
welcome freedom. It’s also true that most composers will accept
alternative bowings, if they are (tactfully) suggested by a performer who
understands the music. But – dammit: it makes our life harder. Our chief
mission as interpreters is to put ourselves into the mind, the soul of the
composer; and that Herculean task becomes even more challenging if
we’re unable to see the evidence. We want, we need, to know what Bach
really wrote. Alas, in this case, that can never be – unless the (an?)
autograph miraculously reappears. One can always hope, I suppose …
So in the end, our performance choices have to come down to our
personal taste and judgement. We look, we detect, we sift, we cogitate –
we agonise. I suppose that many Christians must wish that the authors of
the four Gospels had consulted a bit further before penning their often
contradictory accounts; we cellists feel the same about the suites.

And HOW …
… did the suites fare during the years after their composition?

Bach’s music was not completely forgotten after his death. A few of his
works – mostly for keyboard, whether harpsichord or organ – had been
published during the composer’s lifetime, mostly at his own expense; so
they were (somewhat) available, at least. A few unpublished works
somehow became known, too. Forkel tells us, in that 1802 biography,
that ‘for a long series of years the violin solos were universally
considered by the greatest performers on the violin to be the best means
to make an ambitious student a perfect master of his instrument’.
Meanwhile, in late-eighteenth-century Vienna, as mentioned earlier,
Mozart was introduced to several of Bach’s works by Baron van Swieten,
a fanatic for baroque music, who was to prepare the libretti for Haydn’s
late oratorios, The Creation and The Seasons. (Incidentally, Forkel’s
Bach biography is dedicated to the baron – as is Beethoven’s first
symphony.) Later, Mozart got the chance to hear some more of Bach’s
choral works in Leipzig. An eyewitness reported:

As soon as the choir had sung a few bars, Mozart started; after a
few more he exclaimed: ‘What is that?’ And now his whole soul
seemed to be centred in his ears. When the song was ended, he
cried out with delight: ‘Now, here is something one can learn
from!’

Just a few years earlier, the first-ever review of Beethoven, written when
he was eleven years old, has this to say:

He plays chiefly The Well-Tempered Clavier of Sebastian Bach,

which Herr Neefe [Beethoven’s teacher] put into his hands.
Whoever knows this collection of preludes and fugues in all the
keys – which might almost be called the non plus ultra of our art –
will know what this means.

So Bach was not forgotten – but his cello suites were. There is no
record of a performance for at least a hundred years. It’s true that that
they might have been played by one of Bach’s cellists in Köthen or
Leipzig, or later perhaps by one of the anonymous copyists of
Manuscripts C or D, or their friends; we have no way of knowing. It’s
pretty certain, however, that they were not a fixture on concert
programmes during the century after they came into being. It was not
until Monsieur Norblin published his edition in 1824 – presumably
based, directly or indirectly, on C. P. E. Bach’s manuscript copy – that
they began to be more widely disseminated; this first publication was
followed by three more within as many years – two of them,
appropriately, in Leipzig. Then, in 1829, Mendelssohn gave his famous
Berlin performance of the St Matthew Passion; this gave Bach’s
reputation a huge boost – even though the work was presented in a
somewhat truncated version. In 1831, a further edition of the suites
appeared in Leipzig. After that, things went a bit quiet; but by now, the
suites were starting to be appreciated – by those who mattered, at least …
 Schumann and the Suites

Robert Schumann in 1853.

Robert Schumann (1810–56) had always been a Bach fanatic: ‘I myself

confess daily to this eminent creator and seek to purify and strengthen
myself through him.’ He was one of the founders of the Bach
Gesellschaft, the society that aimed to produce the first complete and
scholarly edition of Bach’s music, a far-reaching project – the cello suites
would not appear until 1879. In 1851, inspired by Mendelssohn’s work
on the St Matthew Passion – Mendelssohn having repeated it in Leipzig,
where Schumann was then living, in 1841 – he prepared his own version
of the St John Passion for a performance in Düsseldorf. In late
1852/early 1853, further stimulated by Mendelssohn’s piano
accompaniment for the Chaconne, Schumann composed piano
accompaniments for Bach’s complete works for solo violin. He wrote to
the publisher: ‘I hope that the harmonic braces [tragehänder] which I
fastened to them will help bring these treasures up to the surface.’ Soon
thereafter, he turned his attention to the cello suites, providing them with
a piano accompaniment also. On 17 November 1853 (just a few months
before his final breakdown and removal to the asylum in which he was,
tragically, to spend his last two and a half years), he wrote to a different
publisher, Kistner, about them, adding that the suites ‘are the most
beautiful and important compositions for the cello’. Annoyingly, that
publisher refused the offer. Undaunted, Schumann arranged for the first
cellist in his Düsseldorf orchestra, Christian Reimers, to play them
through: nos. 1–3 on New Year’s Eve 1853, 4–6 on New Year’s Day
1854.
A few years after Schumann’s death, a publisher named Schuberth
(sic) showed an interest in the accompaniments. Schumann’s widow
Clara turned to her friends Brahms and Joachim; alas, their reaction was
negative (particularly Brahms’), and thereafter Clara suppressed and
probably destroyed her husband’s work, along with the Romances for
cello and piano that he had written around the same time. To add to the
frustration, we know that the suite accompaniments survived for many
years in another copy (very possibly with a copy of the Romances as
well); Reimers moved to England and thence to Australia, where he
regularly performed movements from the suites with Schumann’s piano
parts. We were fated to be denied them, however: Reimers died on a ship
in 1889, on his way back to Europe. It would seem that his body was
unceremoniously (or ceremoniously) thrown overboard, along – probably
– with his belongings. (Hopefully the fish in those parts enjoyed
Schumann’s music, at least.) Meanwhile, a certain Dr W. Stade had
published the six suites, along with an accompaniment that he claimed
he’d based on Schumann’s, adding, though, that his was ‘correct’; it
seems to have been a fake, however. More recently, a copy was found of
just the third suite, with an accompanying piano part; this manuscript was
dated 1863, written out in the hand of a long-forgotten cellist called
Julius Goltermann (unrelated to the more famous cellist Georg
Goltermann, with whose études young cellists today are still tortured).
Again, J. Goltermann claimed that it was Schumann’s accompaniment;
perhaps it was – it has been published as such. I can’t say that I’m a
hundred per cent convinced – but maybe …
 Anyway, well meaning though Schumann’s accompaniments, and
several more made over the years, undoubtedly were, they were also
completely superfluous. One of the main glories of the suites (and of
course the solo violin works as well) lies in their miraculous use of the
unaccompanied instrument to create a whole world of sound, with no
need for anything else to be added. As Forkel put it, Bach ‘has so
combined in a single part all the notes required to make the modulation
complete that a second part is neither necessary nor possible’. But we
should not be harsh on Schumann’s attitude; after all, Bach himself had
added cornetto, trombones and continuo to Palestrina’s Liber V
Missarum, as well as setting Pergolesi’s Stabat Mater to completely
different – German – words.

***

So back to the career of the suites in their proper, solo incarnation: before
that scholarly 1879 Bach Gesellschaft edition – a turning point in the
history of the suites – there had been, as noted earlier, five new editions
of the suites. The trouble is that they were all, in their different ways,
distortions; they couldn’t even get the title right, referring to the suites as
either sonatas or études – not a promising start. It does seem as if people
misunderstood the true nature of the music. It became quite common as
the nineteenth century progressed for cellists to play isolated movements
in concerts, with or without piano. (Not everyone was delighted by this
trend. In 1886, Hugo Wolf remarked sarcastically, after hearing a concert
by Brahms’ friend, the cellist Robert Hausmann: ‘May a Bach sarabande
and bourrée excite visions and the sound of angel voices; may one be a
lunatic and find a redeeming world-riddle behind every note from the pen
of the great Bach.’) It was rare, however, for anyone to play an entire
suite. One exception was the German cellist Friedrich Grützmacher
(1832–1903). He is best remembered today – by cellists, at least – for his
mind-numbing reworking of Boccherini’s lovely, innocent concerto in B
flat, which Grützmacher converted into a Victorian mishmash. (Well,
that’s my view of it, anyway – though admittedly I’m a Boccherini
fanatic, and thus easily offended.) Alas, this became known for many
years as the ‘Boccherini concerto’, and virtually every cellist played it,
not realising that it bore as much relation to Boccherini as Donald Duck
to a white swan. No (further) comment. On the other hand, the only
extant copy of the original Boccherini concerto is in Grützmacher’s hand,
so I suppose we have to be grateful for that; and we can carry over that
same mixture of suspicion and gratitude towards his relationship with the
Bach suites. True, he had the nerve – in a good way – to programme
suites in their entirety; admirable, but how could they have sounded? He
brought out a ‘performer’s edition’ in which, among other outrages, he
had the nerve – in a bad way – to transpose the sixth suite into G major.
(Perhaps I’m just jealous. It must be easier, which would be nice, I admit;
but it’s wrong. A different sound-world altogether.) Aside from tempo
and dynamic markings galore, as well as rhythms altered whenever he
felt like it, he added and changed notes all over the place. In a letter to his
publisher regarding his editions, he modestly explains:

My main purpose has been to reflect and to determine what these

masters might have been thinking, and to set down all they,
themselves, could have indicated … I feel I have more right than
all the others to do this work.

Moving fairly swiftly on from Herr Grützmacher, however, we come

to the considerably less dubious figure of Pablo Casals.

Casals and the Suites

It was Casals who started to play the suites everywhere, in a blazingly
successful mission to popularise them around the world. As an old man,
he remembered how he’d first discovered them: at the age of thirteen,
while studying at the music school in Barcelona, he was earning money
by playing in a café with an ensemble; a highlight of each evening’s fare
would be a solo performance by the prodigy. In an attempt to vary his
repertoire, young Pablo was constantly on the lookout for new pieces.
One day his father arrived from Casals’ home town, Vendrell, to visit his
son. Pablo told his father of his need for fresh music:
 Together we set off on the search. For two reasons I shall never
forget that afternoon. First, my father bought me my first full-size
cello – how proud I was to have that wonderful instrument! Then
we stopped at an old music shop near the harbour. I began
browsing through a bundle of musical scores. Suddenly I came
upon a sheaf of pages, crumpled and discoloured with age. They
were unaccompanied suites by Johann Sebastian Bach – for the
cello only! I looked at them with wonder: Six Suites for
Violoncello Solo. What magic and mystery, I thought, were hidden
in those words? …That scene has never grown dim.

The love affair that started that day (particularly impressive, since the
edition he found was the dreaded Grützmacher version) was to infect
music-lovers everywhere. It took Casals twelve years before he felt
ready, as the twentieth century dawned, to perform a whole suite in
public; but after that there was no stopping him. He swept aside the
notion of them as études, convinced that they contained some of the most
profoundly emotional music ever written (and certain that Mendelssohn
and Schumann had made a grave error in adding piano parts to the violin
works). For Casals, the suites ‘are the very essence of Bach, and Bach is
the essence of music’. His famous recordings of the six suites for EMI –
the first time anyone had recorded any of the suites in its entirety – were
made at a particularly traumatic period, between 1936 and 1939, when
not only was the Second World War looming, but Casals’ beloved
homeland was being viciously torn asunder by the Spanish Civil War.
Turning to Bach must have provided sorely needed comfort in his darkest
hours – as Bach’s music has done, and continues to do, for countless men
and women through the centuries.
It took some time for Casals’ efforts to bear fruit, but eventually
almost every cellist, as well as many players of other instruments, came
to consider the suites as central to their musical life. The new acolytes
were by no means only musicians, however; through Casals’ seventy-five
years or so of impassioned missionary work, people all over the world
and from all walks of life were converted – ranging from Queen Victoria
(in 1899) to Golda Meir (to whom Casals played – memorably – the fifth
Sarabande in 1973, when he was ninety-six).
 The floodgates had been opened, and – at first gradually, then in a
torrent – further recordings and editions started to appear. Furthermore,
as the suites grew in popularity, so did the idea of writing for
unaccompanied cello. After virtually nothing of musical interest from the
nineteenth century, the twentieth was to see the composition of an
increasing number of important works (Kodály, Hindemith, Reger,
Bloch, Dallapiccola, Britten, Dutilleux, etc.), all showing, to a greater or
lesser degree, the influence of the great Leipzig master. I hope that Bach,
sitting in heaven, felt some satisfaction: after some two hundred years,
his suites had finally taken their rightful place as one (six) of the pillars
of Western civilisation.
* The formal name one should really use when referring to our wonderful instrument; when
I was growing up, people often used an apostrophe before the word ‘cello’, to indicate
that something was missing. Nowadays even that abject little floating comma has gone
missing.
† Cello legend maintains – probably unfairly – that the endpin was first adopted by the
Belgian cellist François-Adrien Servais (1807–66), when his portly figure made it
increasingly difficult for him to hold the cello between his knees. The endpin was then
popularised by the first well-known female cellist, Lisa Cristiani (1827–53), who found
that it enabled her to play while wearing the skirts of that era without having to resort to
playing ‘side-saddle’ – as most female players did at the time.
‡ Herbert Gold, ‘Funny is Money’, New York Times, 30 March 1975.
§ Ruth Tatlow, ‘Collections, Bars and Numbers: Analytical Coincidence or Bach’s Design?’
You can read this online at https://www.bachnetwork.org/ub2/tatlow.pdf. Tatlow is also
the author of a book on the subject: Bach’s Numbers: Compositional Proportion and
Significance (Cambridge University Press, 2015).
¶ My friend, editor extraordinaire Jonathan Del Mar, suggests that Anna Magdalena, having
written out so many dance movements (which are almost all repeated), had become so
used to putting repeat markings at the end of each movement that she mistakenly added
them to some of the Preludes as well. If so, another example of her distracted state …
THE MUSIC
 PART 3

Dance Suites!

For all their profundity, the seemingly inexhaustible spectrum of

emotions they encompass, the suites – with the exception of the Preludes
– essentially consist of a collection of dance movements. Each of these
movements is formed in accordance with the metric and rhythmic
properties, the choreography, of the original dance. Therefore, it is worth
exploring those properties, and the history behind them.

History of the Suite

It seems that the first use of the word ‘suite’ in a musical setting was a
short sequence entitled ‘suyttes de bransles’, the ‘bransle’ or ‘branle’
being a French dance deriving its name, rather unpromisingly, from the
word branler, meaning ‘to shake, wave, sway, wag or wobble’ – with
rather ruder connotations, even today, in French slang. This pioneering
work was published in 1557 by the French composer Estienne du Tertre,
no less (though no more, either). The career of the branle endured for
some time, the original branching off into stylised tributaries such as the
Branle des Pois, the Branle des Hermites and the Branle du Chandelier,
as well as the Branle Gay. However, as it began to take off in the
seventeenth century, the musical suite as we know it increasingly omitted
the poor branle. The published suites of the German composer Johann
Jakob Froberger (1616–67) are credited with having established a
standard series of dances: allemande, courante, sarabande, gigue. From
there, other dances (some actually descended from that arch-progenitor
Mr Branle) started to creep in between the sarabande and the gigue; these
included the minuets, bourrées and gavottes that form the penultimate
movements in the cello suites. In other baroque collections we find such
diverse titles as passepieds, loures, airs or even polonaises, these extra
movements initially referred to as ‘galanteries’. Expanding the form still
further, later suites were introduced by preludes, or overtures. All of
Bach’s cello suites open with preludes, his orchestral suites with
overtures; of his twelve suites for keyboard, the six known as the
‘English’ suites also begin with preludes, while the so-called ‘French’
suites revert, like the first and second violin partitas, to the earlier suite
form, all being launched by allemandes. (Incidentally, there is nothing
‘English’ about the English suites – they are only so-named because it
was said that they were commissioned by an Englishman of rank, though
we have no idea who that may have been. Meanwhile, just to inject a
little bonus confusion, the only movement entitled ‘Anglaise’ within the
twelve works is to be found in the third French suite.)
It is perhaps significant that the original meaning of the word ‘suite’
was ‘a train of followers or attendants’, accompanying a lord. If any of
that original etymology survives into the musical form, then it is
probably fair to say that the lord of each of the cello suites, attended by
his dancing courtiers, is the Prelude …

The Movements

Preludes

As their name implies, preludes precede the other movements of a work,

the word being derived from the Latin prae (before) and ludus (play).
This being the tale of the Bach suites, however, it’s not quite that simple:
in German, the word präludieren means to improvise; and it’s true that
by the time the cello suites were composed, the prelude had long been
established as an independent, free-standing entity. The prelude’s history
stretches back to antiquity, in fact: the Roman writer Quintilianus (c.35–
100 AD) tells us that at the musical competitions that were in vogue at the
time, players of the lyre opened with preludes ‘to win the favour of the
audience’, before embarking upon an attempt to win the prize. Well after
Bach’s era, it would become a hugely popular form in its own right,
thanks to such masters as Chopin and Rachmaninov – who also, in their
spare time, humanised the étude. (Bach’s Chorale Preludes for organ had
a related function, being presented before the congregation sang the
chorale in question. His Preludes for organ were also played in church
before a service, or choral work, in order to induce an appropriate frame
of mind among the worshippers.)
The Preludes that launch the cello suites are thus weighted with quite
a few responsibilities: they are required to open the door to the work as a
whole, to establish the tonality, to stand on their own as pieces of music,
and even to incorporate some elements of improvisation. These particular
Preludes are also intended to display the glories of the instrument – and
by implication, the performer. (Mattheson refers to the execution of
preludes in general as ‘the highest peak of performance’.) All of these
goals, needless to say, these Preludes attain – and far more.
It is posssibly no accident that the title page of Manuscript C
announces the suites as ‘Suiten und Preluden’. If this were a spoken tale,
the Preludes would, I think, be presenting all the main characters in the
story and giving us a clear idea of their characteristics (like an operatic
overture in a way, although the Preludes are not charged with presenting
the melodic themes of the upcoming work). Each Prelude reveals the
overall tonal structure of the whole suite in question, by establishing not
only the tonic, but also the hierarchy of related keys that will accompany
that ruling tonality throughout all the movements. In this way, they play a
key role, as it were, in introducing the essential emotional narrative of the
entire work, the succeeding movements providing further aspects to the
same journey. Each Prelude also explores a specific aspect of the cello’s
potential sonorities, from the gently lapping arpeggios of the first to the
bell-like celebrations of the sixth. They also contain, in terms of rhythmic
energy, dance elements; improvisatory though some of them may feel at
times, I believe strongly that the tempo should be, for the most part, as
clearly felt as in the other movements. All six Preludes represent a
discrete voyage, moving from home (the tonic) through other lands (the
satellite keys) before returning to base (bass). They are entirely satisfying
musical structures in their own right, and yet at the same time, one can
always feel that they are exactly as described on the tin: Preludes.

The Dances*

Many think of Bach as the archetypal German composer. Apart from a

few works in Latin – notably the B minor Mass and the Magnificat – and
a couple of cantatas in Italian, the texts of his entire vocal output are in
German. Outwardly, in fact, he seems to have been thoroughly, solidly,
beer-drinkingly Teutonic. Despite frequent short trips to local towns in
order to test new organs, and some more extended forays – often, during
his younger days, on foot – his travels never took him beyond his own
area of central eastern Germany, known as Thuringia. (Perhaps the most
notable of his journeys was a 280-mile walk in 1705 from Arnstadt to
Lübeck in order to hear and meet the great Danish organist and composer
Dietrich Buxtehude (c.1637–1707). It is possible that Buxtehude
suggested Bach take over his highly prestigious job at Lübeck’s famed
Marienkirche – a tempting prospect for a twenty-year-old. If the offer
was made, however, it would almost certainly have come with a strict
condition: Bach must marry Buxtehude’s eldest daughter. Like Handel
and Mattheson before him, Bach refused the invitation; alas, one does
suspect that the daughter’s charms must have been somewhat limited …)
Yet in addition to his solidly German, Lutheran credentials, Bach was
also steeped in French (as well as Italian) culture. From the ages of
fifteen to seventeen, he studied at a school in which the dancing master,
Thomas de la Selle, was a pupil of the great Italian–French – but
principally French – composer Jean-Baptiste Lully, a favourite at the
court of Louis XIV, the ‘Sun King’. It was this Lully who, famously and
unfortunately, became rather carried away while directing an orchestral
performance and drove into his foot the long staff with which he was
beating the floor to keep time, resulting in gangrene (conducting is a
dangerous art). He could have been saved, perhaps, had his leg been
amputated; but Lully refused this, unable to tolerate a life without
dancing – with the result that the poison spread throughout his body, and
he died. One may conclude, therefore, that dance was important both to
his life and to his music. The young Bach must have imbibed something
of this attitude – if not to health, then to dance, first at school and then on
subsequent visits to the court at a nearby town called Celle, a sort of
‘miniature Versailles’, where de la Selle was employed as a court
musician (de la Selle de Celle, as it were). At Celle, Bach would have
heard the orchestral music of Lully and the keyboard works of such
French masters as François Couperin ‘le Grand’. Indeed, we know from
Forkel that Bach ‘was acquainted with Couperin’s works and esteemed
them’. (My teacher used to say that unless we knew our Couperin, we
couldn’t hope to understand Bach – but maybe that was going a bit too
far? Discuss.)
French dancing had spread from the court of Louis XIV throughout
Europe; in fact, it was all the rage in Germany. Bach was personally
acquainted with several Gallic dancing masters, who were much in
demand at many of the courts he frequented. Not surprising, then, that his
music would so often reflect that influence. Knowledge of the French
language and culture implied sophistication; perhaps that is why the title
pages of both Anna Magdalena’s and Kellner’s copies of the cello suites
are predominantly written in French, as are the titles of the movements.
(Well, most of them: Kellner occasionally strays into Italian, for some
reason.) More important, however, is the fact that, whatever their actual
provenance, the original dances on which the cello suites are based are
largely French in character.

Allemandes

I believe that I speak for the majority of my colleagues when I say that
the Allemandes are, from an interpretative point of view, the most
challenging movements in the suites; that’s why cellists will almost never
choose to play one of them as an encore after a concerto performance.
The Allemandes are hard to characterise convincingly – partly because
they vary in tempo from one example to another to a greater degree than
any of the other suite movements. Whereas one can confidently proclaim
that, even though there is some disparity between their respective tempi,
the Courantes in the suites are all pretty lively, the Sarabandes slow, etc.,
the Allemandes remain more of a puzzle. While the earlier ones are
obviously to be played at something of a walking tempo, neither fast nor
slow, the Allemande pulse seems to expand as the suites progress; by the
sixth, it is clear that the beat is extremely spacious – in fact, Kellner
marks it ‘Adagio’, sources C and D ‘Molto adagio’. (At least the
transformation is gradual, not sudden, as in other composers: within
Corelli’s set of twelve trio sonatas op. 2, for example, the Allemandes
veer bewilderingly between utterly dissimilar tempi: ‘Adagio’ in sonata
no. 2, ‘Presto’ in nos. 3 and 4, ‘Allegro’ in no. 5, ‘Largo’ in no. 6 – and
so on.) Another nerdish dilemma: within our cello suites, in the
Allemandes of suites nos. 1, 4 and 5, both Anna Magdalena and Kellner
mark the time signature as ‘alla breve’.† (Source C marks this only in the
first Allemande, source D in none of them.) This would generally imply
that the tempo should be faster than in a normal 4/4 – possibly twice as
fast, even; but here I, for one, cannot imagine the fourth Allemande, for
instance, being that much faster than the third. Perhaps it is merely
indicating that there should be a clear two impulses to the bar, rather than
four; but again, the fourth in particular does not seem to fit that bill, any
more than the third. Yet another question with which to wrestle until I
shuffle off these mortal curls.
Anyway, part of the problem with allemandes seems to be that by
Bach’s time they had become almost exclusively instrumental pieces,
rather than dances. It’s true that in Johann Gottfried Walther’s
Musikalisches Lexikon – which Bach must have known, since not only
was it published in Leipzig in 1732, but Walther was in fact Bach’s
cousin – we read that allemandes ‘must be composed and likewise
danced in a grave and ceremonious manner’; but there are almost no
choreographic guides to the allemande from the eighteenth century, as
there are for the other dances that comprise the suites, implying that they
were no longer part of the regular dance set that made up the programme
for social and official evenings.
As its name implies, the allemande seems to have derived from
Germany, even though the earliest written descriptions surface in France
and Britain in the sixteenth century. In his vast, charmingly quirky and
lavishly illustrated Orchésographie of 1588 – the inspiration,
incidentally, for Peter Warlock’s 1926 Capriol suite – the French dancing
master Thoinot Arbeau (1520–95) tells us that the allemande is an
ancient dance, describing it rather sniffily as ‘une dance plaine de
mediocre gravité’. He goes on to remark, gravely, that it is possible
during an allemande for a gentleman to steal the lady partner of another,
a practice of which he thoroughly (and quite rightly, of course)
disapproves. The dance begins, according to Arbeau, with a step to the
left, a step to the right, another step to the left, and a ‘strike’ with the
right. French composers of the seventeenth century developed the
allemande, generally slowing it down and transforming it into an
expressive musical form. The keyboard works of Louis Couperin
(1626?–61), for example, include allemandes ‘de la paix’, ‘la Precieuse’,
‘grave’ and ‘l’Amiable’; his son François continued this noble family
tradition by producing allemandes with such names as ‘l’Auguste’, ‘la
Laborieuse’ (doesn’t sound very promising) and, more alluringly,
‘l’Exquise’. By Bach’s time, Mattheson – who, in contrast to Arbeau,
considered the allemande ‘an upright German invention’ – was
demanding from the music ‘serious and well-composed harmoniousness
… delighting in order and calm’. The Allemandes of the cello suites
certainly satisfy those last criteria, but in such varied fashion. The one
element that appears to unite all six is the basic metric structure: both
halves beginning with an upbeat of one or three notes, and thenceforth, in
general, a strong first beat (maybe the ‘strike’ has shifted?), weak second
beat, and third and fourth beats leading back to the next bar. As with
almost all the other dance movements of the suites, there are two
sections; except for those of the fourth and sixth suites, the two parts of
the Allemandes are of equal length. Allemandes tend to be, along with
the Sarabandes, the most ‘grown-up’, well-tended dance movements of
the cello suites.
I think that’s all I have to say about allemandes for the moment, so
let’s now turn, perhaps with some relief, to their less complex relation
(friend? neighbour?), the courante.

Courantes

The title of this dance implies ‘running’; and indeed all the Courantes of
the cello suites are vigorous in nature. But – needless to say – it’s not
quite as straightforward as that. There are in fact two distinct types of
courante: the French and the Italian (the latter sometimes known as
corrente, but not spelled as such in any of the cello suite sources). True,
both types contain fast-running notes, but they are diverse both in metre
and in the speed of the beat. The French courante is generally in 3/2, and
the tempo – if counted in those three beats – is supposed to be the slowest
of all baroque dances, even though, due to the rapid notes, it tends to feel
like a fast movement. It must have been the French type that Bach’s
cousin Walther had in mind when he described the rhythm of the
courante as ‘the most serious one can find’. Louis XIV is said to have
practised this dance daily for twenty-two years; according to the
composer Jean-Philippe Rameau (1683–1764) – he of whom it was said
that from his deathbed he rebuked the priest for bad intonation while
chanting the last rites – the king danced it better than any of his courtiers.
(Not necessarily an unbiased opinion?) François Couperin again gives us
a clue to the varying nature of the form, differentiating in one of his
Concerts Royaux of 1722 between a French courante, to be played
‘noblement’, and an Italian one, ‘gayement’. The steps of a danced
French courante are slow and dignified – including a gliding motion –
whereas the choreography for the Italian dance involves some rather less
exalted hopping and skipping.
Of the Courantes in the cello suites, only the fifth, in C minor,
conforms to the French type; it is in 3/2 metre, with a spacious beat. The
others, all in 3/4 and with a greater number of bars, are Italian in nature
(with the partial exception of the second, the D minor, which, with its
more serious character and slightly slower pulse, leans somewhat
towards the French manner). Anyway, the two alternative forms do have
elements in common: the shared liveliness of spirit, expressed in the
short, running notes within each beat, and the frequent quirkiness of the
rhythmic stresses. Maybe the French and Italians have more in common
than initially meets the eye – or ear, at least.

Sarabandes

Like majestically beating hearts at the centre of each suite, the

Sarabandes are oases of poignant calm, the points at which the listener is
most likely to be reduced to tears. Nobility and poise radiate from every
musical pore of all six. The sarabande was not always so virtuous,
however: thought to have originated in Central America in the first half
of the sixteenth century, the early sarabande was a vivacious, even
lascivious, affair, often danced with castanets and frowned upon by
respectable citizens; it bore little resemblance to its descendants, except
for being in triple time (the metre was always in three). Even in those
days of more limited travel, this reprehensible cavort soon managed to
cross the seas – as dangerously infectious substances will. Much to the
dismay of some, the sarabande became highly popular in Europe. In the
early 1600s, the influential Spanish priest Juan de Mariana bewailed the
fact that it could ‘excite bad emotions even in thoroughly decent people’;
it was officially banned in Spain from 1583. Nevertheless, the dance
found its way to France, and to Germany; in his 1612 collection of
dances entitled Terpsichore, the German composer Michael Praetorius
(1571–1621), interestingly (I think), includes a couple of ‘Courante
Sarabandes’ – curious when by Bach’s time the two dances had grown so
far apart, their only similarity being the three beats to a bar. Over the
generations the sarabande, thankfully, mutated into a slow and dignified
affair, putting its stormy adolescent years behind it (rather like Bach
himself?), and maturing towards the sublime examples found within the
suites. The choreography could by this time include almost imperceptible
glides and magical moments of immobility.
François Couperin, always a good source for descriptive titles, gives
his keyboard sarabandes such intriguing designations as ‘la Majestueüse’,
‘la Lugubre’, ‘la Dangereuse’, even ‘la Prude’. These sarabandes from
the latter years of the baroque period – those of Couperin, Bach and
many others – invariably open with a bar of strong first and second beats;
thereafter, the metric accents may vary, with frequent use of the hemiola,
a triple-time cadential device much used in baroque (and other) music in
which the beats give the impression of changing from the basic one-two-
three in one bar to one-two-three-one-two-three over two bars. This
expands the rhythmic flow, giving the music – and us – the space to
pause and reflect. It’s not surprising that when a cellist plays a Bach
movement as an encore, it is most likely to be one of the Sarabandes.
Bach clearly loved the genre: no surprise that he wrote more of them than
of any other type of dance.

Minuets (suites 1 and 2)

The minuet also comprises three beats to the bar, and begins on the
downbeat; but apart from that it has little in common with the sarabande.
Its nature is livelier, and the second beats tend to be light, rather than
stressed. Also, further differentiating the two dances, there is a definite
feeling here of one large beat to each bar. The minuet was the only
baroque dance to survive in full musical health into the classical era,
forming the third part of countless four-movement symphonic, sonata and
chamber structures of that period, only gradually being replaced by the
scherzo (Italian for ‘joke’). In those later examples, the minuets are
almost always accompanied by a contrasting ‘trio’ section; these
movements-within-movements acquired that title because in orchestral
works earlier composers such as Lully – who wrote no fewer than ninety-
two minuets, the addict – would pare down the orchestration to three
instruments. (This can be a bit puzzling, in fact, since these sections
continued to be called trios even when that reduced instrumentation was
abandoned. I once arranged three trio sections from Haydn symphonies
for four cellos – but felt that it would have been a tad confusing to entitle
them ‘three trios for quartet’.) Bach, however, generally wrote, as in the
cello suites, pairs of two contrasting minuets – simpler, for once.
The French minuets of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, as
danced at court, must have been elegant affairs. The dancers would bow
to the king (of course) and to each other, then retire to diagonally
opposite corners of the dance floor, before performing several figures,
each requiring six dance-steps, outlining the letter Z. At one point, they
would meet in the centre of the room, grasp the others’ right hands, circle
around each other and return to opposite corners. There is some argument
as to the general nature of the minuet: in his 1703 Dictionnaire de
musique – one of the first of its kind – the ábbé Sébastien de Brossard
(1655–1730) tells us that the minuet is ‘always very gay and very fast’;
some sixty years later, however, Jean-Jacques Rousseau (1712–78), no
less, argues that

This is not quite right. The character of the Minuet is a noble and
elegant simplicity; the movement is moderate rather than quick. It
may be said that the least gay of all the kinds of dances used at our
balls is the minuet.

A conundrum, then; but it does seem as if a played minuet could be

taken at a slower tempo than the danced version. Bach’s examples
certainly seem rather to follow Rousseau’s assessment, the two pairs in
the cello suites requiring (I feel, anyway – some might disagree strongly)
the same moderate tempo, but contrasted in both mood and mode: the
second Minuet of the first suite is in G minor, rather than the overall G
major; the second Minuet of the D minor suite (no. 2) is in D major.
Along with the second Bourrée of the third suite (C minor instead of C
major), these second Minuets are the only movements in the entire cycle
not to be in the home key of the suite as a whole.
 Incidentally, all of the varying fifth movements – Minuets, Bourrées,
Gavottes – are written in ‘da capo’ form, a common practice for those
double movements: one plays the first of the pair, with repeats, then the
second, also with repeats, and then one goes back and plays the first
again. And here again is a bone over which musicologists tussle: should
one repeat the repeats of the first when one plays it for the second time?
Players these days usually omit them; but there are examples in other
works of the period in which the composer has instructed the performer
to repeat the first minuet senza repetizione – or words to that effect –
implying that without that directive, the players of the time would indeed
have included the repeats in the da capo. This possibility is bolstered by
the fact that the danced minuet was extremely long; from a musical point
of view, however, it is questionable, tending to try the patience of the
listener (the modern listener, at any rate). So again, a matter for much
discussion – not the most exciting of arguments, perhaps; but it can keep
a nerd like me happy – and frequently indignant – for hours on end. More
fun than worrying about one’s overdraft, anyway …

Bourrées (suites 3 and 4)

The bourrée (known at one time in England as a ‘borry’ or, rather

unfortunately, ‘bore’) is a thoroughly friendly dance. Mattheson writes
that ‘its essential characteristic is contentment, pleasantness, unconcern’
– a good person to have at a party, in fact (or dance to include within a
suite, anyway). In his Terpsichore, Michael Praetorius includes it under
the category of branle, from which it is descended. Originating in the
Auvergne – still danced there today – and introduced to the French court
as early as 1565, it maintained its popularity in the court of Louis XIV. It
also gave its name to a graceful ballet step, pas de bourrée, which
involves a gentle movement while poised on tiptoe. I’m not sure that one
can feel any trace of that in Bach’s bourrées – at least not in those of the
cello suites; but they do offer an intriguing mixture of characters,
grouped as they are in – again – vividly contrasted pairs.
The bourrée starts with a crotchet-length upbeat, consisting of one,
two or four notes. It is generally marked in 4/4, but in effect has two
beats; many bourrées are marked alla breve. In the cello suites, we are
presented with our usual confusing array of different alternatives on this
issue: Anna Magdalena marks all four Bourrées alla breve, except for the
last, the second of the fourth suite; Kellner marks all four alla breve;
source C one of each pair – the second of suite 3, the first of suite 4; and
source D none of them. So – as always – we have to take our pick.
(Though maybe in the end it makes little or no difference.)
A small footnote: Bach’s most famous bourrée is probably the one
from his E minor suite for lute. This innocent little tune is said to have
inspired not only Schumann, but also Jethro Tull, Led Zeppelin and Paul
McCartney (for ‘Blackbird’). Pity that it was out of copyright by then;
Bach could have afforded all the alcoholic beverages his heart desired.

Gavottes (suites 5 and 6)

The gavotte is a close descendant of the branle; in fact, Monsieur Arbeau

describes it as being comprised of a mixture of branles. He also, in his
instructions, advises that, a couple having danced the gavotte, the
gentleman ‘kisses all the other ladies, and his lady all the young men’.
Sounds extremely dubious, and somewhat unhygienic; happily, that
particular custom was later replaced by one of presenting flowers. The
gavotte was especially popular in Bach’s time, its regularity and order
perhaps representing a bucolic ideal for which the metropolitan
sophisticates told themselves that they yearned.
Gavottes contain either two or four beats per bar, like the bourrée;
some earlier examples begin on the downbeat of the bar, but by Bach’s
time the gavotte had acquired a half-bar upbeat. This, unlike the crotchet-
length upbeat to the bourrées, counts as a beat in its own right, rather
than a mere precursor. The four examples of gavottes in the cello suites
are again highly contrasted, having little in common other than this basic
rhythmic structure. However, there is one striking feature that does
permeate all of them. When the gavotte was danced, music and
movement tended to be quite independent, only coinciding as the dancers
landed heavily on the first beat of the fourth bar; one can quite clearly
feel this sense of arrival at that point in most phrases of these gavottes.
Bach experimented with the form, one movement of his E major
partita for violin being a ‘Gavotte en rondeau’, the basic dance being
interspersed with varying episodes. The cello Gavottes, occurring only in
the last two suites, are also quite experimental, Bach by this point in the
cycle having transcended (though not abandoned) the comparatively
simple versions of the dances with which he’d begun. Again, the sources
can’t agree on a time signature: Anna Magdalena and Kellner mark all
four movements as alla breve; source C marks just the first Gavotte of the
sixth suite as alla breve, while writing a 2 (i.e. 2/2) for the second; and
source D has no alla breve, just the same 2 for the second Gavotte of the
sixth. Would that 2 mean the same as alla breve? I’d have thought so; but
then why has source C seemingly differentiated between the two? I don’t
know. Then again, does it matter? And again – I just don’t know …‡

Gigues

The gigue (or giga, or jig) is generally the least courtly, but often the
most energetic, of all the dances in the suites, invariably placed at the end
of the work. By Bach’s time, the gigue was probably (at least in polite
circles) thought of as an instrumental form: the French writer Sébastien
de Brossard describes it as an ‘air ordinarily for instruments … full of
pointed and syncopated notes which render the piece gay and, so to
speak, skipping [sautillant]’.
The gigue seems to have been derived from wild British country jigs;
since it was often accompanied by fiddles, it is also said to have given the
violin its German name, ‘Geige’. It also goes under different titles: the
‘lourié’, for instance, a slower dance of which there are two examples in
Bach, also qualifies as a gigue. Another category is the ‘canary’ – so-
called either because it derives from the Canary Islands, or (in Arbeau’s
preferred version) from a masque in which two dancers played the king
and queen of Mauritania, or else unnamed shapely savages, with
multicoloured (hence canary-like) plumage. This dance was popular
enough in England for Shakespeare to allude to it in All’s Well That Ends
Well, in which a character tells the king of a medicine:

That’s able to breathe life into a stone Quicken a rock, and make
you dance canary, With sprightly fire and motion.

The jig itself also makes a few appearances in Shakespeare – as in Much

Ado About Nothing, in which Beatrice sarcastically refers to a lover’s
initial wooing as ‘hot and hasty like a Scotch jig’. (Even the ‘coranto’
gets a mention in Twelfth Night.)
Beginning with a short upbeat, and set in so-called ‘compound time’ –
any time signature in which the beats are usually divided into three rather
than two – later gigues are again split into French and Italian types, with
many subdivisions. The French variety contains frequent dotted rhythms
– so within the cello suites, only the Gigue of the fifth qualifies as such.
The Gigues of the minor-key suites, 2 and 5, are in 3/8 time, resulting in
a greater terseness, and one impulse per bar; the others are all in 6/8,
giving rise therefore to two impulses.
By Bach’s time, although generally high-spirited (depending, as in the
suites, on the overall character of the work), the gigue had become far
more sophisticated than its antecedents, those for keyboard frequently
containing fugal passages. Nevertheless, and despite any number of
varying moods, it never loses its buoyant vigour, providing a fitting
conclusion – in all of Bach’s many examples, at least – to a suite.
* For some of the information in this chapter, I am indebted to a lovely book entitled Dance
and the Music of J. S. Bach by Meredith Little and Natalie Jenne (Indiana University
Press, 2001). They go into intriguing detail about each dance, illustrating the steps, phrase
lengths, stresses, etc.
† Alla breve – written like this: – tells us that a bar in 4/4 (indicated by the C) is to be
thought of in two (illustrated by the vertical line through said C).
‡ John Butt, who does know – seemingly – virtually everything about Bach, suggests that
the ‘2’ marking ‘can perhaps be summed up as “more French” – or perhaps “more up-to-
date”’ (same thing, of course).
 PART 4

Questions and Rules (the didactic section)

The Bach suites seem to awaken the curiosity of listeners to an

extraordinary degree. It follows, therefore, that performers will be asked
a number of questions about them on a regular basis. Here are some of
the ones I have encountered frequently, along with some of the typical
answers I tend to give:

Answers to Fourteen Frequently Asked Questions

1. ‘What makes the Bach suites so special?’

This is a tricky one. We can certainly point to Bach’s amazing feat in

exploiting the possibilities of the cello to the full, with, it seems, no
examples before him to provide guidance. Nowhere is the cello expected
to produce a sound contrary to its nature, and yet the sonorities are as full
as the music requires; at no point does one miss the presence of another
instrument, Bach transforming the limitations of his materials into a
limitless strength. In addition, there is another, less obvious element at
work here. I once asked the late Frans Brüggen how I should reply when
asked this question; he thought for a moment, and then said (I hope I’m
quoting him correctly – I think I am): ‘Tell them that it’s because of the
invisible bassline.’ It’s true: the music is guided, propelled by this
extraordinary foundation, sometimes sounded, sometimes implied – but
hardly less present for that – and always so full of life and interest. But I
suppose that the ultimate answer has to be that through these outwardly
simple dance suites Bach takes us on an emotional/spiritual journey like
no other, leading us from pastoral joy through to profound tragedy, before
concluding in jubilation and triumph. Each listener will experience this
journey differently, of course; but for all those to whom the music speaks,
it will be life-changing in some way.
 2. ‘Do you try to play in a baroque style, or modern?’

Hmm … tricky again. (This is why I tend to avoid too much conversation
after I’ve played a suite.) The first thing to say is that I don’t ‘try’ to play
in any specific style; my chief aim is to respond to the music naturally.
After all, Bach would surely have expected just that; as the great
violinist/conductor Sándor Végh used to say: ‘Mozart didn’t know he
was writing in the style of Mozart!’ That’s slightly fudging the issue,
though, I have to admit; there are certainly stylistic questions to be
addressed here. But first, what is ‘baroque style’? Can we really believe
that everybody played in the same way, in different countries, even in
different towns – not to mention different players? (What a silly
expression that is, ‘not to mention’; it invariably means that you’re just
about to mention the subject in question.) True, there are many
contemporary treatises, of which one must be aware; but again – how
representative are they, and of whom? If a writer today were to compose
a manual advising young musicians how to play the music of our time,
it’s quite likely, for instance, that they would advise using vibrato
sparingly; and yet most of today’s players use it pretty much
continuously. So do we wish to recreate how instrumentalists of the day
played (if we could); or to follow the tracts of the period – which usually
contradict each other anyway? I think that the answer is to educate
ourselves as widely as possible, reading all the materials we can find, and
then to follow our – now refined – instincts. I have a strong feeling
(impossible to prove, of course) that if one had asked Bach to sing a
phrase from his music, it would have come out sounding pretty much as
that phrase would sound today, if produced naturally.

3. ‘Do you ever play the baroque cello?’

The answer to this is basically ‘no’, though I have occasionally

experimented with one. I do listen frequently to baroque instruments,
however, and learn a lot from doing so; indeed, there are many works
from the period that I really prefer to hear on those instruments. As for
the Bach suites: I believe that there are both gains and losses from
playing it on a ‘modern’ cello – or rather, on a cello with a modern set-
up. (Many players of today, myself included, play on instruments made
during Bach’s lifetime, albeit set up in the new manner.) One gains, I
think, a warmth and richness that is quite appropriate for the spirit of
Bach’s art; on the other hand, one can all too easily be tempted by these
enhanced potential sonorities into a sound-world inappropriate to the
character of the music. Furthermore, playing on the baroque cello, and
particularly with a baroque bow, can both suggest and facilitate
appropriate articulations and phrasings. The question of pitch is also
important: Bach’s orchestral instruments would have been tuned far
lower than today’s. (With the caveat here that there seems to have been at
that time a bewildering array of tunings in different towns; some of the
organs Bach played were actually tuned considerably higher than today’s
instruments. The pitches used in Köthen and Leipzig were much lower
than our modern ones, however.) Today’s players who tune their violins
and cellos down to ‘baroque’ pitches for performances of the solo works
say that their instruments feel freer, which I can well believe; on the other
hand, the sound lacks the same brilliance – though perhaps that doesn’t
matter much? A decision for each player – and each listener, when it
comes to choice of performances or recordings – to make for themselves.
The analogy I tend to use is of an actor who tries to recreate
Shakespearean pronunciation in performances of the Bard’s plays: some
features certainly fall into place (rhymes, etc.), while other aspects
become more difficult for a modern audience to grasp. Finally, I don’t
think it makes that much difference: Lear is still betrayed by his elder
daughters, Hamlet still has to wrestle with his indecision, etc. The core of
the meaning is not changed; and the same goes for the harmonic journey,
the emotional message of the suites, on whichever instrument they may
be played. The sonorities are a by-product of the essence, not – as in
some music – the essence itself.
It’s also worth pointing out that modern string instruments are by no
means as different from their baroque ancestors as modern pianos are
from the keyboard instruments available to Bach – even the early
fortepianos with which he became familiar towards the end of his life.
Not that I disapprove in any way of performances of Bach on the modern
piano – far from it; but its sonorities are absolutely unlike any sound
Bach would have heard. By contrast, the violins, cellos, etc. that we
mostly hear today are the same shape, even occupy the same basic sound-
world, as their older counterparts. True, there are major differences: the
set-up – neck-length, bass-bar, etc. – of today’s string instruments has
changed; and modern cellists, unlike those of Bach’s time, use spikes, or
endpins, which alter one’s physical approach to playing. But a cello is
still a cello – whereas a piano is definitely not a harpsichord.
The bow and strings are another matter. Today’s bow-hold, as well as
the bow itself, is different; and so are the strings, which in Bach’s time
were made of sheep-gut, whereas most of today’s players use steel
strings. Here I stand with the baroque players (even though my usually
aluminium-covered gut strings are, I’m sure, quite unlike the raw gut
ones of Bach’s day). There’s a basic difference between all types of gut
strings and their steel rivals, the former more mellow and earthy in
sound, the latter, it’s true, more brilliant and penetrating; but surely one
doesn’t need to be penetrating in Bach? This is music for self-
communion more than for noisy projection. For me personally, it is
something of a mini-religion: In Gut We Trust. (Or, as the comedian
Barry Humphries once put it: ‘It takes guts to be a cellist.’)

4. ‘Do the suites sound better in a concert hall or a church?’

Well, although there is no record of the suites having been performed at

Köthen, it is pretty certain that if they were, it would have been at court,
not in a chapel. In Leipzig, if they were played at all, it was probably in a
coffee-house or in Bach’s own home. So perhaps they are intended more
for the private concert hall – or chamber – than for the church. It does
seem likely, however, that most spacious rooms in those days would have
been more reverberant than today’s, which would have been useful for
the softer sonorities of the instruments of the time. (I suspect that people
also had better ears then, with less noise surrounding them all day long.)
The suites certainly benefit from a warm acoustic, allowing the cello to
ring out freely; the sound in some modern concert halls can lack bloom.
So I’d say that either hall or church is fine, providing that there is enough
resonance – but not so much of an echo that details become blurred.

5. ‘Were the suites performed with dancers during Bach’s lifetime?’

Certainly not that we know of; and I’d be very surprised if they were
used in that way. As mentioned earlier, we have no record of any
performance of them at all until the nineteenth century; but if they were
played, I’m pretty sure it would have been in a concert (private or public)
setting, not as an accompaniment. Some cellists today have performed
them with dancers; it can be interesting – and at least it means that the
cellist has to play in time! But I myself – as listener or player – don’t
want to be distracted from the music; one should be able to imagine the
dance, if one wishes to do so. The music, as I see it, is inspired by the
spirit, the metric rules, of the original dances; but it doesn’t require their
presence.

6. ‘Why is it so scary to play the Bach suites?’

It is scary to perform the suites. For me personally (but not just for me,
by any means), the memory aspect is terrifying: I’m always convinced
that I’m going to forget the next note. But there is also the sheer
unadulterated exposure of sitting by oneself onstage, with nothing to hide
one’s failings. Of course, pianists do that all the time, when they give
solo recitals, but at least they don’t have to face the audience! Also, it is
easier for them to add harmonies as they flail around in panic when they
lose their way. More than that, though, it’s the responsibility. The suites
are so perfect, and yet somehow so vulnerable, that one is desperate not
to let them down. I remember thinking, on the two occasions on which I
performed the cycle at my ‘musical home’, the Wigmore Hall in London:
‘I am playing perfect music, on a perfect Stradivarius cello, with a
perfect Tourte bow, in a perfect space. The only element of failure that
can intrude and ruin it all is – me.’ Gulp. (Of course, it is also an ecstatic,
joyous experience like no other – when it goes well …)

7. ‘Why do you feel you have to play them from memory?’

Well, maybe it’s silly, but I do find a music stand somehow impedes
contact with the audience in these pieces – though not in all music, by
any means. But more important is that the voyage of each suite really
begins from the first note, and ends with the last; there is no time to turn
pages. (It’s funny to see Anna Magdalena’s and Kellner’s instructions –
‘Voltecito’ or ‘Volti subito’ [‘turn quickly’] – in the middle of
movements; that would completely ruin the performance.) So other than
using iPads and the like – the mere thought of which sends me into a
blind panic – the only option would be having someone there to turn the
pages. I did play the fourth suite once with a page-turner; but he turned
consistently one movement ahead of the one I was actually playing – so I
had to play it from memory after all. I found, in fact, that I could do it –
so I thanked him; he’d done me a favour.

8. ‘Since there are almost no tempo or dynamic indications in any of the

manuscripts, how do you know which tempi to take and which dynamics
to insert?’

It’s pretty common in baroque music to have very few, if any, such
directions. The solution is simply to look inside the music; if one looks
hard enough, it should tell you what to do. The dynamics are controlled
largely by the bassline, whether sounded or not; it governs the direction
of the phrases, and hence the dynamics. Some of the suites – the first and
second, for instance – obviously start softly; others, such as the third and
sixth, loudly. (The latter is actually marked – well, implied – in three of
the four sources by a piano in the second bar, meaning that the first must
be forte.) From those beginnings, the rest should just fall into place; it is
all so clear and logical. The same with tempo: it should be determined by
the character of the dance, obviously, but also by the rate of harmonic
change, which will have its own innate flow; and I find that once one has
played one movement at a certain tempo, the rest will follow naturally.
That’s why it is quite hard to play a dance movement from any of the
suites out of context; it is so dependent on what has preceded it. There
may well be a mathematical relationship between the tempi of the
movements, but I’ve never tried to work it out; it should, I feel, be
subconscious and spontaneous, not planned.

9. ‘Has your playing of the suites changed over the years – and if so,
how?’

Yes, I’m sure that it has – but I couldn’t describe the changes. It’s like
ageing: if one looks in the mirror every day, one doesn’t perceive any
difference; but then one sees a photo of oneself taken a few years ago,
and one realises with a jolt that one is no longer the same … groan …
 10. ‘What do you think about when you play the suites?’

Well, partly what the next note will be (see above), and partly about
images from the narrative that I believe may possibly have inspired the
suites (see below). Most important, though, is to listen while one plays,
to follow the musical journey, to hear the stories that Bach is telling us.
And that’s why one must be on top of the instrumental difficulties – so
that one has the absolute freedom to listen as one plays. That, for me,
constitutes a proper technique.

11. ‘Do you have a favourite among the suites?’

No; the whole set is indispensable. It’s true that the suites expand and
become more elaborate, and more challenging, as they progress, the sixth
being almost twice as long as the first; but to do without the first, or any
of them, or to choose – impossible. Like dispensing with one of six
children.

12. ‘Do we have any evidence of how Bach would have wanted the suites
played, apart from the manuscript copies?’

Not really, unless you count the playing manuals of the time. But Forkel,
relying on reports given by those who heard Bach perform, gives a
succinct description of Bach’s own playing, which I think gives us quite a
clear image, and is worth bearing in mind:

When he played his own music Bach usually adopted a brisk pace.
He contrived to introduce so much variety that every piece became
a sort of conversation between its parts. If he wished to express
deep emotion he did not strike the notes with great force, as many
do, but expressed his feeling in simple melodic and harmonic
figures, relying rather on the internal resources of his art than
external dynamics. Therein he was right. True emotion is not
suggested by hitting the keyboard.

13. ‘Is there humour in the suites?’

Absolutely! They’re full of humour, especially suites 3 and 4. The
humour ranges from cheerfulness to actual laugh-out-loud wit. This
music has everything.

14. ‘Does the word “suite” have anything to do with “sweet”?’

No.

Rules for the Player

It is not for me, or anyone else, to dictate how Bach’s music should be
interpreted; each player should have his or her individual approach.
Frequently, however, I feel that unnecessary complications are brought
into the performance of his music. I therefore offer the following highly
debatable (and possibly rather annoying) nuggets of advice – principally
focusing on the cello suites, but hopefully more or less applicable for any
musician who plays Bach.

Rule 1: There are NO rules for playing this music – music this free and
original transcends any restriction whatsoever.

Rule 2: Don’t demonstrate your ideas! Many performances are ruined by

them. Have ideas, by all means, but don’t give us a lecture-recital. We
want to hear the music as if it is being composed as you play, as if it’s
travelling through you unhindered by prefabricated theories.

Rule 3: Dance! Aside from the Preludes – but not excluding them either,
in terms of rhythmic energy – these are dance suites (or, for the violin
or keyboard, partitas or sonatas or whatever: there’s always a sense of
dance, even in the fugues). It is often said, with some justification,
that the chief mode of expression on the harpsichord – one of Bach’s
principal instruments, of course – is through rubato; but even there,
that does not mean that performances should have no tempo. Rubato
in tempo is an essential component of music-making, so that it sounds
spontaneous, but still has a clear, steady beat; as Casals used to put it:
‘Freedom – with order!’ The rhythms in a performance of the suites
should induce in the audience members a desire to get up and dance –
 not make them feel seasick. It’s good to remember a contemporary
description of Bach conducting: he was ‘full of rhythm in every part
of his body’.

Rule 4: By all means read all you can about Bach, about his music, the
playing styles and players of the era – you should, in fact; but don’t let
your knowledge ruin your performance. Never go against your
instincts. True, instincts need educating; one couldn’t really leave it to
one’s instincts to guess, for instance, that when Bach writes certain
dotted rhythms, he would assume that the player would lengthen the
long note, shorten the little one(s) – the convention known as ‘double-
dotting’. Hopefully, though, your instincts, on learning that, will
exclaim: ‘Aha – that makes sense.’ (Because it does: think, for
instance, of the opening section of the fifth suite; it would sound far
too heavy without the double-dots that are a feature of its ‘French
overture’ style – at least, I think it would.) Always listen to what the
music is telling you, not to what you’ve read in a book or heard others
do; ideally, you should play the music as you would sing it in the
shower. It can be very useful to sing a phrase and then play it for
comparison. (Another word of advice, though: don’t take your cello
into the shower to test this.)

Rule 5: If you haven’t already done so, but have the possibility to play on
an instrument from Bach’s time, set up in a way he would have
recognised, seize the opportunity. This can give you a feeling for a
different approach, both musically and physically (not that the two
can really be separated).

Rule 6: Ornamentation – if the spirit takes you, feel free to add some
ornaments here or there, by all means; but again, don’t feel that you
have to add them, because ‘it was done’ then. Bach was not like many
other composers of the period, who left much of the material to the
player’s fancy; he was aiming for (and of course achieved) perfection
in his scores. In fact, he was critical of the French keyboard
composers for being ‘too affected in their frequent use of graces,
which goes so far that scarcely a note is free of embellishments’. So,
if you feel that a trill or appoggiatura here or there will increase the
 expression of a certain gesture, there’s no need to hold back (and it is
well worth looking at the ornaments written into sources C and D);
but don’t distort the line or rhythm with your additions. Remember
that much of the ornamentation is marked into the music already. In
fact, when the unfortunate Mr Scheibe made his lamentable attack on
Bach in 1737, one of his complaints was that ‘every note, every little
grace, and everything that one thinks of as belonging to the method of
playing, he expresses completely in notes’. That rather says it all; and
even C. P. E. Bach, whose music is generally quite open to
embellishment, muses that

Many variants of melodies introduced by executants in the

belief that they honour a piece, actually occurred to the
composer, who, however, selected and wrote down the original
because he considered it the best of its kind … A friend of mine
takes every last pain to play pieces as written, purely and in
accord with the rules of good performance. Can applause be
rightfully denied him?

Rule 7: Meanwhile, talking of ornamentation: vibrato. A tricky one, this.

I think we can be pretty sure that the players of Bach’s time did not
employ as much or as constant a vibrato as most modern players use
today – even if the Italian violinist and composer Francesco
Geminiani (1687–1762) tells us, around the time of Bach’s death, that
vibrato makes ‘the sound more agreeable and should therefore be
made use of as often as possible’. It was evidently thought of as a
form of ornament itself, existing to enhance the expressive
possibilities of the music, not as an automatic component of a player’s
sound. So again, I’d advise: if you feel that a note needs vibrato, then
vibrate; but make sure that the vibrato truly comes from your heart,
not just your finger. (Beware, however: if you’re like me, your vibrato
tends to become less controlled when you’re nervous.) And be careful
not to vibrate on ‘weak’ notes. It is generally only the stronger notes
that benefit from the emphasis of vibrato in this music; emphasising
the wrong ones distorts the phrasing. Then – trills: there are those who
say that every (or almost every) baroque trill should start on the upper
note; and those who hotly dispute that, affirming that if one has just
 played the upper note, or is about to play it, then the trill should start
on the main note. I’d say that it depends on the sentiment you wish to
express through the trill, as well as the clarity of line you wish to
maintain. Sometimes you will want to feel the dissonance, the clash of
the upper note before it resolves onto the main one, sometimes not.
That, and also the speed of the trill, is the sort of thing you can
certainly vary on repeats, along with the dynamics, phrasing, etc. –
again, whatever the music suggests to you as you listen.

Rule 8: Let your bow dance too – and breathe! For me, there’s always a
sense of lightening of the bow at the bar line (unless it’s slurred over);
by this I do not mean a noticeable silence or diminuendo – just
enough of an imperceptible breath to allow the first beat to have
something of a fresh impulse. As I’ve often said to students: ‘I’m sure
you’re going out and having fun at parties every night – let your bows
have fun too.’ And don’t suffocate the poor things by pinning them to
the string mercilessly – I’m surprised that some of them don’t go blue
in the stick.

Rule 9: Always be conscious of the beat of the bar on which you’re

playing. This sounds obvious, but one can easily forget – particularly
in a slower movement, such as the Allemande of the sixth suite. While
the metric stresses of the individual dances vary considerably, the first
beat of the bar is never unimportant. It’s not always heavy, of course,
but it’s generally a pivotal point of some kind, whether clearly
stressed or not. A question about phrasing can often be clarified by
following the metric shape of the dance. And avoid too many equal
beats. They can kill the music; nothing makes a performance sound
more static (and therefore boring) than a series of identical stresses.

Rule 10: Think about the bassline! Sometimes Bach writes it in,
sometimes it’s an invisible, unplayed, but strangely audible
foundation underpinning and regulating the melodic voice above. If
you have access to a keyboard instrument, and can play it to an even
elementary level, play the suites through, adding the bassline where
necessary. (Particularly useful in a movement such as the Prelude to
the second suite, with so very few chords.) This will solve a lot of
 problems – and I think you’ll find it easier than it may sound on
paper, because it’s so obvious when a bass note is wrong.

Rule 11: Further to that: you really have to work out a (very basic, at
least) harmonic analysis of each movement you play. The story of the
music lies in that journey through tonalities – composers think in
harmonies. I do feel it’s essential for the musician to look closely into
how a work has been composed, because that is the only way to enter
the head – and thus the heart and soul – of a composer. It’s really not
complicated. I can say that from personal experience: although I did
take some harmony lessons, I absorbed more from studying the scores
of works I was playing, because these make everything clear. Many
composers would say the same, that they learned their craft from
getting to know music of the past – including Bach, who was
obviously inspired and educated by copying out the music of other
composers. Any knowledge you acquire – again, it’s a question of
educating your instincts – will help to reveal the shape, the flow and
ultimately the meaning of the music. Without understanding the
harmonic direction, you’re travelling in a foreign land without a
guidebook – and with only a superficial grasp of the language.
Remember that though this music may be democratic, everything in
its allotted place, it is not egalitarian. There are heavy notes, light
notes, notes of arrival – with notes of direction either moving towards
or falling away from them – melody notes, accompanying notes, etc.
As in speech, in fact – only machines talk in monotone syllables.
Understanding the function of each note is crucial – and not hard.

Rule 12: Be careful how you play your chords: there are a lot of them,
and they must neither scrunch nor distort the rhythms. Here, if playing
with a modern set-up, it is useful to have in mind baroque instruments
and bows, imagining the gentler approach one can take with the flatter
bridges and lighter bows with their curved sticks. (I have to say that
violinists often offend worse than cellists in this regard –
understandably perhaps, since Bach demands much more from them
chord-wise, especially when he’s writing multi-voiced fugues. I’ve
heard performances in which the grinding, scratch-laden chords made
 me long for the safety of a nuclear shelter – and I’m sure that
shouldn’t be strictly necessary.)

Rule 13: When one has worked out the bowings for any of these works,
always bearing in mind the various patterns suggested by the sources,
one may find that they’re quite awkward to execute, and may leave
one in the wrong part of the bow. Always try to make the music sound
naturally flowing, not garbled – even if it involves some ‘cheating’,
often by separating two notes within the same bow (as in, for
example, playing two separated down-bows for the first two notes of a
group of four semiquavers phrased in units of one and three).
Whatever Bach meant by his articulations, I’m quite sure he didn’t
mean them to sound clumsy.

Rule 14: Having said all that: ENJOY the music – and be yourself! Don’t
be scared of Bach – he’s not scared of you. Don’t put him on a
pedestal; the music may be divinely inspired, but it’s also deeply
human – and lots of fun. Of course, there are dark aspects, particularly
in the two minor-mode suites (and at various points in the
partitas/sonatas), but even they shouldn’t be depressing in any way.
And there is so much joy and humour – albeit elevated humour. It’s
worth remembering – again – Forkel’s words: ‘Notwithstanding the
main tendency of his genius for the great and sublime, he sometimes
composed and performed something light-hearted and even jocose.’
(He is quick to point out, however, that Bach’s ‘cheerfulness and
joking were those of a sage’.)
A little musical diversion: Bach’s name written in four different clefs, in
the shape of a cross. In the treble clef, if one adds a flat to the key
signature, as on the left, that middle note is B flat (i.e. B in German); in
the tenor clef (on top) it is A; in the alto clef (to the right and upside
down, poor thing), it is C; and finally, in the treble clef with no key
signature, at the bottom, it is B natural (i.e. H in German).
And talking of crosses …
 PART 5

Could There Perhaps Be a Story … … Behind

the Suites?

God has preached the Gospel through Music.

MARTIN LUTHER

It is with some trepidation that I embark upon this chapter. To quote

Quintilianus (he who talked about preludes in Roman times) again:

I feel weary at the very thought of the task I have undertaken. But I
have set my hand to the plough and must not look back. My
strength may fail me, but my courage must not fail.

Or something like that …

I realise that suggesting extra-musical associations for the suites will
be anathema for some – maybe even sacrilege. However, I do think it’s
important to remember that for Bach, music and religion seem to have
been inextricably linked – different aspects of worship that permeated his
entire existence: Soli Deo gloria. Not for him the sort of Christianity so
admirably described by the Victorian novelist Wilkie Collins in his novel
Armadale:

I have noticed that the Christianity of a certain class of respectable

people begins when they open their prayer-books at eleven o’clock
on Sunday morning, and ends when they shut them up again at one
o’clock on Sunday afternoon. Nothing so astonishes and insults
Christians of this sort as reminding them of their Christianity on a
week-day.

Bach’s religious conviction was on an utterly different plane, as we can

feel through both his words and his art; he seems to have believed with
every fibre of his being, every day of the week, every hour of the day or
night. It is reasonable, therefore, to assume that it was not just the works
with sacred texts that encompassed his religious feelings; all of his music
was likely to have expressed his faith, the cello suites very much
included.
On the other hand, it is impossible to prove that there are specific
religious (or other) associations within the suites – even though there is, I
believe, some circumstantial evidence. It’s also true that Bach’s musical
impressions of, say, the Nativity are unlikely to be clearly differentiated,
in the absence of text, from any other deeply tender, gentle music in his
output; the emotions are universal. Having started with that disclaimer,
however, I have to declare that I firmly believe that there are religious
connotations in the suites; this is entirely an instinctive feeling I have
about the music, not a ‘theory’ – and in the hope that it may inspire some
players or listeners to a deeper understanding of, or feeling for, the music
(as I feel it inspires me, a non-Christian), I feel justified in setting out the
basis for these thoughts.
Before embarking upon my theory-which-is-not-a-theory, we have to
take a brief look at Bach and numbers, and Bach and symbols. It is
commonly thought that Bach had a great interest in numbers – well, we
know he did, because it shines through all his works, with their perfect
symmetry. I have already mentioned Ruth Tatlow’s article about numbers
of bars in the works for violin, one of countless examples in his music;
surely they cannot all be mere coincidences? Since for most of his life
Bach would have had to take a ‘rastrum’, or ‘raster’ – a nifty little device
for creating five parallel lines – in order to write out all his staves and bar
lines himself (or at least get his family or students to do it for him), he
could very possibly have counted the bar numbers before he wrote out
the music; and then, with his absolute mastery, he could have
manipulated the music to fit any proportions he favoured.
There is much more to the question of Bach and numbers, however.
First, there are the numbers considered symbolic in Bach’s time: seven,
of course, for the days of the week, but also – perhaps even more so –
six, the number of days during which God laboured to create the world,
as well as being the Trinity twice over. The revered status of six was
nothing new; already in the fifth century, St Augustine had written:
 Six is a number perfect in itself, and not because God created all
things in six days. Rather the inverse is true; God created all things
in six days because the number is perfect.

This veneration of the number could partially explain why it became

customary for so many baroque and later composers to include six works
in their collections – as in Bach’s ‘Brandenburg’ concertos, keyboard
suites, violin partitas/sonatas, cello suites, etc. (Though I mustn’t get
carried away: to have six works in a collection also makes absolute
musical sense, allowing the composer, for instance, to use half the notes
in the octave as the tonic of the pieces in the set.)
It is hard for us to judge how many of Bach’s supposed numerical
references were actually intended; but we must remember that Bach was
a man who could solve any musical challenge he faced, whether it
concerned composition; acoustics (he could tell at a glance the acoustical
properties of any building he entered); or the possibilities of any
instrument – he would instantly produce sounds from an organ that,
according to C. P. E. Bach, would make its builders turn ‘pale with
fright’. Bach was capable of any possible musical feat, in fact. A friend
of mine, the harpsichordist and conductor Richard Egarr, once spent a
whole dinner dazzling me with talk of the mathematics hidden within the
‘Brandenburg’ concertos and Bach’s keyboard works. By the end of his
peroration, I was dazed (and a little drunk). ‘But – why?’ I gasped.
‘Because he could,’ was the answer.
Then there’s the question of Bach’s name: not surprisingly, he would
often incorporate the pattern of notes spelled out by the letters of his
name within his works; he does so, significantly, in the unfinished final
fugue of his last major work, The Art of Fugue. But also it is widely
(though not universally) believed that Bach was intrigued by the numbers
into which his name could be translated: if the letters of the alphabet are
counted, with A equalling one, B two, etc., Bach’s surname adds up to
fourteen. ‘J. S. Bach’, on the other hand, comes to a pleasingly
palindromic forty-one. (In Germany in Bach’s time, I and J were counted
as the same letter; in today’s English alphabet his name would add up to
the slightly less satisfying forty-three.) Some of the theories resulting
from these supposed number games are highly convincing: there is one,
for instance, that suggests that Bach added the words ‘Credo in unum
Deum’ into the text of the ‘Patrem omnipotentem’ movement in his B
minor Mass in order to bring the number of words to fourteen, with
eighty-four letters (six times fourteen, seven times twelve), within a
movement containing eighty-four bars – a number which Bach,
unusually, writes into the score; this seems to me to ring true.
Furthermore, it all ties in perfectly with the fact that the cello suites have,
depending which way you count, either thirty-six – i.e. six times six –
movements, or (since the fifth movement is always in two parts) forty-
two – i.e. seven times six, or half of eighty-four. On the other hand, we
should probably be wary of the faintly mad notions that surface from
time to time, such as the one averring that, because there are exactly
1,283 notes in the first Prelude and Fugue of The Well-Tempered Clavier
– spelling out the letters ABHC, if you apply the system above – it is an
indisputable fact that Bach planned it that way …
Ultimately, even though it’s true that these conjectures do sometimes
spiral out of control, there does seem to be a solid basis to the more
reasonable ones; and it’s worth remembering that a feeling for
mathematics was thought in Bach’s time to be an important foundation
for the art of music. As the composer and musicologist Andreas
Werckmeister (1645–1706) – who was largely responsible for promoting
the tuning system for keyboards known as ‘equal temperament’, resulting
in Bach’s Well-Tempered Clavier – put it:

Musical intervals are nothing other than numbers and proportions

and since God created and ordered everything in Numbers,
Proportion and Weighting, so also must the musician, indeed every
person, be diligent and study how to reproduce such marvellous
Order.

Following on quite naturally from that hotbed of theories, there’s the

question of religious symbolism in Bach’s music. We can affirm without
any doubt that Bach was a pretty devout Lutheran. On his death, his
library contained two enormous collections of Luther’s complete works,
as well as many other theological works and a heavily annotated Bible,
one of the annotations in Bach’s hand containing the telling phrase:
‘Music has been mandated by God’s spirit.’ His use of religious symbols
in the cantatas, Chorale Preludes, Passions, etc., ranges from word-
painting (such as rising scales to represent the Ascension) to – it has been
suggested – an actual representation of the Cross through the shape of the
notes on the page.
The vast majority of his music was written for the church; as
mentioned earlier, only in Köthen – where he probably composed the
cello suites – was he required to produce almost exclusively secular
music. Throughout Bach’s six years there, he composed fewer than a
dozen vocal works (only two of which have survived), almost all of them
celebratory works for Prince Leopold’s birthday or for New Year’s Day.
Leopold was a staunch Calvinist; and Calvin, though recognising the
importance of music, had banned all instrumental and a cappella music
from church services, considering that it would distract the congregation
from the serious business of worship. At least Bach could attend the local
Lutheran church established by Leopold’s mother, as well as sending his
children to the Lutheran school she had founded; but any devotional
feelings that he might have wished to express in his music would have
had to be implied – hidden, even. Not that I am proposing that he was a
Shostakovich-like figure, sneaking secret protest messages into his
works; but in the absence of sacred text or titles, any religious references
would have had, by necessity, to be somewhat subliminal.
In fact, sacred instrumental music would have been nothing new.
There were such pieces as Corelli’s Christmas Concerto, for instance,
composed in the late 1600s, to be performed on Christmas Eve; and there
were also, more unusually, the ‘Mystery’ or ‘Rosary’ sonatas by Heinrich
Biber, alluded to earlier. These extraordinary works consist of fifteen
sonatas for violin and keyboard, concluding with a Passacaglia for solo
violin. Although the manuscript has no title page, we know that the
sequence represents the fifteen miracles, or mysteries, of the Rosary,
because each sonata is prefaced with a beautiful illustration depicting
those miracles. The accompanied sonatas are grouped into three sections,
representing five ‘Joyful’, five ‘Sorrowful’ and five ‘Glorious’ mysteries;
for instance, the first is (now) entitled ‘The Annunciation’, the sixth
‘Christ on the Mount of Olives’ (denoting ‘The Agony in the Garden’),
the eleventh ‘The Resurrection’. Several of the sonatas begin with a
‘Präludium’, which is then followed by movements including dances
such as ‘Allaman’, ‘Courente’, ‘Sarabande, ‘Gigue’ – and a ‘Ciacona’ in
D. It is highly unlikely that Bach would have seen these sonatas, since, as
far as we know, the only copy was in a library in Salzburg – but not
completely impossible that he could have heard about them. Bach’s
employer in Köthen, Prince Leopold, was a true music nut, who while on
his travels spent vast amounts on tickets for the opera, and also on
acquiring old music; he seems to have been thirsty for any musical
information he could gather. A few years before Bach arrived in Köthen,
Leopold had spent some time in Vienna. There is surely a chance that he
might have heard tell there (or elsewhere) of the old master who had
written sacred music for the violin. We will never know, of course – but
maybe …
The Rosary is a specifically Catholic concept, and as such would
presumably have been inappropriate for Bach’s beliefs – even if he was
later to write the B minor Mass (which, incidentally, is not really in B
minor), described by C. P. E. as his father’s ‘Great Catholic Mass’.
Anyway, the important question, whether or not Bach knew about the
‘Mystery’ sonatas, is whether there might be some elements of religious
subtext, similar to Biber’s, embedded within Bach’s music for strings. In
2001, an extraordinary recording entitled Morimur was released on the
ECM label. In the accompanying booklet, a violin professor in
Düsseldorf, Helga Thoene, expounded her view that Bach’s Chaconne for
solo violin, from the Partita in D minor, was written as a memorial for his
first wife, Maria Barbara, and that it contains references to several
Lutheran chorales. The recording included a performance of the
Chaconne by the violinist Christoph Poppen, intertwined with the
relevant chorales sung by the Hilliard Ensemble. The ideas were
controversial, and not surprisingly provoked a variety of reactions. I
personally found the whole project stimulating and pretty convincing. I
was particularly taken with the religious aspect of the theory, since the
Chaconne – at least as I count it – contains thirty-three phrases, thirty-
three being the supposed age of Christ at the time of the Crucifixion; and
at the very least, the performance provided us with a fascinating new
piece of music, the Chaconne sounding, although quite different,
strangely haunting when combined with the chorales.
Professor Thoene also mentioned in her notes that she thought that the
three sonatas for solo violin represented three of the major festivals in the
Lutheran calendar: the G minor symbolising Christmas (the Nativity), the
A minor Easter (Crucifixion and Resurrection) and the C major Pentecost
(the Gift of the Holy Spirit). This really struck a chord with me, because I
had always felt instinctively that the six cello suites were inspired by
events in the life of Christ. I had first started to sense that possibility
when learning the fifth suite, the dark loneliness of which always brought
to mind the Crucifixion; and when talking about the sixth suite with my
teacher Jane Cowan, who described the opening as depicting pealing
bells, suggesting the Resurrection. Gradually, I’d started to think about
the possible subtext of the other suites as well – the Preludes in
particular, the dance movements developing the story, as it were,
exploring different aspects of the narrative set out in those Preludes. So
the thoughts behind Morimur felt somehow familiar – and encouraging.
Also, thinking back to Biber’s sonatas, I realised that, even if it was
nothing to do with the Rosary, the overall pattern of the six suites, with
the two minor-mode works in the middle of two groups of three, really
matches the arrangement of the ‘Joyful’, ‘Sorrowful’ and ‘Glorious’
mysteries. True, the varying fifth movements of the suites – the Minuets
of nos. 1 and 2, the Bourrées of 3 and 4, the Gavottes of 5 and 6 –
suggest a grouping of three times two, almost like a hemiola of dances;
but tonally and emotionally, I’d say that the suites comprise two sets of
three. Perhaps Bach was showing us, through these contradictory
groupings, that it is neither specifically two times three nor three times
two, but a complete set of six suites?
Another, related, question that comes to mind here is whether Bach
might have quoted, or embedded, any Lutheran chorales within these
Preludes – particularly if he really did so in the Chaconne. This for me is
an open question, which perhaps should be explored further; there are
certainly hints in the framework of the melodic lines that could be heard
as chorale tunes. The danger in searching for them, though, as in
searching for confirmation of the images that I believe I see/hear/feel in
the suites, is that one tends to pounce on any little shred of potential
evidence and twist it to fit one’s own ideas – as with any theory on any
subject whatsoever. For instance, three notes in the suites that are the
same as three notes in a chorale melody may be trumpeted as proof that
Bach is quoting that melody. Perhaps so – but it could also very well be a
coincidence; there are, after all, only a limited number of intervals in the
scale. Similarly, I have been searching for correspondences between the
vocal works and the suites, and believe that I have found many of them;
but even if those correlations are real (which I certainly think they are),
that doesn’t prove, of course, that they are intended. There are certain
gestures within Bach’s music that we encounter again and again, in
various guises; it may just be his ‘handwriting’, so to speak. But surely
these connections, like those between the numbers of bars, are too many,
and too deep-seated, to be wholly coincidental? See what you think …

Suite no. 1 in G major, BWV 1007

The Nativity

So geht denn hin, ihr Hirten, geht,

Dass ihr das Wunder seht:
Und findet ihr des Höchsten Sohn
In einer harten Krippe liegen,
So singet ihm bei seiner Wiegen
Aus einem süßen Ton
Und mit gesamtem Chor
Dies Lied zur Ruhe vor!

So go ye there, you Shepherds, go,

That you may see the miracle,
And find there the son of the Highest
Lying in a hard crib.
So sing to him in his cradle
In a sweet tone
And with the whole choir
This song for his rest.
 WEIHNACHTS-ORATORIUMWEIHNACHTS-ORATORIUM (CHRISTMAS
ORATORIOCHRISTMAS ORATORIO), BWV 248

G major, according to Mattheson, is ‘suitable for both serious and

cheerful things’; he goes on to describe it – quoting an earlier writer,
Athanasius Kircher (1602–80) – as ‘a true guardian of moderation’. It is
also a key often associated with the birth of Jesus, used for instance by
Corelli in the Pastorale of his Christmas Concerto, by Handel in ‘For
unto us a Child is Born’ in Messiah, and by Bach for much of his
Christmas Oratorio. It seems to me that ‘serious’, ‘cheerful’ and
‘moderate’ are all inherent characteristics of this, the opening Prelude of
the opening suite. From the first notes, Bach produces from the cello a
calm resonance that is somehow reassuring, comforting – as well as
innocent. From this beginning, we embark upon a gentle journey: the first
‘foreign’ key that we encounter – in the second bar – is the subdominant,
the key of the fourth note of the scale, C major.
Since I will refer often to the subdominant, both as note (the fourth
note of the scale) and as key (e.g. C major if G major is the tonic, F
major if the movement is in C major, etc.), perhaps now is the time for a
short disquisition on its properties – as I see them, at least. There is no
way of telling for sure whether Bach thought of the subdominant as a key
of thanksgiving; but it certainly seems to possess that quality within the
suites, and repeatedly throughout his music. Again, this is entirely an
instinctive, emotional reaction of mine; but it would make sense. The
subdominant has religious connotations in that it features in ‘plagal’
cadences – in which the concluding chords of a musical phrase fall from
the subdominant to the tonic, as opposed to the ‘perfect’ cadence, which
proceeds from the dominant to the tonic. The fifteenth-century composer
Johannes Ockeghem is said to have been the first to use this harmonic
device for a final ‘Amen’; from there, it became standard practice at the
end of sacred works, to the extent that the plagal cadence also became
known as the ‘Amen’ cadence. And is ‘Amen’ not an expression of
gratitude, as well as of acceptance?
So it seems to me that Bach is offering us, in these opening notes, a
sense of tender comfort (despite the ‘hard crib’) in the choice of tonality,
the sonority and the key relationships. Also in the rhythmic figures: the
lilting arpeggios of these opening bars do seem to denote both praise and
the gentle rocking of a ship – or cradle? In two of the most strikingly
similar figures assigned to the cello in the cantatas, arpeggios (albeit in B
flat major) accompany the words ‘Mein Wandel auf der Welt ist einer
Schifffahrt gleich’ (‘My sojourn in the world is like a ship’s journey’,
from BWV 56); and – in G – ‘Sei Lob und Ehr dem Höchsten Gut’ (‘Give
honour and praise to the highest good’, BWV 117). Kindred arpeggiated
figures appear in the recitative from the Christmas Oratorio sung to the
text quoted at the head of this section.
Another noticeable feature of this Prelude, as it approaches its
triumphant conclusion, is the repeated use of ‘bariolage’ – a French
expression meaning ‘a mixed colour-scheme’, used in music for string
instruments to describe a passage involving two voices, one generally
melodic and stopped (i.e. the finger pressed on the string to produce the
note), the other an adjacent open string sounded repeatedly. It makes for
intriguing textures, the stopped notes contrasting strongly with the more
ringing open strings, the bow undulating between the two. Bach uses this
device quite frequently to express joy – for instance, at the opening of the
cantata ‘Gelobet sei der Herr, mein Gott’ (‘Praised be the Lord, my God’,
BWV 129); or in an aria with, unusually, two cello obbligato parts, ‘Lass
mein Herz die Münze sein, / Die ich dir, mein Jesu, steure!’ (‘Let my
heart be the coin with which I render thee homage, my Jesus’, BWV 163,
composed as early as 1715). He also, strikingly, uses bariolage in
combination with arpeggiated figures in the aria ‘Wir danken und preisen
dein brünstiges Lieben / Und bringen ein Opfer der Lippen vor dich’
(‘We thank and praise thee for thy warm love, and bring an offering from
our lips to you’, BWV 134). (No incense or frankincense, perhaps, let
alone myrrh – but it’s something.)
A third possible ingredient – and I hope I’m not straying into the
realm of conspiracy theories here – may also be introduced at this
opening. The distinguished Bach – and Haydn, Brahms, etc. – scholar
Karl Geiringer (1889–1989) uses this example from the violin figuration
in the aria ‘Gebt mir meinen Jesum wieder’ (‘Give me my Jesus again’),
from the St Matthew Passion, to illustrate Bach’s use of the cross shape
in music:
This, according to Geiringer, reproduces the shape of the Greek letter X,
consisting of a diagonally descending line and a horizontal one – this
letter supposedly representing the Cross. If that is the case, then could it
not also be true of the opening of this suite?

Furthermore, many commentators have pointed out that Bach is acutely

aware of the connection between the sharp sign – ‘Kreuz’ in German –
and the Cross. And he has chosen the major key with one sharp …
So to sum up: we have here a gentle, pastoral tonality; an opening
figure that is used elsewhere by Bach to depict a ship’s journey, and
praise; another figure frequently representing joy; and perhaps a message
– or at least hint – as the narration of the suites begins that this story is
about Our Lord of the Cross. None of it is proof, by any means –
needless to say; nor will I be able to offer anything more substantiated
regarding the rest of the suites. But it does seem to me telling … Listen
to this Prelude – and to the other five (six) movements – and I think
you’ll understand what I mean.

Suite no. 2 in D minor, BWV 1008

 The Agony in the Garden

Mein Vater, ist’s möglich, so gehe dieser Kelch von mir; doch
nicht wie ich will, sondern wie du willt.

My Father, if it is possible, allow this cup to pass from me; but

it is not as I will, rather as thou wilt.
PASSION ACCORDING TO SAINT MATTHEW, BWV 244

The second is perhaps the most intimate and meditative of all the six
suites. Whereas the arpeggiated figures of the first Prelude immediately
set the cello humming and vibrating, this D minor Prelude is notable for
its sparse texture – for the most part a single melodic line, with only one
chord heard before the last five bars (more on those later). Bach seems to
be emphasising the solitary nature of the music, the sense of an
individual communing with him/herself. The suite opens with a series of
rising questions before resolving, in the fourth bar, into a cadence on the
tonic. (All the Preludes except no. 6, as well as many of the dance
movements, begin by establishing the tonic in this way – by means of a
cadence within the first bars.) Bach frequently uses the key of D minor to
express tragedy; in that respect, if perhaps not in too many others, he is
close to Nigel Tufnel of Spın̈ al Tap, who calls D minor ‘the saddest of all
keys … it makes people weep instantly’.
‘The Agony in the Garden’, the first of the ‘Sorrowful’ mysteries,
refers to the scene in which, after the Last Supper, Jesus goes to the
garden of Gethsemane, on the Mount of Olives, in order to pray. Asking
his disciples to keep watch, Jesus prays to his Father to deliver him from
his fate – but ‘Thy Will be done’. Each time he returns to his disciples, he
finds them sleeping; ‘the spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak’.
Eventually Judas, ‘having received a detachment of troops, and officers
from the chief priests and Pharisees’, arrives with lanterns, torches and
weapons, and Jesus is captured. The rest, one can honestly say, is history.
We find D minor in several of Bach’s settings of this episode: for
instance, in his setting of the chorale ‘Mein Jesu! was vor Seelenweh bef
ällt dich in Gethsemane’ (‘My Jesus! What suffering of the soul befell
you in Gethsemane’, BWV 487); both the great Passions also move into D
minor at this point in the story. Therefore, I think it’s fair to say that Bach
associated this event with this key. Other aspects of this Prelude seem, at
the very least, to be extremely apposite: the sparse textures, the
questioning intervals, the air of contemplation. There are intervals similar
to the rising ones with which this suite begins in D minor movements in
various cantatas, such as an early one, BWV 155 (1716), in the opening
aria (called ‘concerto’), ‘Mein Gott, wie lang, ach lange? Des Jammers
ist zuviel’ (‘My God, how long, ah – how long? The grief is too much’);
the aria ‘Meine Seele sei vergnügt, / Wie es Gott auch immer fügt’ (‘May
my soul be content with whatever God ordains’) from the cantata BWV
204; and likewise an aria in B minor, ‘Ach schläfrige Seele, wie? ruhest
du noch?’ (‘Ah slumbering spirit, what? You slumber still?’), from the
cantata BWV 115. (This last also has distinct echoes of ‘Erbarme dich’
[‘Have mercy’] from the St Matthew Passion.) I think I can rest my case
– at least regarding the emotional context of this Prelude.
And then there are the chords at the Prelude’s end, mentioned above.
These are a puzzle. According to Anna Magdalena, these are the chords:

This has to be a mistake; the second and third chords cannot be the same
– it sounds completely wrong.
 Kellner has the following, far more likely reading:

the difference being that whereas Anna Magdalena has the same A–E–D
chord for both the second and third bars, Kellner has an F in the middle
of the second chord. Curious that there are five notes in the final chord in
Kellner’s version – impractical on a four-string instrument. But that
chord in the second bar – with which sources C and D agree – makes far
more sense than Anna Magdalena’s version. There is a chance, I suppose,
that there were actually supposed to be just four chords, making it into a
more conventional four-bar phrase – that Bach repeated the second chord
by mistake, and forgot to cross it out; but sources C and D also have five
– and it is musically satisfying, somehow, as it stands. It is enigmatic,
however; there is nothing similar to it, not just in this Prelude, but in any
of the suites. It is certainly possible that Bach expected the player, rather
than playing straight chords, to improvise some sort of pattern around
them; in fact, source D indicates all but the final chord to be played as
semiquavers, implying just that. (Some people point to a similar passage
– they say – in the Chaconne, in which Bach sets up a tessellated shape,
and then, providing just a skeleton text, leaves it to the violinist to
continue that pattern. But it really isn’t similar: in this Prelude, there is no
such pattern set up. If the cellist is going to improvise here, he/she really
has to invent the ending around the tonal framework of the chords.) I
think it’s significant that the three earliest sources agree, if not on notes,
then at least on the fact that there are five long, held chords. But then, I
always wondered what they might signify – if anything? And I have a
tentative suggestion, which I myself find artistically convincing, even if
I’m aware that I might be Bach-ing up the wrong tree (yes, I did say
that). Could these chords be representing the Five Holy Wounds, the
piercings that Christ suffered during the Crucifixion? It may sound far-
fetched, but it would make sense of the melancholy grandeur of this
ending, the feeling of time standing still. ‘As thou wilt’ … It’s a thought,
anyway.

Suite no. 3 in C major, BWV 1009

The Holy Trinity

Höchsterwünschtes Freudenfest,
Das der Herr zu seinem Ruhme
Im erbauten Heiligtume
Uns vergnügt begehen lässt.
Höchsterwünschtes Freudenfest!
Much-awaited feast of joy
which the Lord allows us to celebrate
in his self-built kingdom
to honour his Glory.

CANTATA FOR TRINITY SUNDAYCANTATA SUNDAY, BWV 194

Or – the Ascension?

Trinity Sunday was an important festival in Bach’s time, marking as it

did the end of the first half of the liturgical year, the Temporale; and
similarly, the C major suite can be seen as marking the end of the first
half of the cycle of suites. In both this suite and the cantata quoted above
– itself based on a secular cantata composed in Köthen – one is
immediately struck by the joyousness of the simple descending scale in
the opening movement: Bach is making a far from solemn
pronouncement.
One of my – most people’s – favourite Bach scholars, Christoph
Wolff, has written (on the subject of a ‘riddle canon’ by Bach):

It creates the C major triad [C–E–G], the acoustically purest of all

triads, which represents the natural, God-given, most perfect
harmonic sound … It is this sound that symbolised the dogma of
the Holy Trinity. Like no other combination of tones, the natural
triad could make audible and believable the trias perfectionis et
similitudinis (the triad of perfection and [God-]likeness) … the
essential identity between the Creator and the universe.

It seems rather a lot for an innocent little triad, which can’t even afford a
flat – or sharp, for that matter – to bear on its shoulders. But here, with
this wonderfully simple but bold opening, twelve notes consisting of a
straightforward downward scale plus an arpeggio (triad), Bach makes a
proclamation of such joy that we are transported instantly, irresistibly
into a world of glorious elation.
I remember, all the way back in 1974, going to hear a recital at the
Maltings in Snape – the home of Benjamin Britten’s Aldeburgh Festival
– at which Mstislav Rostropovich was going to give a solo recital, the
programme to include the premiere of Britten’s third suite for cello; this
had been delayed for several years because Rostropovich had been
forbidden to travel abroad, as punishment for his support for the dissident
writer Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn. The programme was to begin, however,
with Bach. The anticipation in the audience was immense, not least
because Britten himself was sitting in the box. Suddenly, Rostropovich
swept onto the stage, sat down and immediately launched into this C
major suite, played fff. We shot out of our skins! But it made a point …
The descending scale is a fairly constant feature in Bach’s music,
generally seeming to denote celebration* – as in the cantata BWV 194
quoted above, or the cantata BWV 214, written in honour of the birthday
of Maria Josepha, Princess Elector of Saxony and Queen of Poland:
‘Tönet, ihr Pauken! Erschallet, Trompeten!’ (‘Sound your drums!
Resound, trumpets!’) There is also a series of falling scales notably
similar to those of this Prelude, and also beginning in C major, in the
continuo part (including cello) near the opening of the cantata ‘Jesu nun
sei gepreiset / Zu diesem neuen Jahr’ (‘Jesus now be praised for this New
Year’, BWV 41); and there are many more celebratory ones at the opening
of the Ascension Oratorio (BWV 11). (The scales seem to me to be going
the wrong way: shouldn’t they be ascending, rather than descending? But
let it pass; maybe Bach was in that one way a typical man – no sense of
direction.) In fact, the opening of this Oratorio is so reminiscent of the
Prelude of the third suite, despite being in D rather than C major (they do
seem to have been fairly interchangeable keys for Bach), that I wonder
whether the Ascension, the second of the ‘Glorious’ mysteries, might in
fact have been the inspiration here? It’s possible.
The hill-like rivulets with which the C major Prelude then advances
are also to be found in many vocal works, such as in the cantata BWV 173,
to the words ‘Nun wir lassen unsere Pflicht / Opfer bringen, dankend
singen’ (‘Now we leave our duty, and bring offerings, sing thanks’); in
the cantata BWV 129, written for Trinity Sunday – ‘Gelobet sei der Herr,
Mein Gott, mein Licht, mein Leben’ (‘Give praise to the Lord, My God,
my light, my life’); and to the words ‘Gloria in excelsis Deo’ in the B
minor Mass. They all seem to tie in perfectly with this Prelude, perhaps
the most exciting of all six – an outburst of glad tidings.

Suite no. 4 in E flat major, BWV 1010

Magnificat!

Magnificat anima mea Dominum.

My soul doth magnify the Lord.
 Or – the Presentation in the Temple?

Joy is an expansion of the soul, therefore it follows

reasonably and naturally that one could best express this
effect by large and expanded intervals.
JOHANN MATTHESON

The original version of Bach’s Magnificat, first performed soon after he

arrived in Leipzig, was in E flat major; it comprised twelve Latin
movements, with four German hymn interpolations. ‘Large and expanded
intervals’ are in evidence almost throughout the work – as they are in this
fourth cello Prelude. Like its C major predecessor, the E flat Prelude is
full of simple patterns; but whereas the third begins with an immediate
sense of proclamation, the fourth conjures up from its opening bars a
sense of vast architecture. One thinks – or at least, I think – of a spacious
church, its roof soaring towards heaven. The very first interval is a giant
leap between the cello’s lowest E flat, on the C string, to one two octaves
higher on the A string; it is quite startling in its boldness (and thoroughly
awkward to play). These two E flats form the outer limits of an expansive
arpeggiated pattern, which forms the basis of much of the movement,
interrupted only by some cadenza-like passages – like written-out
improvisations – which serve to heighten the excitement. Similarly
leaping arpeggios occur fairly frequently in the accompaniments to
several vocal works, illustrating texts such as ‘Jesus soll mein erstes Wort
/ In dem neuen Jahre heißen’ (‘Jesus shall be my first word in the New
Year’, from BWV 171) and ‘Gloria in excelsis Deo’ in the G minor Mass
(BWV 235), as well as featuring prominently in the Gloria movement of
the B minor Mass.
In a way, the architectural opening makes me think of the fourth of the
‘Joyful’ mysteries, the Presentation of Jesus at the Temple. Bach
celebrated this major festival (known also as the Purification of Mary)
with several cantatas; however, they centre around the story of the old
man Simeon, to whom it was revealed by the Holy Ghost that he ‘should
not see death before he had seen the Lord’s Christ’. Having subsequently
seen the infant Jesus in the Temple, he blessed the Lord, saying: ‘Lord,
now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace.’ (According to Luke’s
Gospel, a woman named Anna, also present, was of ‘fourscore plus four
years’ – i.e. eighty-four, Bach’s beloved number; ‘she gave thanks
likewise unto the Lord’.) This story inspired the canticle ‘Nunc Dimittis’,
set by composers such as Tallis and Schütz, as well as Bach. However,
although Simeon accepts death with serene gratitude, I just cannot hear
anything but vital, pulsing life in this fourth suite, so I don’t find that
connection convincing – despite the familiar vaulting arpeggios for solo
violin at the opening of one of the relevant cantatas, ‘Erfreute Zeit im
neuen Bunde’ (‘Glad time of the new order’, BWV 83).
Looking beyond the Prelude at the rest of the warm, down-to-earth
music of this suite, I wonder – although perhaps I am again straying
towards the unlikely here – whether the number four might have been
strongly on Bach’s mind as he composed this work. It’s a strange idea, I
know; but maybe. The number four, if not sacred to quite the same extent
as three, was important within the Christian religion: as well as the four
ends to the Cross, there were four Gospels and, crucially, there were four
Hebrew letters in the name of God (as well as four letters in the name of
Bach!). Musically, however, it signifies something different, though
perhaps related: thanksgiving (as already mentioned), the ‘Amen’
cadence featuring a fall – or rise – from the fourth to the tonic. It is the
presence of this aspect that I feel strongly throughout this suite. Bach
evidently loved the relationship of the fourth to the tonic – no tetraphobe
he. (Tetraphobia – curious word – is fear of the number four.) My feeling
is – as usual – mostly instinctive, of course; but there are a couple of
events within the music that seem to point to the significance of the
number, apart from it being the fourth suite. For a start, the subdominant
is already present in the third bar of the Prelude, and even earlier in the
Sarabande; far more surprisingly, the second Bourrée is exactly a quarter
of the length of the first, whereas in every other pair of movements
within the suites, the two are almost exactly the same length. (In some
other pairs of dances by Bach, there are long and short couples; but as far
as I know this is a unique proportion.) And finally, one single note that
could be just a mistake, but which I find attractive as well as convincing,
in the very last bar of the suite: the final bar (number forty-two!) of the
Gigue consists, unsurprisingly, of notes entirely within the E flat triad –
in Kellner, and in sources C and D. However, Anna Magdalena’s copy
has an A flat, the fourth, in place of a G, for the third from last note. This
– admittedly a pretty typical cadential device, but unexpected in this
context – seems to lend it a special feeling, almost like a plagal, ‘Amen’
cadence; a smiling thank you to God. Even if it’s merely a copying error
(though I hope it isn’t), I love it.

The ending of the Gigue, source C.

Anna Magdalena’s version (with that wonderful A flat).

Ultimately, these are small details, however; even if Bach is giving us

a few little hints about a subtext to the suite, they are of minor
importance in the overall scheme of things. What truly matters is that
through the towering structure of the Prelude, one can feel that Bach is
setting up a temple in sound: Soli Deo gloria.

Suite no. 5 in C minor, BWV 1011

The Crucifixion

Crucifixus etiam pro nobis …

If a composer wishes to write a sombre masterpiece, he or she will often
choose C minor; Beethoven, for instance, sets his fifth symphony, as well
as his ‘Pathetique’ sonata and the last piano sonata, op. 111, in that key;
Mozart’s darkly hued piano concerto, K491, is also in C minor, as is his
famous Mass, K427; Brahms’ first symphony, Rachmaninov’s second
piano concerto – and so on. For some reason, it often seems to bring the
very best out of composers. The tonality obviously meant something very
special to Bach, the last movement of the St Matthew Passion and the
final chorus of the St John being two telling examples of his use of it. For
the cello, the key of C is obviously attractive, since the lowest note it can
play (in normal tuning) is C. Having used the power of C major in a
blaze of glory in the third suite, Bach darkens the sound-world of the
fifth, not just by writing in the minor, but also by having the cellist tune
down the top string, the A, to G. The result is extra resonance, as the top
string now vibrates in sympathy with the third string, the G an octave
lower – but also a sense of foreboding, of sadness, the natural brilliance
of the instrument reduced. This sonority provides a perfect backdrop for
the unfolding of tragedy: and tragedy is what Bach offers us, from the
very first notes. The Prelude is conceived in the style of a ‘French
overture’, a very popular genre in Bach’s time (and one he used as a title
for a whole multi-movement keyboard suite, originally in C minor:
Ouvertüre nach Französischer Art, BWV 831). The basic form consists of
a slow, solemn section featuring (double-)dotted rhythms, followed by a
contrasting lively section, often fugal in nature. In some examples the
first section is then repeated, but not here.
The impression as this suite unfolds is one of heart-rending narrative,
the lowest C kept as a dramatic pedal-note, sounded or implied, for nine
bars of darkness – three bars longer than the famous pulsing E underlying
the opening of the St Matthew Passion. It is as if an Evangelist were
setting out the story of the Crucifixion, recitative-like rhetoric interwoven
with the dotted rhythms. Almost all of the first twenty-two bar lines of
the Prelude are marked by chords – another of Bach’s ways of adding
intensity, in addition to emphasising the persistence of the pedal-notes.
(There are similarities to some particularly dramatic chords in the cantata
BWV 74, set to the words ‘Leiden’ and ‘Sterben’ [‘suffering’, ‘death’].)
The first section, as is customary for French overtures, ends on the
dominant, in this case a three-note chord made up of open strings: G–D–
G. It sounds curiously inconclusive, neither major nor minor – a
questioning portal to the second stage of the journey.
Throughout his music, Bach’s love of fugues is obvious; C. P. E. tells
us that his father ‘through his own study and reflection alone became
even in his youth a pure and strong writer of fugues’. They thread their
way throughout his output, from his earliest works, through The Well-
Tempered Clavier (the forty-eight Preludes and Fugues in all the keys) to
the monumental, unfinished (though barely) Art of Fugue. But why?
Well, of course, they appealed hugely to Bach’s monumental musical
brain, always up for challenges; their mathematical properties were
endlessly alluring to his questing spirit. But it is also quite natural to
assume that for Bach, fugues – with or without religious texts, among the
most astonishing of the former the several fugues within the B minor
Mass – constituted a form of worship, an acknowledgement of the perfect
order of the universe, an ideal way of demonstrating his view of the
combined purpose of music: ‘the glory of God and the recreation of the
soul and mind’ (the latter combined within one word, ‘Gemüth’).
In fact, the second part of the C minor Prelude, the only fugal section
in the cello suites, cannot strictly be described as a fugue, since it is in
one voice (unlike the multi-voice fugues for violin); but it is an ‘implied
fugue’, with subject, counter-subject, tonal answer, etc. – all properties of
a full fugue. It also suggests a constant sense of dialogue, reminding us of
Forkel’s description of Bach’s performances ‘introducing so much
variety that every piece became a sort of conversation between its parts’.
The structure is monumental, passing through cadences in the dominant,
the subdominant – which throughout the suite seems to be linked to the
relative major, both keys offering a gentler face to counter the forbidding
aspects of the tonic and dominant – before returning to the original
subject and thence home to C. It is all intensely dramatic, building up to a
coda in which powerful chords, followed by challenging silences,
culminate in a final so-called tierce de Picardie – a musical device in
which a work in the minor ends in the major, in this case a four-note
chord of C major. † Here, this transformative gesture seems to me to
sound a bold note of affirmation, of faith. Bach uses the tierce de
Picardie again and again – very often, as (I feel) here, as an avowal of his
belief that Christ died for us, for our redemption. And this all sets the
scene for the succeeding dance movements, which explore different
aspects of tragedy in vividly contrasted episodes – at their heart, the
famous Sarabande, the epitome of loneliness, desolation, despair. As
suggested earlier, the voyage of each suite begins with the first note and
continues uninterrupted to the last; but on a larger scale, there is also a
feeling of a vast arc unifying all six suites within an epic journey. This
fifth suite is the emotional low point of that voyage. It is also, I feel, the
suite that tells the most clearly specific story: the Passion of Our Lord
according to Saint Cello.

Suite no. 6 in D major, BWV 1012

The Resurrection

Et resurrexit …

In the B minor Mass, the bleak E minor of the Crucifixus movement

suddenly, startlingly dissolves into G major; and then ‘Et resurrexit’ peals
out in D major, the full choir joining forces with the full caboodle of
trumpets (three of them), timpani, woodwinds and strings. It is quite a
moment, to put it mildly – and not dissimilar to the sensation one
experiences if one moves straight from the fifth to this sixth suite. The
contrast in both cases is extraordinary – like emerging from the darkest of
regions into the blazing sunlight.
The repeated notes with which this Prelude begins, triggering strong
vibrations throughout the cello, are distinctly bell-like. We hear bells in
several of Bach’s vocal works; in many instances they represent death –
but not always, by any means. A wonderful series of chimes, involving
bariolage on three successive pairs of strings – similar to this Prelude –
occurs in the cantata BWV 133 ‘Ich freue mich in dir’ (‘I rejoice in you’),
to the words ‘Wie lieblich klingt es in den Ohren’ (‘How lovely it sounds
in my ears’). Lovely it sounds indeed; and somehow it also looks lovely:

Further triumphant peals of repeated notes like these occur in the

instrumental movements that open both the Easter Cantata in C, BWV 31,
‘Der Himmel lacht! Die Erde jubilieret’ (‘Heaven laughs! The earth
rejoices’) – the first version of which dates from 1715 – and the Easter
Oratorio, originally a cantata, in D. Both movements subsequently break
out into exciting arpeggios, as does our Prelude. The spirit is remarkably
similar – as it is in the repeated notes and flowing triplets of the organ
chorale ‘In Dulci Jubilo’, from the collection Das Orgelbüchlein,
completed in 1717. So I think we can assume that Bach was evoking a
spirit of celebration, at the very least, with this Prelude; well, it’s obvious
– we can hear it.
Having darkened the sound of the cello with the tuned-down A string
in the fifth suite, Bach now reaches out to the sky with a fifth string, an E
string a fifth above the A – rather like those medieval master builders
who developed Gothic windows, with pointed arches reaching towards
heaven, letting in more light. It’s as if Bach needs to climb higher in this
suite than in the others, the music so full of joy that he needs more room
in which to express it. This may make the lives of us four-string cellists
harder, but it’s worth it for the feeling of transcendent elation that this
Prelude – and the rest of the suite – engenders. Christ is risen, indeed.

* Bach also uses descending scales at times to depict earthquakes and thunderstorms; but
there is no mistaking those instances for the ones representing exaltation. (One is
somehow reminded here of P. G. Wodehouse’s perceptive observation that ‘it is never
difficult to distinguish between a Scotsman with a grievance and a ray of sunshine’.)
† Curiously, in the lute version the final chord is minor, but I suspect this is because the lute
is unable to build up the same head of dynamic steam as the cello – and therefore the
tierce de Picardie would not have the same effect. Similarly, the transposition from C
minor to G minor for the lute would have been for a practical purpose, to accommodate
the pitches of the lute strings.
 PART 6

Movement by Movement: Thirty-six (or forty-

two) moments of perfection

Suite no. 1 in G major, BWV 1007

Prelude

When I ask friends to name their favourite movement from all the Bach
suites, they often choose this Prelude. In a way, that surprises me, given
the plethora of more ambitious glories in the later suites; but it is also
understandable. There is something about those opening bars, the way
Bach sets the natural resonance of the cello alight – but without the
grandeur of the low C string – and the way he passes within those first
bars from thanksgiving to dissonance, before returning to the comforting
embrace of G major, that is true balm for the soul. The ending, too, with
that long passage of bariolage creating anticipation before achieving the
closing cadence, with its air of calm triumph – I’m sure that had he added
dynamics, Bach would have marked forte, not fortissimo – brings a smile
to the heart. I’ve heard people talk about the ‘struggle’ within this
movement; well, I can’t hear it. There is nothing in the harmonies to
suggest real conflict, few serious clashes implied by the intervals. The
music is radiant throughout.

One curious feature, which puzzled me for years, but to which I think I
have (possibly) now found the answer: around midway through the
movement (bar 22; track 1: 1' 14"*), there is a fermata, or pause, marked
over the high D that is held over from the second to the third beat of the
bar; this is one of very few fermatas within the suites – and the others all
come over notes that immediately precede rests, or at the end of the
movement. Why this exception? It is not a full cadence or point of
resolution – in fact, it sounds more like a question; nor is it exactly the
halfway point. (There are forty-two bars in the Prelude; this pause occurs
in bar 22.) But if I’m correct, Bach is encouraging us players – and,
through us, our listeners – to hold that D in our minds for the rest of the
Prelude: from there until the very final bar, were one to hold a bass note,
it would have to be a D. That sense of dominant pedal gives the music
impetus, encourages it to keep travelling towards the final, uplifting
arrival into the glow of G major.

Allemande

This flowing, legato movement inherits the radiance of the Prelude, albeit
transformed into a dancing conversation. From the elegant opening
upbeat and its resulting downbeat chord – a gentleman bowing a lady
onto the dance floor? – the smooth lines reveal a world of serene
benevolence, again unruffled by discord.

***

It’s worth at this point outlining the basic form established in this
movement, which continues throughout almost all the dance movements
in the suites: there are two parts – both repeated – separated by a double-
bar, with a cadence at that point into the dominant, or sometimes, if the
movement is in the minor, into the relative major. However, it is perhaps
wrong to speak of two halves since – often after a brief return to the tonic
after the double-bar – there is usually a second cadence halfway through
the second part, into a third key. A few of the movements (including this
one, as it happens) also feature a cadence into a foreign key within the
first part; therefore, these movements tend more often to be divided into
three (or occasionally four) sections than two.

***
A minor detail, which may or may not hold any significance whatsoever:
the cadence in the middle of the second part of almost every Allemande
arrives on the third beat of the bar, giving it a certain lightness; the only
exception within the suites is the one within the second half of this
Allemande (bar 24; track 2: 1' 58", repeat 2' 49"), in the rather
unexpected key of A minor, which lands on the first beat. Does that make
it stronger? Something for the player – and listener – to ponder.

Courante

This bundle of fun exudes energy and vitality, both through the jagged
opening rhythms and by means of such figures as the exciting upward
scales towards the ends of both halves, in which the rising steps are
placed – strikingly – on the fourth semiquaver of each beat, lending it an
eagerly lurching quality (bars 14–15, 36–37; track 3: 1st part: 0' 22",
repeat 0' 53"; 2nd part: 1' 31", repeat 2' 11"). Had Bach followed exactly
the pattern of the first half, the movement would have ended at bar 40;
but he gives us an extra two bars, supplementing the elation, and taking
this movement, like the Prelude, to his apparently cherished number of
bars: forty-two.

The opening figure is curious, the ‘melody’ consisting of an upbeat and

then downbeat quaver, answered by two ‘rhythm-section’ quavers played
on open strings; the melodic line then resumes from the second half of the
second beat with six semiquavers, this pattern continuing with variations
for the first four bars. My teacher, Jane Cowan, used to describe it as a
portrait of a street entertainer performing an energetic dance to the
accompaniment of his pet monkey banging on a drum, the second and
third notes of each bar representing the drum-beats. It’s an image that
has stayed with me … (and now it’s in your brain too – ha!)

Sarabande

This is the first of the six immortal Sarabandes, the emotional centres of
the suites. They function as the central slow movements (though as the
suites progress, the Allemandes also become slower); each one moves us
profoundly, albeit in rather different ways. In keeping with the rest of the
suite, this Sarabande is tranquil, noble and touching, its gentle opening
chords taking us within the first two beats from the tonic to the
thanksgiving subdominant, C major. Again, the articulation is smooth,
the dynamics obviously restrained. If this suite is indeed inspired by the
story of the Nativity, then this movement must surely be a portrait of
Mother Mary looking down at her sleeping infant.

This is the only Sarabande in the major that strays twice into the minor:
a cadence into the relative minor, E (bar 12; track 4: 1' 37", repeat 2'
17") is swiftly answered by chords in the tonic and the subdominant, as at
the beginning; but then the music poses a question in A minor (bar 14;
track 4: 1' 47", repeat 2' 28") – which immediately, simply, melts back
into the tonic. Double comfort.

Minuets 1 and 2

Bach contrasts his pairs of dances throughout the suites in various ways;
in the case of these Minuets, it is not only the mode that diverges (the
second being in G minor), but also the rhythmic energy, Minuet 1
beginning with a confident upward figure of two quavers and a crotchet
(with a perhaps surprisingly strong second beat for a minuet), Minuet 2
with a three-note slur over three quavers, a far gentler gesture. The first
Minuet seems bold and assertive, with several rising sequences; the
second, particularly through the shorter ascending figures in the second
part (bars 17–18, 19–20; track 5: from 1' 59", repeat from 2' 26"),
questioning in nature. Both Minuets are twenty-four bars in length – a
perfectly matched couple.

The distinction between these two Minuets provides a wonderful example

of how Bach juxtaposes major and minor modes. The more introverted
nature of the second Minuet is poignant, certainly, but it seems to me
more tender than sad; the two movements are quite different in character,
and yet – somehow – indissolubly united.

Gigue
If there is any air of poignancy lingering from the second Minuet, it is
immediately swept away by the bold opening of this Gigue; I remember
my teacher describing it as ‘drunk’. She has a point, the slurred triplets of
the first bar strangely contradicted by the staccato notes of the second.
(Even Anna Magdalena, not normally prone to such things, seems to
have marked staccato dots in that bar.) The spirit of this movement is
rumbustious, but momentary shadows are still to be found, the
unexpected hint of minor towards the end of both sections giving us brief
pause for thought. This eclipse of spirits is soon eradicated, however,
Bach adding a six-bar rising coda to remove all doubt.

(Modern) historical curiosity: when I was first learning the suites, it was
for some reason customary to change the slurring at the beginning of this
Gigue – and corresponding passages – thus completely altering the
rhythm. In the opening figure, we were instructed to slur the first two Es
and the first two Ds together, making the beats in question, as well as the
matching passages, syncopated. Most odd – I cannot find any reason for
this, but that’s what some editions specified. It made it all sound even
more drunk.

Suite no. 2 in D minor, BWV 1008

Prelude

From the first notes of the second suite, we are clearly in a very different
world from that of the first. One of the challenges of writing for an
unaccompanied string instrument is that the composer has to enable the
player to provide the melody line, the harmony and the rhythm. The
easiest way to establish the harmony is to include plenty of chords and
broken chords – as in the first Prelude, with its many arpeggiated figures,
which are in effect broken chords. Although this second Prelude begins
with a triad of D minor within a rising fifth – D, F, A – the note-values
are comparatively slow, so that it sounds more melodic than chordal. The
intervals between the highest and lowest notes within these opening bars
rise through a diminished seventh in the second bar to an octave in the
third bar, before reaching a cadence on the tonic in the fourth. The whole
phrase sounds like a series of three questions – or one question asked
three times – with a final answer. As the movement evolves, it is almost
entirely linear. Apart from the last five chords, discussed above, there is
precisely one chord within the Prelude. The fragility of this texture
evokes a strikingly intimate, inward-looking atmosphere – like a
meditation. Rather than producing sounds from the cello that give the
impression of a whole ensemble, as Bach does so often in the suites, here
he emphasises the vulnerability of the lone voice. Of course, there is
always a strong bassline underpinning the harmonic movement, but it is
more often implied than stated. This Prelude is touching in a completely
different way from all the others, a shared monologue that poses
profound questions.

Towards the end of the movement, we hear that lone chord, in the key of
the dominant, A major (bar 48; track 7: 2' 33"). (The dominant tonality
of a minor key is a major key – curious, but true; and actually logical,
because of the notes in the scale of that tonality.) Hearing the music
approaching this cadence, the ear anticipates a simple dominant chord –
A, E, C sharp. Instead of the A, however, Bach writes an unexpected G in
the bass – or does he? Anna Magdalena’s copy has G, as have sources C
and D – but Kellner has a firm A. Which is right? Well, like the note at
the end of the fourth suite mentioned in the previous section, I’d say that
if it is a mistake, then it’s a very beautiful one. It adds uncertainty, an
even more searching quality to the chord; and besides, it is very possibly
correct. Still, either version is quite feasible.

Allemande

Like that of the first suite, this Allemande is discursive, a continuation of

the story begun in the Prelude. The mood is set here by the falling
couplets, heard from the first bar, which lend the narrative a wistful air. It
is the first example within the suites of a movement that dances, and yet
seems to imply tragedy; Bach is already starting to stretch – without
losing – the sense of dance to incorporate a far more profound emotional
world than one might envisage from the appellation ‘suite’.
An interesting feature of this movement is the addition of the one-bar
codas with which Bach concludes both halves. A simple chord would
have sufficed – he has already reached his harmonic goal. Instead, he
appends to the first ending a phrase that, rising an octave, asks a
question; and to the second an expressive answer, falling two octaves.
These two bars considerably soften the effect of the final cadences,
adding an extra layer of reflection.

Courante

There is far more assertive energy here, as befits a courante, the harmonic
journey reaching the light of the relative major, F, much sooner than in
the Allemande (which barely touches on it). Any suggestion of high
spirits is dimmed, however, by the frequent descending pairs of
semiquavers; they sound like sighs …

… as do this Courante’s most striking motif, the figures which Bach

introduces towards the end of each half, a group of seven notes under a
slur (bars 13–15, 28–31; track 9: from 0' 21", repeat from 0' 50"; 2nd
half from 1' 18", repeat from 1' 47"). To my ears, at least, this sounds
melancholy – far from what one would normally expect from a courante.

Sarabande

A grave, reflective movement, not surprisingly, autumnal colours

abounding. Halfway through, however, we are afforded an unexpected
shaft of light: a rising sequence as we approach the end of the first part
resulting in a cadence – not in the dominant, but in the relative major
(bars 8–12; track 10: from 0' 29", repeat from 1' 18"). This somehow
feels like a moment of hope, a ray of tender understanding within the
sadness of the whole. The corresponding sequence in the second half
(bars 21–24; track 10: from 2' 09", repeat from 3' 14") – here rising not
only in pitch, but also in texture, the chords progressing from two notes
to three and then four – brings us further comfort.

Another memorable coda here (only at the end of the second part, not the
first), this one extended over more than four bars. This is the only
Sarabande in the suites to have such a coda, the other five reaching the
end-point of their harmonic journey only within the concluding bar. Here,
Bach takes the time to move from the lowest D, on the C string, up to one
two octaves higher – a path towards the heavens – before coming to a
final close back on that same low D. (Actually, Kellner’s last D is an
octave higher – but whichever: it arrives at a resting-point.)

Minuets 1 and 2

There is considerable strength, even austerity, to the many three-note

chords with which the first Minuet begins, and – interspersed with some
two-part writing – continues. It is all the more remarkable in the context
of the suite heretofore, the Prelude having established such a monodic
consistency. This fuller texture feels like a statement of defiance – far
from the smiling elegance of the ballroom dance from which it takes its
name. In utter contrast, however, is the second Minuet, in D major, which
weaves its graceful path through a single line, not a chord in sight.

As in the first suite, this pair of Minuets are exactly the same length –
twenty-four bars each; but here the acute differences are even more
striking. It is not just a question of texture, but also of phrasing. In the
first Minuet, the different phrases are clearly delineated, audible breaks
between them. The melodic line of the second is almost continuous, the
breaths between the phrases subtly camouflaged. And yet, again the two
Minuets somehow form a completely satisfying two-part entity, Bach’s
divine logic working in mysterious ways – but working perfectly
nonetheless.

Gigue

Of course, there is energy in this movement – how could there not be in a

gigue? But the character is solemn nevertheless, the 3/8 time signature
implying a considerably slower tempo than the 6/8 of the first Gigue.
There is a strong sense of the story begun in the Prelude being brought to
a conclusion, the connection emphasised by the opening intervals:
whereas the Prelude began with a rising fifth and then diminished
seventh, this Gigue begins with the same intervals inverted, now falling
instead of rising – as if in answer to the questions posed by that opening.
There is strength here, notably in the rising bass beneath couplet
semiquavers in a four-bar phrase that occurs in both halves (bars 25–28,
61–64; track 12: 1st part from 0' 22", repeat from 0' 51"; 2nd part from 1'
24", repeat from 2' 06"). One gets the impression, if not of triumph – the
mood is too sombre for that – then at least of resolution.

Bach leaves us with a positive gesture: the last two bars consist of a two-
octave rising arpeggio, concluding on a high D. He could so easily –
especially given the falling intervals that are such a feature of the work
as a whole – have finished on a low D (as in the Sarabande), implying
darkness, loss. But no – this is a decisive move towards the light: ‘I will
not leave you comfortless; I will come to you.’

Suite no. 3 in C major, BWV 1009

Prelude

I’ve already talked quite a lot about this Prelude, with its simple
descending scale and triad ushering us into a world of celebration; but
did I mention the marvel of the writing for cello, how the use of open
strings – particularly the G string – sets the cello ringing, creating
sonorities which sound like a vast string ensemble? Every note here
vibrates with life, harmonically and rhythmically, the excitement
heightened by such ideas as a rising figure with syncopated bowings
(from bar 21; track 13: from 0' 42"):

followed by an electrifying passage with an open G string dominant

pedal lasting for seventeen bars, the exhilaration increasing with every
bar (from bar 45; track 13: from 1' 34"). Later, the Prelude approaches its
ending with three spacious four-note chords, followed by long silences
(from bar 77; track 13: from 2' 45") – rhetorical questions, to which the
answer comes, without any reservation whatsoever: YES! And then Bach
adds, for good measure, a coda that proceeds, via the thanksgiving
subdominant, to a reprise of the opening bar. The bold challenge with
which the Prelude began has been met, beyond any shadow of doubt; it is
hard to think of any music more positive than this.

Forgive me if I get technical for a moment – but actually, it’s not just a
technical issue; it’s musical – the two are in general hard to separate.
There is another major bowing conundrum in this Prelude, at the
beginning of the long dominant pedal passage. Anna Magdalena has
been at the wine again (observe the slurs):

She seems to imply that in the first bar, the slur should be over the first
two notes of each group of four, whereas in the second bar it is over the
second and third notes for the first two beats, and back to the first two for
the third beat; for the first two beats of the third bar, meanwhile, the slur
appears to be over the first three notes, and so on over the page. Most
odd.
Kellner’s version is actually quite similar:
At first glance a little more stable, but not really: look at the second bar.
One could also imagine, I suppose, that all this irregularity is actually an
indication that the bowing is supposed to be varied; but since it’s really
not logical to make the same pattern sound so different every time – and
Bach, for all his limitless fantasy, is never illogical – it seems highly
unlikely.
Even source C – normally quite consistent – hedges his bets:

Only source D sticks to his guns – comparatively, at least:

And that – the slur over the first three notes of each four-note group – is
how most cellists end up executing this passage. This, however, brings its
own share of problems, because of course playing three notes takes up
more bow than one, with the result that one may find oneself playing
further and further up the bow; one can end up stuck out at the point,
looking and sounding quite foolish. So we have to invent all sorts of
tricks in order to avoid that happening – and all as we are attempting to
convey effortless joy! See how we suffer for your enjoyment …†

Allemande

Following on from the ecstasy of the Prelude, this Allemande brings us

down to earth (albeit fun-filled earth) with an elegant bump. As in the
Prelude, the first complete bar takes us from a high C on the A string
down to the low open C string; but instead of a dramatic flight, this is
more of a slightly awkward walk, the lower octave almost seeming to
give the impression of a dancer/walker with a rather large bum. Still,
spirits remain high, if in a less elevated sort of way; and the Allemander
saunters his way through the movement with a contented smile on his
face, plenty of rising sequences and hiccup-like outsize intervals
contributing to the quietly ambling fun.

There is one touching little moment that it’s easy to miss: after the
cadence into A minor halfway through the second part, the music slides
almost unnoticeably (bars 17–18; track 14: around 1' 59", repeat around
2' 48") into the subdominant, to which I repeatedly refer as the
‘thanksgiving key’. (Maybe I shouldn’t: as I’ve admitted, there’s
absolutely no proof that Bach thought of it that way; it’s just that I feel
that association so strongly throughout so much of the music.) It’s a
charming modulation – I bet Bach was smiling as he wrote it down. So
many such wonderful touches throughout the suites; but one has to keep
one’s eyes and ears open for them. It was years before I noticed the
beauty of this little musical twist.‡

Courante

More high spirits here. Again, the first full bar takes us from the top C
down to the low C – but here it leaps down by way of an arpeggio,
laughing as it goes. Everything adds to the merry-making: hops between
strings, rising sequences, pedal-notes, more awkward slurs. It’s as if both
Allemande and Courante continue the celebrations of the Prelude; but
whereas the latter was a spiritual revelry, the two dances are assigned to
honest-to-goodness, glad-hearted humans, continuing the festivities in the
town, some distance from the church.

A really tiny detail here – but I love it. It’s exactly the same modulation,
and at exactly the same point, as the moment I mentioned in the
Allemande: halfway through the second part, there is a cadence into the
relative minor, A; then a little semiquaver butterfly semiquivers us into F
major (in bar 56; track 15: 1' 28", repeat 2' 11"):
Such a lovely little flutter – also quite an eccentric one. Come to think of
it, perhaps Bach had been at the wine too.

Sarabande

Radiant, serene, luminous – this Sarabande feels to me like a blessing, by

no means quenching the joy of the previous movements, but elevating
them to the realm of the transcendent. Again, the music moves almost
immediately into the benediction of the subdominant – although F major
is then not mentioned again until towards the end of the movement.
Indeed, there is a moment of darkness, just before the cadence halfway
through the second part. Moving towards D minor – rather than the
expected relative minor, A – Bach gives us the dominant seventh of that
key, consisting of the notes A, C sharp, E, G; then, on a syncopated long
note, he adds a B flat, fighting against that dominant seventh (particularly
its A) in both harmonic and rhythmic terms, like an expression of pain
(bar 14; track 16: 1' 43", repeat 2' 57" – plus my ornamentation that
second time). But how he comforts us after the resulting D minor
cadence. Leading us straight back towards the dominant, and then home
– via an inspired little rising sequence (from the end of bar 20; track 16:
from 2' 12", repeat from 2' 27") that passes again through F – the
movement comes to rest on a quiet final cadence free from any
uncertainty: a consecration.

The following is more about my experience than about the piece itself;
but perhaps it will amuse slightly, just as an example of how little one
can gauge the effect of one’s performances … I have often played this
Sarabande at both weddings and funerals, its unique magic seeming
appropriate to both. It does seem as a rule to have a strong effect on
listeners; but an event that took place many years ago has also stuck with
me. At a summer course, I was sharing a flat with a pianist, who
expressed a wish to hear me play. I agreed, and decided to play this
Sarabande. It was a beautiful summer evening and, with the window
open and the birds singing outside, I played, Bach’s harmonies filling the
room. At the end, I hovered for several seconds before lowering the bow;
a special atmosphere lingered in the dusk, the pianist’s soft breathing
audible amidst the stillness. Then his voice broke the silence: ‘Sorry –
missed that. I had to take care of some soup in the kitchen. Could you
play it again?’
Oh.

Bourrées 1 and 2

Moving from the exalted to the charming here, we have again two highly
contrasted movements, the first Bourrée in an extroverted C major,
presenting one of the most memorable tunes in the suites, the second in C
minor taking us into a far more private world. This is not really a world
of shadows, though – despite the minor mode, and one unexpectedly long
D that sounds suspiciously like a sigh (bar 18; track 17: 1' 58", repeat 2'
24"). It is more as if the first Bourrée might represent Bach dancing with
his children, the second portray him reflecting on his protective love for
them; or is that too sentimental an image?

I’ll try not to bore you with too much more bowing talk, but there is one
section towards the end of the first Bourrée that has provided our four
copyists with all sorts of different ideas:

Anna Magdalena.
 Kellner.

Source C.

Source D.

As you can see if you look closely, all four are a bit different from
each other; but here it’s not really problematic, as it is in the Prelude.
One can choose any of them – the more eccentric the better, as far as I’m
concerned. All good fun here.

Gigue

The revelries reach full throttle in this rollicking movement, Bach

throwing in lots of effects to heighten the jollity: bariolage, open-string
pedal-notes, more smile-inducing modulations. Right from the opening,
there is no doubt whatsoever that the movement will end on a high; and
so it does, a C major triad leading up to a four-note chord of C major for
the last bar – an upbeat downbeat, in fact, if you see what I mean …

There’s an adorably bucolic figure here which occurs towards the end of
both sections (bars 33–40, 93–100; track 18: 1st part from 0' 24", repeat
from 1' 03"; 2nd part from 1' 52", repeat from 2' 43"): here the upper line
plays against an open-string drone, at times clashing against it in minor
ninths or major sevenths (as dissonant as two notes can be) – as if a band
of folk musicians have wandered into the town square to join in the
celebrations. Party time.

Suite no. 4 in E flat major, BWV 1010

Prelude

And so we enter the second half of the cycle, with some more joyous
music – or perhaps the word ‘glorious’ is more accurate here than
‘joyous’. I see this movement, as I suggested earlier, as a magnificent
temple in sound – an unadorned temple, without any tragic images (or
particularly colourful ones) on the walls to distract us from the perfection
of the architecture. The scale is more spacious than in the previous suites,
as befits a place of worship. The first two suites present us with the initial
cadence, establishing the tonic, within four bars; the third requires six
bars of dialogue in order to answer its own question with a cadence;
while this suite, with its repetitions, makes us wait for eight bars before
we’re assured that this is home. Again, our friend the subdominant is the
first foreign key to be heard; and once again, that produces (I feel/hear) a
sense of particular warmth. The thrilling effect of the opening is
generated both by the low pedal E flats at the beginning of the bar – nine
of them – and by the huge intervals between those E flats and the second
note of each bar, initiated by that astounding two-octave leap.
Having established itself in E flat major, the music sets out on its
journey with a resplendent walking bassline, moving on the first beat of
each bar, leading us onwards to the dominant and beyond. At one point,
the one-bar units expand to two bars – as if the welcoming Father is
stretching his arms still wider (exciting to play, as well as to hear – from
bar 27; track 19: from 0' 52"). Around the middle of the movement, a
challenging silence confronts us (bar 49; track 19: 1' 38"); from this
dramatic question emerges a long cadenza-like passage with an enormous
slur over several of the bars – implying freedom of rhythm, as in most
cadenzas. (This is perhaps a glimpse into Bach’s improvisational style, as
in the famous opening section of the Chromatic Fantasia and Fugue in D
minor, BWV 903.) The extended flurry emerges, surprisingly, into G minor
(bar 62; track 19: from 2' 15") – a comparatively distant relative of E flat.
Although we have returned to the initial arch-like figure, it is now soft,
tentative. Are we lost? Or are we perhaps merely standing in shadow in
the middle of the temple? From this harmonic and dynamic low point, we
move back gradually towards the elation of the opening; excitement and
tension rebuild slowly, by way of some truly funky figuration, until we
reach an ecstatic reprise of the opening, and a celebratory coda
containing further multi-slurred cadenza passages. It is all thrillingly
virtuosic – in a lofty sort of way.

That virtuosity, it must be said, presents some difficulties for the player.
I’ve seen articles claiming that the suites become more difficult as they
proceed; not strictly accurate. It’s true that the first suite is from a
technical standpoint the simplest of the six; this is quite normal in a set of
six works, the composer perhaps seeking to ensnare the amateur who
opens up the set, reassuring them with the musical butter-wouldn’t-melt-
in-its-mouth look of the first pages. (A clever trick.) The cello suites do
become longer, certainly, as the set progresses, and more demanding
overall; but it is not a completely smooth progression. Despite the
scordatura of the fifth suite – problematic in itself – the work as a whole
is still a lot easier from a technical point of view than this E flat suite –
the only one of the set whose tonic does not lie on an open string. The
entire work stretches the left hand of the cellist, in terms both of
intonation and of the actual extensions involved; E flat is simply a tricky
key for string players – it doesn’t lie comfortably under the hand. (Mozart
realised that, and specified that the viola should be tuned up a semitone
for his famous Sinfonia Concertante in E flat for violin, viola and
orchestra.) This Prelude is also famous for its memory traps; many’s the
unfortunate cellist (myself included) who in performance has desperately
floundered their way to an unconvincing conclusion. I wouldn’t say that
the suite quite ranks with the notorious curse of Macbeth for actors, but I
do think that it comes close. When I was recording it, I’d invited a young
Spanish cellist to listen to the session. I started the day with a
playthrough of this Prelude; afterwards I conveyed with a certain verbal
precision my view of the performance. My young colleague pointed out
that she hadn’t really learned anything from a musical point of view, but
that she’d picked up quite a lot of new words in the English language …
But it’s all worth it, of course; ‘glorious’ is truly the most appropriate
word for this movement.

Allemande

As at the corresponding point in the third suite, Bach takes us outside the
place of worship for this Allemande; maybe, in fact, he is here focusing
his camera on a rather simple member of the congregation walking home
after the service, a light-hearted whistle on his lips. There is elegance too,
of course, some of the semiquaver figures dancing quite gracefully within
the beat; but the overall impression is one of extreme amiability – a
parishioner who is satisfied with life, and not afraid to express himself to
that effect.

Again, there are some differences between the bowings in the four
manuscript versions, but they all agree in general that the prevalent
rhythmic pattern is of sets of four semiquavers split into one and three
notes to the bow, or vice versa. Many later editors, however, decided that
this was all a mistake, and that what Bach actually meant was for the
player to group all four semiquavers within one bow – i.e. to unite the
whole beat under one slur – and they adjusted the text accordingly,
making the effect far smoother. (As they did for several other movements
throughout the suites: the fifth Sarabande suffers particularly from this
‘ironing out’, I think.) The editorial four-note slurs may sound prettier,
but the more jagged bowings of the sources make the music talk, not just
sing. In this Allemande, the editors are wrong – in my opinion – to
correct the lopsidedness. This just isn’t smooth music. It needs to talk,
gossip, burble – and the slightly rougher, less even bowing helps it to
achieve those thoroughly praiseworthy goals.

Courante

More simple fun is on display here, the music alternating between

slightly hobnailed duplet quavers, cascading semiquavers and good-
hearted triplets. (Bach often seems to express a particular warmth
through the latter – in his cantata BWV 85, for instance, an aria in E flat,
‘Seht, was die Liebe tut’ [‘See what love can achieve’] is set entirely in
triplets.) This is one of the funniest movements in the suites; if it doesn’t
bring a delighted smile to your lips, it’s not being played properly.

There are further enormous intervals here; but whereas those in the
Prelude seem grandly architectural in scope, these seem merely eccentric
– tipsy, even. Could Bach be portraying someone with hiccups? It
wouldn’t be unknown in music; in fact, there’s a whole musical genre –
albeit more to do with alternating voices than unexpected intervals –
dating back to the thirteenth century, known as ‘hocket’ or ‘hocquet’
(French for ‘hiccup’). Well, maybe that’s going a little far, but the music
does seem to struggle to contain its high spirits, the heel-kicking gladness
of heart being emphasised by all the fun Bach is having with both pitches
and rhythms. He seems to have gone beyond innocent red wine here;
well, we are told that he liked to have a glass of brandy by him when he
composed …

Sarabande

The Sarabande, of course, takes us back to the realm of the sublime – all
the Sarabandes attain that quality; but the sublimity here has a gentle
smile on its face. The opening is harmonically surprising: although it
does officially begin in E flat, the first bar feels almost like an upbeat to
the second bar, in A flat, the subdominant. (All right, I won’t mention
‘thanksgiving’ again; whoops – I just did.) The repeated dotted rhythms
give a sense of spaciousness, as do the several bars of three double- or
triple-stopped crotchets. The ending, too, is expansive, an extra four bars
added to its equivalent at the end of the first section. Time stops, in fact,
the last bar with its gently rising E flat arpeggio (with added D) leaving
us hovering.

It’s possible that the dotted rhythms are here fulfilling their traditional
role of depicting royalty – Lully, for instance, uses them to announce
(musically) the arrival of the king, Bach to anticipate the appearance of
Christ. Or maybe (it’s all too easy to see extra-musical associations
everywhere one looks) they’re just purely musical figures, stately and
elegant in themselves.

Bourrées 1 and 2

I have already mentioned the extraordinarily disparate lengths of the two

Bourrées – a scale of four to one; but there’s also a strange set of
proportions within the first Bourrée, the second part being exactly four
times as long as the first. Is Bach having fun with the fourth dance
movement of the fourth suite, perhaps? Just as striking as the disparity in
their lengths is the extreme contrast between the characters of the two
dances. In the first, we have perhaps the same cheerful fellow who
ambled his way through the Allemande and lurched through the
Courante. There are no double-stops here (just one four-note chord in the
final bar); apart from the groups of four semiquavers under a slur, the
articulation is basically non legato, a spring in its step. There are two
brief but unexpected diversions towards the end into A flat – the fourth of
the scale, of course (from bars 29 and 42; track 23: from 1' 04" and from
1' 25", repeats from 2' 04" and 2' 25"; da capo from 4' 08" and 4' 29") –
before the movement draws to its triumphant conclusion. This is
extroverted dancing, I’d say, showing off to the assembled company,
whereas the second Bourrée is introverted – withdrawn, graceful, with a
beatific smile. The articulation in the latter is far more legato, with a
feature unique within the suites: the second beat is frequently tied to the
third, giving the impression of the dancer’s feet gliding along the dance
floor. The relationship between the two Bourrées somehow brings to
mind a couple, in which the man, though (in this case) deeply likeable,
talks too much and thinks he’s brilliant; whereas his wife says little, is
shy and self-deprecating – but is the really intelligent one. I think we all
know couples like that …

Actually, perhaps the wife has brought along an equally graceful and
gifted friend, because the second Bourrée is in two fairly equal double-
stopped parts throughout – more so than in any other movement in the
suites. The voicing is particularly interesting here, in fact, because the
two parts, by means of a descending scale, actually swap places at the
‘return’ (bar 8; track 23: 2' 59", repeat 3' 13"), the upper voice becoming
the lower – rather like partners trading places mid-dance. Yet another
unusual feature of this second Bourrée is the harmonic form: the first
part – which lasts only four bars – ends in the tonic, rather than the
expected dominant. This means that this opening phrase could be
repeated at the end of the little movement; but it isn’t – not exactly,
anyway. It’s a curious miniature example of a ‘rondeau’. (The first four
bars of the second Gavotte of the sixth suite similarly end in the tonic, but
that phrase is treated differently.) Such a tiny movement – only twelve
bars – but such a wealth of invention; well, as Forkel says: ‘In every
modulation [or in this case, non-modulation] of his instrumental work is
a new thought, a constantly progressive creation.’ So true.

Gigue

Back we go to swashbuckling fun; this is probably the most rustic of all

the Gigues, merrily barrelling its way along, its proportions again
unusually asymmetrical: ten bars in the first part and thirty-two in the
second (forty-two again!). Composed almost entirely of slurred triplets,
this is the only Gigue in 12/8 time – meaning four beats to a bar, giving
the music yet more of that feeling of spaciousness that has been apparent
all the way through the suite. The ending is eminently enjoyable: after an
unexpected foray upwards into A flat (again) for just two bars (bars 31–
32; track 24: from 1' 09", repeat from 2' 04"), a heart-lifting rising
sequence, seemingly implying a crescendo, propels us towards the
exultant conclusion to an exultant suite.

Of all the movements in the suites, this is the one with least variety in
terms of rhythm/articulation. Not that it’s in the least bit boring – far
from it. But it does seem as if in general for this suite, Bach is portraying
straightforward townspeople – ‘merry peasants’, as Schumann would
perhaps have described them – and their place of worship. Even the
Sarabande seems like an uncomplicated thanksgiving. It is music devoid
of tragedy – in stark contrast to the suite that follows …

Suite no. 5 in C minor, BWV 1011

 Prelude

So, from the light into the heart of darkness; for me, as I have suggested
earlier, this is the suite most inescapably connected with Christianity: the
story of the Passion. It would be hard to think of an opening more
desolate – in its noble way – than that of this Prelude, the initial dusky
octave Cs succeeded by a parlando narrative. I have already spoken§
about the effect of the scordatura¶, the normally brilliant A string tuned
down to a plaintive G, and of the frequent repetition of the cello’s lowest
note, the C, along with the many chords; but the discordant sounds within
those chords, in conjunction with the stately dotted rhythms, also convey
deep suffering.
On the first beat of bar 2 we have a diminished seventh – the most
dramatic of chords – above that low C; by the next bar we have returned
to the tonic, making, unusually, a three-bar opening phrase. From there,
the Evangelist’s narrative (if that is what it is) unfolds through a mixture
of those dotted rhythms and expository, speaking passages under slurs.
(By dotted rhythms, I really mean here double-dotted; I’d say that
double-dotting is pretty much essential here, although it is up to each
player to determine the precise length of the notes.) In complete contrast,
and yet very much part of the same whole, is the succeeding ‘implied
fugue’. It’s extraordinary how Bach manages to leave absolutely no
doubt that this is a fugue, even though it is single-voiced. Compare the
look of this excerpt from the fugue from Bach’s sonata no. 1 for violin,
the G minor:
with an excerpt from our single-voiced example:

I’d say we have the better deal – or at least the easier one. But Bach, with
his supreme understanding of his materials, is just being practical: the
violin, its strings far closer together than the cello’s (and in baroque times
burdened with far less tension than violins have today, feeling especially
relaxed when played with the flexible bows of the period), is capable –
just – of playing these massive chords without ruining the musical line. If
cellists had to play a series of triple and quadruple stops like that,
everything would grind to a halt. So Bach gives us the bare bones of a
fugue; and of course it’s wholly satisfying, taking us on a wide-ranging,
emotionally compelling journey – a true Bach fugue, in fact. As Forkel
puts it:

No one ever wrote Fugues to compare with his; indeed, persons

unacquainted with them cannot imagine what a Fugue is and ought
to be … [Bach’s Fugues contain] all the characteristics we are
accustomed to in freer musical forms: a flowing and distinctive
melody, ease, clarity, and facility in the progression of the parts,
inexhaustible variety of modulation, purest harmony, the exclusion
of every jarring or unnecessary note, unity of form and variety of
 style, rhythm, and measure, and such superabundant animation that
the hearer may well ask himself whether every note is not actually
alive.

Well put, say I; and I might add that the main fugue subject here (first
heard from bar 27; track 1: from 2' 06"), like so many Bach produced,
contains a distinct element of dance. To quote Forkel yet again (useful
man):

Even in Fugue, with its complex interweaving of several parts, he

was able to employ a rhythm as easy as it was striking, as
characteristic as it was sustained from beginning to end, as natural
as a simple Minuet.

In order to create a fugue from this single line, Bach gives us here a
lot of normal fugue-y characteristics: the subject, sounding like a
conversation between two voices, answered by another statement a fifth
higher, i.e. in the dominant. That in turn is followed by the first of many
episodes, taking us through other keys – and so on. The tempo seems to
be lively; in fact, the lute version has the marking ‘Très vite’ for this
section (although those words may not be in Bach’s handwriting). From
first note to last is an enormous trajectory, a vast arc punctuated only by
cadences into the relative major, the dominant and the subdominant,
returning – via much build-up of tension – to the subject in the tonic
(from bar 175; track 1: from 4' 46"), and thence to the coda, with more
exciting bass pedal-notes, culminating in that great tierce de Picardie. It
is a breathtakingly magnificent structure, combining intense drama with
profound strength; somehow the effect reminds me of Debussy’s remark:
‘the form is the emotion’.

The cadence at the end of the return of the fugue subject (bar 183; track
1: 4' 55"), which launches the coda, presents some interesting (I think)
questions. It is an excellent example of how Bach deliberately leaves us
hanging by his use of implication rather than statement. (Sorry – I know
this will sound dry on paper, but it wouldn’t if I could play it for you!)
The subject ends with a single, unsupported C on the A string (i.e. the
piano’s ‘middle C’, not the low one). So what is the chord that is
suggested beneath that C, since there certainly is an implied chord? If it
were a C minor chord, that would mean we had a full, ‘perfect’ cadence,
a breathing-point; but the chord that isn’t there is equally likely to be in A
flat major, which would mean an ‘interrupted’ cadence – in which case
the tension doesn’t dissolve at all, leaving us instead with a dramatic,
unanswered question. Again – who knows? (I remember the famous
French cellist Paul Tortelier discussing that very point on BBC prime-
time TV in the 1970s – those were the days.) And then again, a third way:
in the lute version, Bach writes the equivalent of an E flat in the bass,
which has an effect halfway between the other two – inconclusive, but not
as shocking as the A flat (and a possibility that had not even occurred to
me in all my years of pondering the matter before I thought to look at the
lute manuscript). So is that in fact Bach’s meaning? I really don’t think
so; he adds lots of harmonies and extra voices in the lute version (most of
which could be played on the cello also, but what’s the point?), because
they suit the nature of the lute. In this case, he could easily have added a
chord for the cello, had he wanted to be specific, but chose not to do so.
And that’s how we should keep it, I believe – an unresolved question,
which lends all the more power to that C major affirmation on the final
chord of the movement.

Allemande

The only consistently dotted/double-dotted Allemande in the suites – the

‘French’ style again (the French like their dots) – this movement is
deeply personal, introspective. It is as if, the story of Christ’s betrayal and
suffering having been told by the Evangelist in the Prelude, we now hear
from Christ himself, his meditations on the Cross. The first ‘foreign’
cadence is into the subdominant F minor, which, as I said (wrote) earlier,
seems throughout this suite to be inextricably linked to the relative major,
E flat – both seemingly oases of consolation within this tale of sorrow. So
there is an element of light here – and wisdom, certainly. It is very
different, I know; but might there be echoes of the viola da gamba’s
obbligato part, full of dotted rhythms, in the aria from the St Matthew
Passion, ‘Komm, süsses Kreuz’ (‘Come, sweet Cross’)? This Allemande
is very much its own intensely private self, however, its subtle, searching
profundity reaching well beyond the scope of words.
Among many extraordinary intervals and harmonies here, one startling
downward plunge stands out: the fall of an octave and a tritone, from G a
fourth below middle C to a dusky D flat on the C string (into bar 26;
track 2: 3' 13", repeat 4' 35") – that’s an augmented eleventh. It is heart-
stopping – and really seems to be evoking a particular image; the trouble
is, I don’t know what that image might be. I remember playing it down
the phone to John Tavener (who adored the suites) and asking him; he
agreed that it must be somehow symbolic, but was also unable to specify
the exact meaning. Another unanswerable riddle? There’s also an
insoluble – for me – conundrum on the first beat of the bar before that
(bar 25, rather obviously; track 2: 3' 08", repeat 4' 30"): all four sources
write a G in the bass of the chord. It sounds most odd, both in terms of
harmony and of voice-leading; I’ve always corrected it – as do most
cellists – to a B flat, which means that we have a logical dominant
seventh of the key to which we are being led, E flat. However, the
evidence for the defence mounts up: not only do all four manuscripts
have that G, but even the lute manuscript has its equivalent (D). It just
doesn’t make sense – or does it? Another question to worry me until I die
(at which point I’m hoping I’ll be able to ask Bach himself).

Courante

Dark energy abounds here. This is the only Courante with numerous
chords, imparting a very different atmosphere from all its counterparts.
I’m reminded here of some of the choruses in Bach’s Passions, in which
the flow of recitatives, arias and chorales is violently interrupted by the
bloodthirsty chanting of the crowd (such as the first chorus in the St John
Passion, also in C minor: ‘Jesum von Nazareth!’). This Courante is also
distinguished from all the others in the suites by being in 3/2 time, with
frequent hemiolas to give it space – space for anger?

Perhaps the above description is a bit simplistic. It is true of the

movement as a whole, I’d say; but there are subtler shades, gentler
harmonies, at certain points – such as a cadence into A flat, which
doesn’t feel like a menacing key. It shows the range of palette, the layers
of meaning, that Bach can encompass within a short movement.
Instrumental music, free of text, afforded Bach unlimited scope for such
subtleties; as Forkel (yes, him again – for the last time, with much
gratitude) says: ‘In his great vocal compositions, [Bach] well knew how
to repress his fantasy … but in his instrumental music this reserve was
not necessary.’

Sarabande

And now we come to the movement that, along with the first Prelude, has
captured the world’s imagination to the most profound extent. This
Sarabande is simply a miracle: no melody to speak of, no chords, no
particular rhythmic interest – so why do these twenty bars of music move
listeners so deeply? One can point to features such as the pain-filled
appoggiaturas, and the breathtakingly expressive intervals between the
notes – not just adjacent notes, but also between the first and the last
notes of bars, intervals whose dissonance one can somehow feel across
the beats separating them: the major seventh between the G and A flat at
the beginning and end of the first bar, the minor ninth between the C and
the B natural of the second bar, and so on. These are in effect semitone
clashes, warring tones that will not let each other rest, their conflict
piercing through the intervals heard between them. Then there’s the fact
that the final note in many bars belongs to the chord of the next bar –
extraordinary. There are surely resemblances here to the aria ‘Seufzer,
Tränen, Kummer, Not’ (‘Sighs, tears, sorrow, grief’), from the cantata
BWV 21 (first composed in 1713, and revised in Köthen in 1720), and to
the bleak ‘Et incarnatus est’, as well as the Agnus Dei, from the B minor
Mass; but finally this Sarabande is unique, inexplicable – and should
remain that way: a true sacred mystery.

Not surprisingly, this Sarabande has fascinated and inspired artists in

every genre under the sun – most famously, perhaps, Ingmar Bergman,
who not only named his final film, based around this movement,
Saraband, but also featured it in memorable scenes in one of his most
celebrated masterpieces, Cries and Whispers. He uses the music
beautifully, but – dare I say it? – I think he’s got it wrong. Of course, it
may well be my lack of understanding of drama, resulting in my missing
the point of the relevant scenes; but it seems to me that he brings in the
Sarabande at moments of reconciliation, of rare contact between people.
It’s certainly true that there’s a sense of compassion in this Sarabande –
the first part ending in the comforting relative major, not the more
austere dominant (as it could have); but I do feel strongly that the music
represents above all the epitome of loneliness, Christ’s suffering on the
Cross mirroring that of the whole of mankind.

Gavottes 1 and 2

More recognisable dance rhythms return in this movement, the first

Gavotte in particular with its many slurred couplets bringing the music
from death to life, its sense of dialogue between two parts recalling the
fugal subject in the Prelude. Almost all the couplets are falling, giving
them a quality of lamentation; the focus of the story may have changed –
but it’s still the same story. Similarly, both Passions break into movement
soon after the Death on the Cross: the moment of anguish ‘Es ist
vollbracht’ (‘It is finished’) in the St John Passion and the words ‘Aber
Jesus schrie abermal laut und verschied’ (‘But Jesus again let out a loud
cry and departed’) in the St Matthew Passion are soon followed by arias
filled with a sense of dance. In this first Gavotte, perhaps the most
unmistakably tragic element is the descending scale, marked by the top
notes of succeeding four-note groups, towards the end of the movement
(from bar 28; track 5: from 1' 05", repeat from 1' 45"; da capo from 4'
13"). Tears, surely?

The second Gavotte is so extraordinary that it deserves a paragraph all

to itself. Remaining in C minor, and constructed from the same
minimalist textural material – i.e. a single voice, no chords – as the
Sarabande, it consists almost entirely of sorrowfully flowing triplets. It
brings to mind the famous description of the last movement of the
‘Funeral March’ sonata by Chopin (who worshipped Bach): ‘Wind
howling through gravestones.’ Unlike that movement, however, this
Gavotte is very much a dance; and again – as befits the composers’
different personalities – in contrast to Chopin’s nihilistic finale, the
Gavotte affords us glimpses of tenderness amidst the desolation.||

Gigue
It is a lot to ask of a gigue – to complete a journey of such monumental
significance; but, of course, in Bach’s hands this is no problem. As I said
much earlier (but in case you skipped that bit, or were so bored that
you’ve forgotten by now), this is the only French-style Gigue, a 3/8
movement filled with dotted rhythms – in particular a dotted quaver–
semiquaver–quaver pattern, characteristic of such gigues.
Having said that, there is an extraordinary, and unexpected, feature
here: a series, towards the ends of both halves, of notes that suddenly
hang suspended in mid-air, as it were (from bars 15 and 61; track 6: 1st
part from 0' 15", repeat from 0' 39"; 2nd part from 1' 25", repeat from 2'
15"). It is as if the wind has been taken out of the sails of the mournful
dancer, the heart just too heavy for the dance to continue. The first of
these notes in the second part, a middle C, is on a syncopation, which
somehow makes it yet more despairing; and from there it is all descent,
to the final low C – the darkest note on the cello – with which this tale of
grief takes its leave.

It may all sound rather depressing – but it’s not, of course; Bach never is.
No matter how tragic his message, his art is always ultimately uplifting.
Maybe it’s because whatever he expresses – and his music encompasses
all emotions – that expression is always clothed in beauty. Here he
follows Mattheson’s precept (or Mattheson follows him, perhaps): ‘Anger,
ardor, vengeance, rage, fury, and all other such violent affections … must
still have a becoming singing quality.’ But it is not just a question of
beauty, it is also that Bach allows shafts of light into the harmonies, the
music’s understanding, compassion and wisdom somehow comforting us,
in spite of and beyond the bleakness.

Suite no. 6 in D major, BWV 1012

Prelude

Perhaps one shouldn’t go straight from the fifth suite into the sixth;
maybe one should wait for a couple of days, and then play it on the third
day? Or perhaps I should tone down the Christian imagery for this suite,
and simply revel in the jubilation of that opening peal of bells. For surely
that is what is represented here: bells ringing in celebration, followed by
their echo. Again – surprise, surprise – an entirely new world of sound,
Bach setting the cello’s entire body reverberating with his triplet
bariolage, open strings alternating with stopped notes to create an
extraordinary resonance.
This beginning asserts itself so unmistakably in terms of both sonority
and tonality that this is the only one of the six Preludes that sees no need
to establish its tonic with a cadence within the first few bars – no
question here that we are firmly set in D major. From there, upwards we
surge, to the dominant, A (bar 12; track 7: 0' 28"), and then beyond that,
to the dominant of the dominant, E (bar 23; track 7: 0' 56") – the
enhanced dominant to its friends, though in public we can also call it the
supertonic. A trajectory of rising fifths, in fact, with the opening
bariolage motif, including its echo, on both A and E. (Sounds like an
emergency; and sometimes it is – see below.)
After that upward curve, we take a bit of a sidetrack through the
relative minor (B), before arriving back at the opening figure, echoes and
all, this time on the subdominant G (bar 54; track 7: 2' 11"); from there,
it’s mountain-climbing time, as we ascend to what feels like the top of
the cello (even on a five-string instrument), urged on to the highest peak
by a dominant pedal (from bar 70; track 7: 2' 51"). From this point there
can be no other way but down; accordingly, we start to descend, the sense
of progress nevertheless maintained, thanks largely to the persistence of
that dominant pedal – now unheard, unplayed, but unmistakable. In fact,
the excitement builds up again, to such a point that the music has no
choice but to break into semiquaver arpeggios (from bar 85; track 7: 3'
39"), running all over the place at lightning speed, before finally
returning us to a reprise of the opening – first, in an attempt to fool us,
landing on the dominant, and then, gloriously, taking us back to the tonic
(bars 90/92; track 7: 3' 43" and 3' 49"). It is all totally thrilling; and
thereafter, for good measure, we are given a coda, featuring the
movement’s first chords, six triple-stops (as befits the sixth suite), all
followed by rhetorical silences. And from there, the eagle that has
swooped with us over the mountains deposits us gently – via a grateful
subdominant – as we land softly back home on D. An eminently fulfilling
trip.
Here I have to put in a plea for sympathy for us poor cellists who play
this on a four-string, rather than five-string, cello. It’s hard! Since we
have no open E string, we have to overcome that hurdle by playing what
should be the open E notes on the A string with our thumb, stretching out
(and it’s a long stretch) to play the alternate notes on the D string. And
from there we have to climb much further; to say that playing this
Prelude is tricky would be a bit like saying that walking backwards from
London to Edinburgh, carrying an egg on a spoon while wiggling our
noses counter-clockwise, is a tad awkward. Furthermore, we have to
keep all that struggle hidden from the audience, since the music has to
pass without apparent effort through our fingers to their eagerly awaiting
ears; after all, it’s not their fault any more than ours that it’s difficult.Oh
well – I suppose that bellringing is quite an effort for the bellringers, but
one doesn’t hear any hint of that labour in the sound. We must attempt to
achieve the same untrammelled result – perhaps remembering Bach’s
own extraordinary keyboard technique, which, we are told, allowed him
to achieve wonders of virtuosity while to all appearances barely moving
his fingers.

Allemande

Another miracle: a movement that instantaneously rewrites the history of

allemandes. This is the least obviously dance-like of all the dance
movements in the suites, taking (in the majority of performances) more
than twice as long to play as most of the other Allemandes; as mentioned
earlier, Kellner marks it ‘Adagio’, sources C and D ‘Molto adagio’. It
seems, perhaps, more vocal than instrumental, a blending of aria and
recitative. Conversely, its closest siblings are found within Bach’s
instrumental output: there are distinct DNA resemblances to the
Allemande of the D major keyboard partita BWV 828, and to the Adagio
from the Sinfonia in F minor BWV 1046a, written in 1718.
This Allemande is composed largely of demi-semiquavers, even
hemi-demi-semiquavers.** It looks, at first glance, quite forbidding, at
least to the cellist:
But no: the music emanates luminosity from first note to last, warmth and
serenity flowing throughout, imbued with an air of sanctity. And in the
little one-bar codas that end both parts, there is a genuflection to the
subdominant; I won’t use the T-word again, but it’s there … (At least one
can’t accuse Bach of ingratitude – although perhaps the Leipzig town
council would have begged to differ.)

From a performer’s point of view, this movement is as challenging to

bring to life as any movement in the suites. I believe that there are two
things one must bear in mind: the first is that, if one is thinking in terms
of the recitatives that the short note-values bring to mind, there must be a
certain freedom within the beat; but it is at least equally important to
remember that, even though the style may be vocal in nature, it is still an
allemande. The way to make the music live naturally, I feel, is to be
conscious that underlying the flow of the melody is the constant metric
pattern of the dance: ONE two THREE FOUR / ONE two THREE
FOUR. One has to feel this, to breathe in expansive, unhurried spans,
perhaps imagining a moving bassline controlling the flow of the melodic
current.

Courante
A Courante that, like its counterpart in the fourth suite, kicks up its heels;
but somehow these heels are shod in more elevated shoes than the
peasant clogs of number four. It’s still good fun, however, especially
when Bach brings in, halfway through the bar, groups of six slurred
semiquavers (such as the ones starting in bar 12; track 9: 0' 16" etc.),
which give this 3/4 movement a temporary feeling of 6/8 – somewhat
discombobulating, in an exuberant sort of way. It’s uncomplicated music,
although lengthy – the ending in particular stretches out longer than one
might expect. One does wonder, again, whether Bach particularly wanted
the movement to last, as it does, seventy-two bars – twelve times six.

It is all so exhilarating that the temptation is to play it really fast,

virtuosically. Well, it’s definitely virtuosic; but all the notes have to be
clear, too, or the joy evaporates. Strangely, this movement contains one
of the few major divergences between sources C and D, C containing lots
of subtle bowing patterns (one and three within a group of four
semiquavers, for instance), D – with which most modern editors have
sided – begging to differ. The bow-twisters in C (there are many in Anna
Magdalena’s and Kellner’s versions too) would certainly slow down the
tempo a bit; if played too fast, those articulations would sound horribly
scrambled. Another example of why it’s so important to examine all the
manuscripts in order to aid our interpretive choices – there are so many
surprises lurking within every suite.

Sarabande

Another overwhelming example of Bach’s transcendent genius. The fifth

Sarabande – rightly, of course – captures imaginations with its haunting,
magical strangeness; but for sheer melting beauty, there is nothing in the
suites – in music, even? – to beat this sixth Sarabande. In complete
contrast to its predecessor, with its stark textures, this Sarabande has
chords or double-stops on the majority of its beats, giving it a heavenly
breadth further emphasised by its 3/2 time signature and slow note-
values. I myself see absolutely nothing tragic about this movement
(others may well disagree); but the radiant inspiration of its thirty-two
bars is as deeply moving as any tragedy.
The music is full of double-stops in sixths – surely the most comforting
interval in music. I wonder whether Brahms, who became increasingly
addicted to sixths in his later music, knew this Sarabande? He may well
have studied the suites during the periods in which he had constant
access to Schumann’s music library, and again during his involvement
with the Bach Gesellschaft. There were doubtless many reasons for his
love of the interval; but it would be pleasing if the irresistibly consoling
textures of this movement had contributed to his addiction.

Gavottes 1 and 2

And from that exalted peak to a pair of movements infused with an

utterly winning, guileless charm. The first Gavotte boasts a jaunty,
hummable melody, a piper sauntering through town, cavorting children in
his wake. That same piper continues on his merry way into the second
Gavotte; at one point the music sounds suspiciously like a musette, a type
of dance originally inspired by a form of bagpipes played with the
bellows. (Maybe something of a consolation for bagpipe players, for
whom Bach otherwise wrote so little?)
This second Gavotte also boasts a form unique within the suites: a
captivatingly amiable four-bar phrase is heard twice; answered, after a
double-bar, by a different four-bar passage, it returns, before giving way
to the eight-bar musette soundalike (from halfway through bar 12; track
11: from 2' 01"). It then reappears for its fourth and final appearance (the
only marked da capo within a movement in the suites). This simple-
sounding Gavotte is laid out, in fact, in a comparatively extended rondo
form – A, A, B, A, C, A; but it is entirely unpretentious, as good-natured
a dance as one could ever hope to encounter.
Another unusual feature is that the second part of this second Gavotte
is the only part of a dance movement within these suites not to be
repeated – if you believe Anna Magdalena and Kellner, who mark only
the da capo/dal segno; sources C and D, however, disagree:
 Anna Magdalena – da capo, no
repeat.

Kellner – quite right, Frau Bach: da

capo, no repeat.

Source C – hmm … da capo AND

what look suspiciously like repeat
marks.

Source D – I agree with my friend

Herr Source C: definitely repeat
marks here, to keep the da capo sign
company.

One just has to choose. (I go with Anna Magdalena and Kellner.)

At any rate, the whole double movement is deeply lovable, and
deservedly popular among players of many instruments – even wind-
players, who can’t really play the double-stops or chords …
… talking of which: I didn’t want to mention it when talking of the
Sarabande, since dragging in practical concerns to the discussion of
such sublimity seems like sacrilege; but another difficulty for us cellists
in this suite, particularly in the Sarabande and these Gavottes, is the
plethora of chords, especially those involving the (usually) missing E
string. Bach, with his practical mind, evidently thinking of the closer-
together strings of a five-string cello – resulting in increased smoothness
on the three- and four-note chords – inserts many more such chords into
this suite than into any of the earlier ones. This does cause us fifth-string-
challenged cellists extra problems: maintaining the precision of the
tempo, and the flow of the melody, is demanding when one is so often
having to play several notes before the beat (as these chords have to be
played). Well, one needs a responsive cello and a relaxed right – and left
– hand, and then it’s possible. Just.

Gigue

How do you complete the greatest cycle ever to be written for a solo
cello? With a Gigue of bounding, irresistible, unquenchable joy and high
spirits, of course. Bach gives us so much in this movement, summing up
all the previous Gigues (other than the fifth, which inhabits a world of its
own): there are exciting pedal-note passages, more folk instruments,
more bells, impossibly huge leaps, and towards the end, a flight from the
bottom range of the cello up three octaves, and down again for good
measure (from bar 63; track 12: from 2' 33", repeat from 3' 42"). The
music positively crows with triumph, rejoicing in the world and all its
good things – there could not be a more fitting finale.

And, oh – the feeling one has as one reaches the end of the cycle of six
suites, playing this movement! I remember blurting out to the audience at
the end of my last cycle at the Wigmore Hall the phrase that had lodged
immovably in my head as I approached the finishing line: ‘The greatest
music ever written.’ One has – should have – the sensation, with the final
flourish of this Gigue, of arriving at the end of an enormous, life-
changing journey, one that has taken us through every possible region of
the human heart and led us finally to transcendent ecstasy.
 And yet, as for Bach: he probably wrote the last notes, signed his
name, wrote his customary ‘Soli Deo gloria’, put down his pen and went
out to rehearse, or to repair his harpsichord quill plectrums; or perhaps
he settled down to a convivial dinner involving singing with his family
and friends, his next masterpieces already buzzing around in his head. A
true, unarguable, immortal phenomenon of nature, of creation. Ladies
and gentlemen, I give you:

* For many of the specific musical events discussed in this part of the book, I’ve included
the relevant bar numbers for those of you who have a score of the suites to hand. For
those who don’t have access to the score, or who don’t read music, however – and I hope
that applies to a considerable proportion of my readers, since this book is intended for
everyone who loves, or is interested in, the suites – I’ve also included the relevant track
number and timings in (ahem) my own recording: Bach: The Cello Suites, Steven Isserlis,
Hyperion CDA67541/2. (Suites 1–4 are contained on Disc 1, 5–6 on Disc 2.) Apologies
for this apparent self-promotion – but I can’t be sure that any other performer will feel the
same qualities within the relevant passages.
† There is another possibility: John Butt suggests, convincingly (as always), that Bach
sometimes marks slurs in certain passages merely to remind the player that the passage in
question is to be played in ‘slurred style’. Perhaps that is all that is meant by these various
markings, and I/we should stop agonising about the exact placement of the slurs. But alas
– I fear it’s not often as simple as that …
‡ Listening to that excerpt again, though, to get the timings – the first time I’ve listened to
any of the recordings for many years – I realise that I could have played it much more
charmingly. Apologies to Mr Bach. And to the record company. And to you.
§ I know that one is supposed to put ‘we’ in passages like this – at least, that’s what most
academics seem to do: ‘we have already spoken of this’, ‘as we have seen’, etc. I refuse!
It always seems to me condescending. The truth is that I have said it, and it’s up to you
whether you agree or not.
 ¶ Many cellists – myself shamefacedly included – do not tune down the A string when
playing this suite, meaning that we occasionally have to leave out a note in a chord. The
reason is that tuning the string up and down during a concert can upset the cello.
Furthermore, the string, confused as to whether it is supposed to be an A or a G string,
may go out of tune quite quickly; and since one rarely plays the suite by itself in a
programme, without other works surrounding it, it is safer to avoid the scordatura. I did,
however, record the suite with the upper G string – playing on a different cello from the
one I used for the other suites.
|| Curious coincidence: after I’d written this passage, I happened to see an article by the
pianist and musicologist Anatole Leikin suggesting that this very sonata of Chopin’s was
inspired by the Bach suites. He sees in the first movement of Chopin’s sonata a
connection to the Prelude of the sixth suite, however, rather than mentioning any
similarity between this Gavotte and Chopin’s finale. Still, the two points are by no means
mutually exclusive; and I am heartened by his suggestion that Chopin might well have
known the suites through his great friend, the cellist Auguste Franchomme – who had
studied with Norblin, he who produced the first edition of the suites – and adopted ideas
from them for his great sonata.
** As I said, American note-names – eighths, quarters, etc. – are somewhat simpler.
 Glossary of musical terms

Keys (or Tonalities – means the same thing)

This may sound a bit complicated; don’t blame me – blame Pythagoras,

or whoever it was who codified the laws of tonality. Here goes:
There are basically twelve pitches in Western music. Let’s start, for
alphabetical logic’s sake, on A (or A natural, as it is also known); the
next note up is a half-tone, or semitone, higher: A sharp, which, on a
keyboard at least, is the same note as B flat. (The ‘natural’ notes are
white keys on the piano, the flats/sharps the black ones.) Next comes –
quite logically – B natural. The trouble is that the next step, B sharp, isn’t
a separate note – it’s the same as C; and conversely, C flat is the same as
B. Thereafter, the pattern settles down for a bit: C sharp/D flat; D natural;
D sharp/E flat; E natural. Then we get another half-step instead of a
whole-step between the names of notes, so that E sharp is the same as F
natural, F flat the same as E natural. The remainder of the scale is logical
again, thankfully, ending on G sharp/A flat, before beginning again on a
higher version of A. Confusing? Not really – one gets used to it very
quickly. For an explanation of the reasons for this unevenness, excellent
ones are to be found, written by far more intelligent people than I, in
books or on the Internet. So if you’re interested, you’re welcome to look
there; after all, this is a music book, not a scientific treatise!
In Bach’s time – and really until the twentieth century, when things
started to unravel gradually – works were composed in ‘keys’, such as C
major, C minor, etc. These were based on the notes used in the scales of
those pieces – scales being a succession of tones, starting on the note that
gives the scale its name. Scales follow a pattern which to our ears
somehow sounds logical. They can be ‘major’ or ‘minor’; as a gross
generalisation (though it does apply to these suites), keys in the major
tend to sound more cheerful, minor keys more poignant. (That could, I
suppose, be to do with how composers use them; but there does seem to
be something fundamentally mournful in the sheer sound of a minor
scale.) The most striking difference arises from the third note of the scale,
the first to be changed between major or minor; whether it’s a whole tone
away from the second note (major third) or a semitone (minor third)
powerfully affects the mood.
A scale in C major – the only key with no flats or sharps involved –
consists of the notes C–D–E–F–G–A–B, and then C again, an octave (i.e.
eight full notes) higher. C minor contains flats – B flat, E flat, A flat;
these are listed at the beginning of each ‘stave’, or line, of the music.
This is known as the ‘key signature’, and is there to remind the player to
keep playing those notes, not ‘naturals’*; a flat is represented by the sign
♭ , a sharp by #. These symbols are marked just before the note in
question – if, say, a composer wants you to play F sharp instead of F
natural, when there’s no F sharp in the key signature. The altered notes
are known as ‘accidentals’; that sounds a tad alarming, perhaps – but it
really isn’t.
The Tonic is the first note of the scale – e.g. C in C major; the ‘home’
to which the music returns when it’s time to do so.
The Dominant – so-called because it’s very important in any scale, for
some reason – is the fifth: e.g. G in the key of C.
The Subdominant is the fourth – e.g. F in the key of C
The Mediant is the third, the Supertonic the second, the Submediant
the sixth, the Leading-note – or Leading-tone – the seventh. (Not that I
use those terms often or at all in this book – but in case you’re
interested.)
A Tonic triad is a group of three notes, with the tonic as the lowest
note, the third above it and the fifth above it – it sounds inherently
satisfying, for some reason. (Possibly because the two upper notes are
already faintly heard as overtones when the tonic is sounded – part of the
‘harmonic series’; but that’s another subject – and as I said, this is a
music book, not a science book!)
So that’s the minimalist introduction to tonality.
Now:

Metre/rhythm

Needless to say (though I’m saying it anyway), this is exceedingly

important in music – almost all music. These suites being derived, at
least, from dance music, Bach uses many different types of metres and
rhythms. Some useful terms:
Bars: Gradually, in the years before Bach appeared, almost all
‘classical’ music came to be divided into ‘bars’ – i.e. groups of beats
divided by vertical lines, known as bar lines. The ends of large sections,
or of movements, were marked by two such lines, known as double bars,
or double bar lines. In another gross generalisation, the first beat of each
bar tends to be the strongest – but there are as many exceptions to that
rule as there are locusts in Africa.
Beat: The units in which we count musical values; in Bach’s music,
there are two, three or four beats per bar. (I dread, as I write this,
receiving an irate message from Mr Bletherpuss of Much-Binding-on-
the-Marsh, pointing out that Bach used 5/4 in a Passacaglia or somesuch;
but I can’t think of an instance.)
Crotchets, quavers, minims, etc.: The names of such units (in British
parlance). Crotchets often represent one beat – although beats can also be
measured in larger or smaller units. Quavers last half as long as a
crotchet; then, getting longer, we have minims – worth two crotchets – or
semibreves – four crotchets. A dot placed after a note makes it fifty per
cent longer – for instance, a dotted minim is worth three crotchets rather
than two, a dotted crotchet one-and-a-half crotchets.
On the shorter side are semiquavers – half the length of quavers, of
course; demi-semiquavers – half that; hemi-demi-semiquavers – half that
again; and after that the names get silly.
Here they are, in Bach’s handwriting:

A
semiqua
ver.
 A
quaver.

A
crotchet.

A dotted
crotchet.

A
minim.

A
semibre
ve.

Triplets: These look like minims, crotchets, quavers, etc., too, but are
often written with a slur over them, with the number ‘3’ placed under the
slur; they are called triplet minims, crotchets, quavers, etc. The difference
is that they are a third shorter than their duplet counterparts – so that, for
instance, three triplet quavers make up a full crotchet beat, as do two
‘normal’ quavers.
Double-dotting: In baroque music particularly, it was understood that
often (but not always – depending on the context) a long dotted note
would be played longer than marked, a short one shorter; for instance, a
dotted crotchet would acquire (roughly or exactly) an extra semiquaver’s
length, the succeeding quaver thus becoming a semiquaver (or
thereabouts). This rhythmic device helps the music to breathe and dance.
Time signature: This is written at the beginning of each movement –
and whenever the bar length alters, which can happen quite often in more
recent music. (In some twentieth- and twenty-first-century pieces, in fact,
the time signature changes almost every bar.) It indicates the length of
each bar, with the first number – placed above the other – telling you how
many units there are per bar, the second what that unit is (4 meaning
crotchets, 8 quavers, 2 minims). So 3/4 = three crotchets per bar, 2/2 =
two minims per bar, etc. Some time signatures imply groups of three: e.g.
6/8 = six quavers per bar, arranged into two groups of three; 9/4 = three
groups of three crotchets, etc.
Simple time: Bars in which the beats can be divided into two, e.g. two
quavers making up a crotchet beat.
Compound time: Those in which the beat can be divided into three,
e.g. three quavers making up a dotted crotchet beat. (Seems to me that
the opposite of ‘simple’ is ‘complicated’, not ‘compound’; but let it
pass.)
Hemiola: A pair of two bars with three beats, in which, rather than the
usual strong first beat to each bar, the accents are on every second beat –
i.e. 123123. It is often used in cadences (see below), somehow making
the music sound more spacious.
Rubato (literally ‘stolen time’): It’s impossible for a composer to
mark exactly the rhythms he or she wants. Listen to yourself or anyone
else sing even the simplest tune; some notes will be a little longer or
shorter than others, even if they’re basically the same note-values. It’s
just natural. And that’s essentially what rubato is: a little stretching of the
time there, a little pushing of it here, preferably (in most music) around
an organic, steady beat.

Expression marks/dynamics/tempo markings, etc.

Espressivo: Expressively.
Dolce: Sweetly.
Forte: Loudly.
Fortissimo: Even louder.
Piano: Softly.
Pianissimo: Even softer.
Crescendo: Get louder.
Diminuendo: Get softer.

(Not the most exciting section there, I know – but succinct, at least.)

Presto: Very fast.

Allegro: Fast (originally ‘cheerful’).
Vivace: Lively (not that it’s relevant to this book, but some say that
vivace was a slower marking than allegro in baroque times; that was
later reversed).
Andante: At a walking pace (rather variable, depending on how
fast/slowly you walk – or rather, the music walks).
Adagio: Slowly (originally ‘gently’).
Molto adagio: Very slowly.
Legato: Notes joined smoothly together, often marked by a slur over the
conjoined notes.
Staccato: The opposite – notes clearly separated (sometimes involving
the bow leaving the string, or the finger jumping off the key, between
notes). This is generally marked by a dot (or dash/wedge) above the
note(s) in question.
Pizzicato: Plucked, not bowed.

Forms

Fugue: Bach’s master-form – nobody could write fugues like he could. It

is a form, or genre, in which the main subject (or theme – basically the
same thing) is first heard by itself, and is subsequently treated in all sorts
of clever ways, reappearing in different guises and also interacting with
any other melodic material the composer may wish to introduce (often in
counterpoint, the combining of independent voices). Much, if not all, of
the piece stems from that one chief subject, which has to be ultra-
malleable – prepared to stand on its head, walk backwards, etc., etc. – but
also interesting enough in itself to propel a whole structure. To add
variety, the composer usually includes ‘episodes’, which are linking
passages between different statements of the fugue’s theme. It’s an
understatement to say that Bach relishes the challenge of creating these
often vast edifices; no one in history has been as wildly inventive with
their fugues as J. S.
Chaconne (or Ciaconna)/Passacaglia: Two forms that are rather hard
to distinguish from each other. Both are entirely based on, or over, a
musical pattern set up in the first bars, generally in the bassline; the
difference tends to be (but this is another bendy rule) that the chaconne’s
basic figure will be more of a harmonic progression, the passacaglia’s
more melodic. Anyway, it’s the chaconne that concerns us in this book,
because of Bach’s famous one for violin. Incidentally, the form may
derive, like that of the sarabande, from a rather bawdy South American
dance. No hint of that in Bach’s masterpiece; well, children grow up …
Rondo: A movement in which the first theme keeps recurring at
regular intervals, generally interspersed with at least two other themes or
ideas.
Sonata: A work for one, two or sometimes three (as in trio sonatas)
instruments, usually in three or four movements. (Pace Bach and
Handel’s born-in-1685 twin Domenico Scarlatti, who wrote over 500
single-movement sonatas.) In the accompanied solo or duo/trio sonatas of
baroque times, the continuo – or bassline, assigned to the accompanying
keyboard – would frequently be reinforced by an extra instrument, such
as a cello, in order to make it more clearly audible.
Symphony: Generally a four-movement work for orchestra. (Bach
didn’t write any symphonies as such, but pointed the way towards them.)
Concerto: Nowadays thought of as a work for solo instrument(s)
accompanied by orchestra. There are always exceptions to any of these
terms, however; here it’s easy to think of Bach’s ‘Italian’ concerto, which
is just for solo keyboard. And then there’s the concerto grosso (by which
the Italian concerto was inspired), which tends to be an orchestral work,
with some soloistic passages for a few instruments. Furthermore, Bach
would even label his cantatas as ‘concertos’; but that’s a different
meaning altogether – there implying simply a collection of diverse forms
within one work. When one mentions a concerto these days, however, it
is almost always in that first sense – a solo work with orchestra.
Cantata: Vocal work with instrumental accompaniment. Can be
religious (as most of Bach’s are) or secular.
Oratorio: Also a vocal work with instrumental accompaniment, but
generally on a larger scale than a cantata and (almost) invariably
religious in nature, with a narrative element.
Sonata form: Not to be confused with a sonata – although often used
in sonatas. A basic musical structure that became the norm for the first
movement (and frequently for other movements as well) of multi-
movement works in the years after Bach’s death; but (of course) Bach
managed to anticipate it. The three main sections of sonata form consist
of the Exposition, during which one hears all the themes of a work, rather
like being introduced to the characters in a novel; the Development (or,
better I think, the German word Durchführung – ‘moving through’),
during which things happen to those characters – in this musical case the
themes potentially being transformed in key, colour and mood, and
sometimes combined; and the Recapitulation, where the themes return,
restored to something like their original selves – a homecoming.
Da capo: Meaning literally ‘from the head’ – but in musical terms,
‘back to the beginning’. This is marked in all the double movements –
Minuets, Bourrées and Gavottes – in the suites; after playing the second
of the pair, one repeats the first.

Compositional devices

Cadence: A cadence is an arrival in a key, or on a concluding harmony; it

can give the same feeling to music as a full stop, semi-colon or comma –
depending on the type of cadence – does to language. There are various
categories, the chief ones being: the perfect cadence, leading from the
dominant to the tonic; the plagal cadence, arriving at the tonic via the
subdominant; the imperfect cadence, landing on the dominant instead of
the tonic; and the interrupted cadence, in which the ear expects the chord
to resolve from the dominant to the tonic, but it doesn’t, often going to
the sixth instead. Pleasure interrupted …
Cadenza: A passage, usually for solo instrument, in which the beat is
less strongly felt than usual. In concertos, cadenzas are generally free,
unaccompanied sections for the soloist, not always composed in advance,
and usually placed towards the end of a movement. Until well into the
nineteenth century, at least, soloists were expected to be able to
improvise cadenzas, extemporising on the themes of the movement
they’d just played.
Pedal-note (sometimes called just pedal): A note sounded repeatedly
– the expression derives from the pedal on the organ, played with the
foot. These notes are often repetitions of the dominant – but not
necessarily; there are also many instances of tonic pedals/pedal-notes (as
at the opening of the fifth suite). They serve to heighten excitement or
anticipation, or whatever atmosphere the composer is seeking to evoke.
Bariolage: A passage in which one voice is played on one string, with
stopped notes, alternating with another voice consisting of a repeated
open string; this is a sonority unique to string instruments, which Bach
uses to thrilling effect.
Scordatura: The practice of tuning strings to abnormal pitches – i.e.
not the usual fifth apart (in the case of the violin, viola or cello).
Tierce de Picardie: This is a device wherein a piece written in a minor
key concludes with a cadence into the major – generally sounding a
positive note. This was much used by baroque composers, and carried on
into the nineteenth century. It may be common in the music of Bach’s
time, but every time he uses it, it’s GLORIOUS.
* Just to make life simpler, there are two separate types of minor scales, known as
harmonic and melodic. A harmonic scale in C minor sounds C–D–E flat–F–G–A flat–B
natural–C. A melodic one contains different notes on the way up and the way down:
ascending C–D–E flat–F–G–A natural–B natural–C; descending C–B flat–A flat–G–F–E
flat–D–C. I know I said that C minor contains three flats, including B flats – and yet both
scales include B natural; but the three flats are in the key signature, not in the scale itself.
Befuddled? You’re not the only one. I’m beginning to regret having started this section.
 Bibliography

I have mentioned a few books within the course of this text, but no harm
in mentioning them again, because they are all wonderfully interesting.
And there are many others eminently worth reading:

The New Bach Reader, edited by Hans T. David and Arthur Mendel,
revised and expanded by Christoph Wolff (W. W. Norton and Co.,
1999), a collection of contemporary documents charting Bach’s
life, is a joy.
As is: Johann Sebastian Bach: The Learned Musician by Christoph
Wolff, a fascinating and more detailed biography (Oxford
University Press, 2000). And now we have another book from
him: Bach’s Musical Universe (W. W. Norton and Co., 2020). My
thanks to Christoph Wolff for permission to quote from his work.
Anything written (or, of course, recorded) by John Butt is deeply
valuable too. His books include Bach’s Dialogue with Modernity:
Perspectives on the Passions (Cambridge University Press, 2010).
He also edited the Cambridge Companion to Bach (Cambridge
University Press, 1997).
Other Buttiana include Playing with History: The Historical
Approach to Musical Performance (Cambridge University Press,
2002) and Bach: Mass in B Minor (Cambridge University Press,
2008).
I always find the writings of Ruth Tatlow deeply absorbing. Her
books include Bach’s Numbers: Compositional Proportion and
Significance (Cambridge University Press, 2015). This contains
the astonishing collection of numbers I quote, somewhat
dumbfoundedly, in my own screed.

A few other books proved to be very useful as I splashed around

looking for information:
 Dance and the Music of Bach by Meredith Little and Natalie Jenne
(expanded edition, Indiana University Press, 2009).
Another book from the same (publishing) stable also proved very
worthwhile: Bach’s Cello Suites: Analyses and Explorations by
Allen Winold (two volumes, Indiana University Press, 2007).
Other books about the suites themselves include an extraordinary
tome written by one of the most belovedly eccentric characters in
recent musical life, the – alas, late – Dutch cellist Anner Bylsma,
whose recordings of the suites were perhaps the most influential
since those of Casals: Bach, the Fencing Master (available at
http://www.bylsmafencing.com/bach_the_fencing_master.html).
And one that helped to popularise the Bach suites further: The Cello
Suites: In Search of a Baroque Masterpiece by Eric Siblin
(Vintage, 2011).
Then there’s a vintage classic: Albert Schweitzer’s J. S. Bach (first
published in French, 1905, followed by a two-volume edition in
German, 1909; various reprints of Ernest Newman’s English
translation available). I’m sure that many scholars would take
issue with some boldly stated facts here, but Schweitzer’s love for
Bach is touchingly evident.

Many other interesting books about Bach have also appeared in recent
years, including:

Evening in the Palace of Reason: Bach Meets Frederick the Great in

the Age of Enlightenment by James Gaines (Harper Perennial,
2010).
Music in the Castle of Heaven: A Portrait of Johann Sebastian Bach
by John Eliot Gardiner (Penguin, 2014).

Then, a couple of fascinating (I think) sidelines: for those who read

German (alas, I am not among them), a book about Anna Magdalena’s
life as a widow by my friend Eberhard Spree. Eberhard is a double-
bassist in the Leipzig Gewandhaus Orchestra and an expert on the
musical giants of Leipzig (Bach, Mendelssohn and Schumann), who has
kindly taken me on two memorable ‘Bach tours’ of the city:

Eberhard Spree, Die verwitwete Frau Capellmeisterin Bach: Studie

über die Verteilung vom Nachlass Johann Sebastian Bachs (Verlag
Klaus-Jürgen Kamprad, 2019).

From more recent history, there are many fine books written about
Casals, all of which describe his love affair with the suites; perhaps the
most popular is Joys and Sorrows, his life story as told to Albert E. Kahn
(Macdonald and Co., 1970). My thanks to Martita Casals Istomin for
permission to quote Pablo Casals’s words.
Lastly – really off the beaten track – a biography of the strange life of
Christian Reimers, the cellist who transported Schumann’s
accompaniments for the Bach suites (and very possibly his lost
‘Romances’ for cello and piano) to Australia:

Paul Blackman, Christian Reimers: A Spirited Performer – The Life

of a Cellist, Artist and Spiritualist, available at
https://christianreimers.wixsite.com/home.

I’m proud to say that that book came into being as a result of a speech
I made during an all-Schumann recital in Adelaide – where Reimers lived
for some years – in which I begged the audience to check their attics, just
in case a copy of the lost works might be nestling there …
During the preparation for this tome, I also dipped in and out of
various articles, several of which I found online. I can’t remember them
all, so apologies to those writers whose ideas I imbibed and then forgot
where I’d read them. But some I do remember distinctly are:

Introduction to the Bärenreiter edition of the Bach suites – including

the four earliest sources, and the first edition – by Bettina
Schwemer and Douglas Woodfull-Harris (2000 – the edition I use,
hopping between the different manuscripts like an insecure
squirrel).
Introduction to Bärenreiter’s new edition of the Bach suites (BA
5257) by Andrew Talle (2018).
 And yet another introduction, written by Joachim Draheim for the
first edition of what may be Schumann’s accompaniment to the
third suite (Edition Breitkopf 8431).

Then:

‘Remaining Silhouettes of Lost Bach Manuscripts? Re-evaluating J. P.

Kellner’s Copy of J. S. Bach’s Solo String Compositions’ by
Zoltán Szabó (2015), available at
https://bachnetwork.co.uk/ub10/ub10-szabo.pdf – a spirited
defence of the importance of Kellner’s work.
‘The Encoding of Faith: Scordatura in Heinrich Biber’s Mystery
Sonatas’ by Daniel John Edgar (Ph.D. thesis, University of York,
2008; available at https://core.ac.uk/download/pdf/77022779.pdf).
‘Bach’s Bells: Mors certa, hora incerta’ by Thomas Braatz (2012),
available at http://www.bach-
cantatas.com/Articles/BachsBells.pdf.

And in addition, I am immensely grateful to five invaluable Internet

resources:

Wikipedia, of course – how did we live without it?

YouTube afforded me the opportunity to listen to performances of
anything Bach wrote – including the cantatas, shockingly few of
which I’d heard before.
IMSLP, or the ‘Petrucci Music Library’, which gave me invaluable
access to all of Bach’s works.
Questia.com – now sadly departed to the great ether in the sky –
which offered the complete texts of many interesting books.
And one of my favourite sites of all time: the Bach Cantata site –
www.bach-cantatas.com. A veritable treasure trove of facts,
information and gossip about the beloved Leipzig cantor.

(And finally, as a writer, I’m very glad of the company of Word’s

thesaurus!)
 Acknowledgements

When one has, with a sigh of relief, finally completed a book, one of the
most stress-inducing tasks one still has to face is the Acknowledgements
page. Of course, it’s a pleasure to thank those who have been helpful; but
the worry is that one will forget to thank people who deserve one’s
gratitude – and one inevitably does forget! So apologies to any person or
persons whom I inadvertently omit from this section; I’m not ungrateful
– merely absent-minded.
Initially, I would like to thank my teacher, Jane Cowan, and my sisters
Annette and Rachel for passing on to me, when I was still a child, their
deep love – worship, practically – of the music of Bach. On a more
immediately practical level, I’d like to thank my publisher Belinda
Matthews for her instant and continuing enthusiasm for this project, and
also for her good sense in persuading me to take out some of the sillier
jokes (‘Steven – remember this isn’t a children’s book,’ she reminded me
gently). Also at Faber, I am grateful to Josephine Salverda for her near-
saintly forbearance over my endless ‘maybe-could-we-perhaps-might-it-
possibly-be’-ing when it came to the proofs. Before that, Michael
Downes was, as always, an understanding, gentle and expert editor, who
even managed to put the umlaut over the correct letter of Spın̈ al Tap –
not easy on a modern computer. Joanna Bergin was – as ever with my
various projects – encouraging and patient.
My friend Aaron Mendelsohn in Los Angeles was kind enough to
read through the book at an early stage, and then to call to advise me to
remove a particularly tasteless remark. (You’ll never know …) Another
great friend, pianist/composer/writer/painter/committed Catholic Stephen
Hough, dealt with my endless enquiries about various aspects of the New
Testament with a blend of equally admirable erudition and tolerance.
Then, crucially, two masters of their craft read the whole book
through at a middle stage, and gave me immensely helpful feedback.
Actor, author, director, music nut, bon viveur and wit Simon Callow gave
me nuggets of practical wisdom, talking from the much-needed
perspective of someone who, although deeply passionate about and
(self-)educated on the subject (he knows far more music than I do), is not
officially a performing musician; and one of the most wonderful figures
in the music world, the conductor, keyboard player, revered scholar and
beloved eccentric John Butt, showered me with the fruits of his
seemingly endless knowledge. Both men should have had better things to
do, but I’m deeply grateful to them nonetheless.
No doubt some errors have crept into this book, but unfortunately, I
can’t blame anyone else for them. Instead, I blame pollution/climate
change/chemicals in food for addling my brain. Any mistakes are
certainly not my fault – obviously.
Finally, I’d like to thank Macadamia the cat, who owns my son
Gabriel and his girlfriend Amarins, for not chewing up my hard drive.
 Image credits

Portraits

Johann Nikolaus Forkel, 1749–1818 (page 12)

Music Division, The New York Public Library. (1813.) Public domain,
available at https://digitalcollections.nypl.org/items/510d47dd-f704-
a3d9-e040-e00a18064a99.

Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach, 1714–88 (page 13)

Pastel drawing by Gottlieb Friedrich Bach, around 1733. Public domain,
available at
https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Carl_Philipp_Emanuel_Bac
h_(1733).jpg.

Francesco Alborea, 1691–1739 (page 23)

Wien, Österreichische Nationalbibliothek, Bildarchiv und
Grafiksammlung, Porträtsammlung, Inventar-Nr.
PORT_00155553_01. Public domain, available at
https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Francesco_Alborea.jpg.

Portrait presumed to be of Louis de Caix d’Hervelois (c. 1670–1759)

and Marie-Anne de Caix (page 26)
Unidentified painter. Public domain, available at
https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Louis_de_Caix_d%27Herv
elois.jpg.

Giacobbe Cervetto, 1680–1783 (page 27)

Painting by Johann Zoffany (1733–1810). Public domain, available at
https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Giaccobe_Cervetto_(1680-
1783).jpg.

Robert Schumann, 1810–56 (page 59)

Drawing by Jean-Joseph Bonaventure Laurens (1801–90), photograph by
DeAgostini/Getty Images.

Pablo Casals, 1876–1973 (page 64)

Portrait at Carnegie Hall, New York City, New York, USA, Bain News
Service, 1917. Photograph by Universal History Archive/Universal
Images Group via Getty Images.

Musical scores

Facsimile editions of the four source manuscripts A–D are available in

the public domain at https://www.jsbachcellosuites.com/score.html.

Extract from the Hugo Becker edition (page 40):

Reproduced by kind permission of Peters Edition Limited, London.
Edition Peters also publishes an Urtext edition, ed. Paul Rubhardt.

Extract from C.P.E. Bach’s catalogue (page 46):

Bach, C. P. E. (1790) Verzeichniss Des Musikalischen Nachlasses Des
Verstorbenen Capellmeisters. Gedruckt bey G. F. Schniebes,
Hamburg, monographic. Credit Line: Library of Congress, Music
Division. Available at https://www.loc.gov/item/08033180/.

Extract from Altnickol’s manuscript (page 48):

Altnickol, Johann Christoph: 2 Sanctus; V (4), bc, 1748, Staatsbibliothek
zu Berlin – Preußischer Kulturbesitz, Germany. Available at
http://resolver.staatsbibliothek-berlin.de/SBB0000F03100000000.

Extract from cantata BWV 9 (page 53):

Bach, J. S. (1731) Cantata, BWV 9: ‘Es ist das Heil uns kommen her’.
Credit Line: Library of Congress, Music Division. Available at
https://www.loc.gov/item/2008575929/.

Extracts from sonata no. 1 for violin in G minor (pages 53, 174, 199):
Mus. ms. Bach P 967, Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin. Available at
http://resolver.staatsbibliothek-berlin.de/SBB0001D75F00000000.

Other images courtesy of the author.

 General index

References in italics indicate images.

Abel, Christian Ferdinand 1

Agricola, Johann Friedrich 1
Alborea, Francesco (‘Franciscello’) 1
Aldeburgh Festival 1
alle breve 1n
allemande 1, 2, 3
see also Index of Bach’s Works: Cello Suites nos 1
Altnickol, Christoph 1, 2, 3, 4
Sanctus 1
Altnickol, Johann Sebastian 1
Arbeau, Thoinot 1, 2, 3
Orchésographie 1
Arnstadt 1, 2
Augustine, St 1
Auvergne 1

Bach, Anna Karoline Philippina 1

Bach, Anna Magdalena (née Wilcke) 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6
manuscript copies of Bach’s works 1, 2, 3
see also Index of Bach’s Works: cello suites: Manuscript A
Bach, Carl Philipp Emanuel 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13
manuscript collection 1, 2, 3, 4
Bach, Elisabeth Juliane Friederica 1
Bach, Gottfried Heinrich 1
Bach, Johann Christian 1, 2
Bach, Johann Christoph 1
Bach, Johann Sebastian
autograph manuscripts 1
bell effect 1
biography 1, 2
as conductor 1
continuo writing 1
descending scales 1
fugues 1, 2
key symbolism 1
mathematical proportions 1
musical handwriting 1
name represented as pitches 1, 2, 3
number symbolism 1, 2, 3
 obbligato writing 1
performances 1
religious convictions 1
religious symbolism 1, 2, 3, 4, 5
signature 1
Bach, Johann Sebastian (son of C. P. E. Bach) 1
Bach, Leopold Augustus 1
Bach, Maria Barbara 1, 2, 3, 4
Bach, Regina Susanna 1
Bach, Wilhelm Friedemann 1
Bach–Abel concerts, London 1
Bach Gesellschaft 1, 2, 3
bagpipes 1
ballet 1
Baltzar, Thomas 1
bariolage 1, 2, 3, 4
baroque style 1
Basevi detto il Cervetto, Giacomo 1
Becker, Hugo 1
Beethoven, Ludwig van 1, 2, 3, 4
Piano Sonata in C minor, op. 1 (Pathétique) 2
Piano Sonata in C minor, op. 1 138
Symphony no. 1 in C major, op. 1 57
Symphony no. 5 in C minor, op. 1 138
Bergman, Ingmar 1
Berlin 1, 2, 3
Biber, Heinrich 1, 2, 3
‘Mystery’/‘Rosary’ sonatas 1, 2, 3
Passacaglia for solo violin 1
‘Blackbird’ (The Beatles) 1
Bloch, Ernest 1
Boccherini, Luigi: Cello Concerto in B flat 1
bourrée 1, 2
see also Index of Bach’s Works: Cello Suites nos 1 and 2
Brahms, Johannes 1, 2, 3, 4
Symphony no. 1 in C minor, op. 2 138
Brandenburg, Margrave of 1
branle/bransle 1, 2, 3
Bridge Frank 1
Britten, Benjamin 1, 2, 3
Third Suite for Cello, op. 1 132
Brooks, Mel 1
Brossard, Sébastien de 1, 2
Dictionnaire de musique 1
Brüggen, Frans 1
Butt, John 1, 2n, 3n
Buxtehude, Dietrich 1
cadence 1
imperfect 1
interrupted 1, 2
perfect 1, 2
plagal 1, 2, 3, 4
cadenza 1, 2, 3, 4
Calvin, John 1
canary (dance) 1
cantata 1
Casals, Pablo/Pau 1, 2, 3, 4
Catholicism 1
Celle 1
cello:
baroque 1, 2
bow 1, 2, 3, 4
history 1
modern 1
pitch 1
sonority 1
strings 1
tuning 1
chaconne/passacaglia 1
Chopin, Fryderyck 1, 2
Piano Sonata no. 2 in B flat minor, op. 1 2
Collins, Wilkie 1
Colombi, Giuseppe 1
Chiacona for ‘basso solo’ 1
concerto 1
continuo 1
Corelli, Arcangelo
Concerto grosso, op. 6 no. 8 (Christmas Concerto) 1
Pastorale 1
Trio Sonatas, op. 1 2
Couperin, François 1, 2, 3
Concerts Royaux 1
Couperin, Louis 1
courante 1, 2
see also Index of Bach’s Works: Cello Suites nos 1
Cowan, Jane 1, 2
Cries and Whispers (film) 1
Cristiani, Lisa 1n
cross shape 1

da capo 1, 2
Dallapiccola, Luigi 1
de la Selle, Thomas 1
Debussy, Claude 1, 2
Del Mar, Jonathan 1n
double-dotting 1
Düsseldorf 1, 2
Dutilleux, Henri 1
Dvořák, Antonín 1
dynamics 1

ECM 1
Egarr, Richard 1
Eisenach 1
EMI 1
equal temperament 1
Evelyn, John 1

Forkel, Johann Nikolaus 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15

fortepiano 1
Franchomme, Auguste 1n
Friderica, Princess 1
Froberger, Johann Jakob 1
fugue 1

Gabrielli, Domenico 1
ricercari 1
gavotte 1, 2
Geiringer, Karl 1
Geminiani, Francesco 1
gigue/giga/jig 1, 2
see also Index of Bach’s Works: Cello Suites nos 5 and 6
Goltermann, Georg 1
Goltermann, Julius 1
Grützmacher, Friedrich 1

Hamburg 1
Handel, George Frideric 1, 2, 3, 4
Messiah: ‘For unto us a Child is Born’ 1
Haysmann, Robert 1
Haydn, Joseph 1, 2, 3, 4, 5
The Creation 1
The Seasons 1
symphonies 1
hemiola 1, 2, 3, 4
Hilliard Ensemble 1
Hindemith, Paul 1, 2
hocket/hocquet 1
Humphries, Barry 1

improvisation 1, 2

Jenne, Natalie 1n
Jethro Tull 1
Joachim, Joseph 1

Karlsbad 1
Keller, Johann Peter 1, 2, 3, 4
see also Index of Bach’s Works, cello suites: Manuscript B
key symbolism 1, 2
keyboard instruments 1
Kircher, Athanasius 1
Kistner (publisher) 1
Kodály, Zoltán 1
Köthen 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13

Led Zeppelin 1
Leikin, Anatole 1n
Leipzig 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14
Thomaskirche 1, 2
Thomasschule 1, 2, 3
Leopold, Prince, of Köthen 1, 2, 3, 4
Lienecke, Bernhard 1
Liszt, Franz 1
Little, Meredith 1n
Louis XIV, of France 1, 2, 3
Lübeck 1, 2
Marienkirche 1
Lully, Jean-Baptiste 1, 2, 3
Luther, Martin 1, 2, 3
Lutheran chorales 1, 2

McCartney, Paul 1
Maria Josepha, Princess Elector of Saxony 1
Mariana, Juan de 1
Mattheson, Johann 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7
Meir, Golda 1
Mendelssohn, Felix 1, 2, 3, 4
metre 1
minuet 1, 2
Morimur (recording) 1, 2
Mozart, Wolfgang Amadeus 1, 2, 3, 4, 5
Mass in C minor (k427) 1
Piano Concerto in C minor (k491) 1
Sinfonia concertante in E flat major (k364) 1
Mühlhausen 1
musette 1

Neefe, Herr 1
Norblin, Louis-Pierre 1, 2n
number symbolism 1
Ockeghem, Johannes 1
oratorio 1
organ tuning 1

Palestrina, Giovanni Pierluigi da: Liber V Missarum 1

passacaglia, see chaconne
pedal-note 1
Pepys, Samuel 1
Pergolesi, Giovanni Battista: Stabat Mater 1
Poppen, Christoph 1
Praetorius, Michael 1, 2
Terpsichore 1, 2
prelude 1
see also Index of Bach’s Works: cello suites: preludes; and Cello Suites nos 1

Quintilianus 1, 2

Rachmaninov, Sergey 1
Piano Concerto no. 2 in C minor, op. 1, 2
Rameau, Jean-Philippe 1
rastrum/raster 1
Reger, Max 1
Reimers, Christian 1
rondo 1
Rosary 1, 2
Rostropovich, Mstislav 1
Rousseau, Jean-Jacques 1
rubato 1
rubato in tempo 1

Salzburg 1
sarabande 1, 2
Scarlatti, Domenico 1
Scheibe, Johann Adolph 1, 2
scherzo 1
Schober, Johann Nikolaus 1
Schuberth (publisher) 1
Schumann, Clara 1
Schumann, Robert 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7
Romances for cello and piano 1
Schütz, Heinrich 1
‘Nunc Dimittis’ 1
Schwanberger (violinist) 1
Schweitzer, Albert 1
scordatura 1, 2
see also Index of Bach’s Works: Cello Suite no. 1
Servais, François-Adrien 1n
Shakespeare, William 1
 All’s Well That Ends Well 1
Macbeth 1
Much Ado About Nothing 1
Twelfth Night 1
sharp sign (Kreuz) 1
Shostakovich, Dmitri 1
Silbermann, Gottfried 1
Snape Maltings Concert Hall 1
Solzhenitsyn, Aleksandr 1
sonata 1
sonata form 1
Spanish Civil War 1
Spın̈ al Tap 1
Stade, Dr W. 1
subdominant 1, 2
suite 1
Swieten, Baron van 1, 2
symphony 1

Tallis, Thomas 1
‘Nunc Dimittis’ 1
Tatlow, Ruth 1, 2
Tavener, John 1
Telemann, Georg Philipp 1, 2
Tertre, Estienne du 1
Thoene, Helga 1
Thuringia 1
tierce de Picardie 1, 2
see also Index of Bach’s Works: Cello Suite no. 1
tonality 1
Tortelier, Paul 1
Trinity Sunday 1, 2
triplets 1

Végh, Sándor 1
Victoria, Queen 1
Vienna 1, 2
Vivaldi, Antonio 1
cello concertos 1

Walther, Johann Gottfried 1, 2

Musikalisches Lexikon 1
Warlock, Peter: Capriol Suite 1
Weimar 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6
Werckmeister, Andreas 1
Westhoff, Johann Paul von 1
Westphal, Johann Christian 1
Wigmore Hall, London 1, 2
Wodehouse, P. G. 1n
Wolf, Hugo 1
Wolff, Christoph 1
World War II 1
 Index of works

References in italics indicate music examples.

Art of Fugue, The (BWV 1080) 1, 2, 3

manuscript copy 1
Ascension Oratorio (BWV 1) 2

Brandenburg Concertos (BWV 1046–51) 1, 2

cantatas 1, 2, 3, 4, 5
religious symbols 1
Cantata 9: ‘Es ist das Heil uns kommen her’: autograph manuscript 1
Cantata 21: ‘Ich hatte viel Bekümmernis’: ‘Seufzer, Tränen, Kummer, Not’ 1
Cantata 29: ‘Wir danken dir, Gott wir danken dir’: Sinfonia 1
Cantata 31: ‘Der Himmel lacht, Die Erde jubilieret’ 1
Cantata 41: ‘Jesu nun sei gepreiset’ 1
Cantata 56: ‘Ich will den Kreuzstab gerne tragen’ 1
Cantata 74: ‘Wer mich liebet, der wird mein Wort halten’ 1
Cantata 83: ‘Erfreute Zeit im neuen Bunde’ 1
Cantata 115: ‘Mache dich, mein Geist, bereit’ 1
Cantata 117: ‘Sei Lob und Ehr dem höchsten Gut’ 1
Cantata 129: ‘Gelobet sei der Herr, mein Gott’ 1, 2
Cantata 133: ‘Ich freue mich in dir’ 1, 2
Cantata 134: ‘Ein Herz, das seinen Jesum lebend weiss’ 1
Cantata 155: ‘Mein Gott, wie lang, ach lange’ 1
Cantata 163: ‘Nur jedem das Seine’ 1
Cantata 171: ‘Gott, wie dein Name, so ist auch dein Ruhm’ 1
Cantata 173: ‘Erhöhtes Fleisch und Blut’ 1
Cantata 194: ‘Höchsterwünschtes Freudenfest’ 1, 2
Cantata 204: ‘Ich bin in mir vergnügt’ 1
Cantata 214: ‘Tönet, ihr Pauken! Eschallet, Trompeten!’ 1
cello suites 1, 2
and acoustic 1
allemandes 1, 2, 3
authentic performance 1, 2, 3, 4
bassline, 1, 2, 3, 4
bourrées 1, 2, 3
bowing 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10
chords 1
composition 1
copies, eighteenth-century 1, 2, 3
courantes 1, 2
 da capo 1
dance movements 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8
dating composition of 1
double-dotting 1
dynamics 1, 2, 3
formal structure 1
gavottes 1, 2, 3
gigues 1
harmonic analysis 1
humour 1
manuscript copies 1, 2, 3, 4
Manuscript A 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24,
25
Manuscript B 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24
Manuscript C 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22
Manuscript D 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17
manuscripts 1
meditative quality 1
and memory 1
minuets 1, 2
ornamentation 1, 2
performance history 1, 2, 3, 4
preludes 1, 2
printed editions 1, 2
Becker 1
Grützmacher 1
Norblin 1
recordings 1, 2n, 3n, 4, 5n
religious symbolism 1, 2
repeat markings 1, 2
sarabandes 1, 2, 3
Schumann’s piano accompaniment 1, 2
slurs 1
staccato 1
subdominant 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13
tempi 1
trills 1
vibrato 1, 2
for Manuscripts A and B, see Anna Magdalena Bach and Johann Peter Keller respectively in
the General Index
Cello Suite no. 1 in G major (BWV 1007) 1
length 1
manuscript 1, 2
and the Nativity 1
Prelude 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8
bariolage 1
bowing 1, 2
fermata (bar 1) 2
 manuscript discrepancies 1, 2
tonality 1, 2, 3
Allemande 1, 2, 3, 4
Courante 1
Sarabande 1
Minuets 1 and 2 1, 2, 3
Gigue 1, 2
slurring 1
staccato 1
Cello Suite no. 2 in D minor (BWV 1008) 1
and the Crucifixion 1
Prelude 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6
bassline 1
chords 1
manuscript 1
texture 1
tonality 1
Allemande 1
Courante 1
Sarabande 1, 2
Minuets 1 and 2 1, 2, 3
Gigue 1, 2
Cello Suite no. 3 in C major (BWV 1009)
and the Ascension 1
humour 1
performance 1
piano accompaniment 1
Prelude 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6
bowing 1, 2
open strings 1
silences 1
slurs 1
Allemande 1, 2
open strings 1
tonality 1
Courante 1, 2
Sarabande 1
Bourrées 1 and 2 1, 2, 3, 4, 5
bowing 1
Gigue 1
Cello Suite no. 4 in E flat major (BWV 1010) 1, 2
humour 1, 2
and Presentation of Jesus at the Temple 1
Prelude 1, 2
bassline 1
bowing 1
intervals 1, 2, 3
manuscript 1
 number symbolism 1
tonality 1
Allemande 1, 2, 3, 4
bowing 1
Courante 1, 2, 3
intervals 1
triplets 1
Sarabande 1, 2, 3
Bourrées I and II 1, 2, 3, 4
double-stopping 1
Gigue 1
cadence 1, 2
manuscript 1
Cello Suite no. 5 in C minor (BWV 1011) 1
and Crucifixion 1, 2, 3, 4, 5
movement titles 1
scordatura tuning 1, 2, 3, 4
transposition (see also Lute Suite in G minor) 1, 2
transposition into G major (Grützmacher) 1
tuning 1
Prelude 1, 2
chords 1, 2
fugal section 1, 2, 3, 4
manuscript 1
pedal-notes 1, 2
tierce de Picardie 1, 2
tonality 1, 2
Allemande 1, 2, 3, 4
Courante 1
Sarabande 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8
Gavottes 1 and 2 1, 2, 3, 4
Gigue 1, 2, 3, 4, 5
Cello Suite no. 6 in D major (BWV 1012)
bell effect 1, 2, 3, 4
for five-string instrument 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6
length 1
and the Resurrection 1, 2
Prelude 1, 2, 3, 4
arpeggios 1, 2
bariolage 1, 2
open strings 1
silences 1
tonality 1
triple-stopping 1
Allemande 1, 2, 3, 4, 5
bassline 1
Courante 1
bowing 1
 Sarabande 1, 2
chords 1, 2
double-stopping 1
manuscript
discrepancies 1
Gavottes 1 and 2 1, 2, 3, 4
chords 1
Gigue 1
bell effect 1
pedal-note
passages 1
Chorale: ‘Mein Jesu, was vor Seelenweh’ (BWV 487) 1
chorale preludes 1
religious symbols 1
Chorale Prelude: ‘Vor deinen Thron tret ich hiermit’ (BWV 668) 1, 2
Christmas Oratorio (Weihnachts-Oratorium) (BWV 248) 1, 2
Chromatic Fantasia and Fugue in D minor (BWV 903) 1

Easter Oratorio (BWV 249) 1

English suites (BWV 806–11) 1

French suites (BWV 812–17) 1

French Suite no. 3 in B minor (BWV 814) 1

Goldberg Variations (BWV 988) 1

harpsichord works 1

Inventions and Sinfonias (BWV 772–801): manuscript copy 1

Italian Concerto in F major (BWV 971) 1

keyboard works 1

lost manuscripts and works 1, 2, 3

Lute Suite in G minor (BWV 995) 1, 2
autograph manuscript 1, 2
Lute Suite in E minor (BWV 996): Bourrée 1

Magnificat (BWV 243) 1

original version 1
Mass in B minor (BWV 232) 1, 2, 3, 4, 5
Gloria 1, 2
Et incarnatus est 1
Crucifixus 1
Et resurrexit 1
Agnus Dei 1
Mass in G minor (BWV 235)
‘Gloria in excelsis Deo’ 1
Musical Offering, The (BWV 1079) 1

Notebooks for Anna Magdalena Bach 1

oratorios 1
organ music 1, 2
Orgelbüchlein, Das (BWV 599–644) 1
‘In Dulci Jubilo’ 1
Ouvertüre nach französischer Art (BWV 831) 1

partitas for solo violin 1, 2, 3, 4

manuscripts 1, 2, 3
manuscript copies 1
number of bars 1
Partita no. 1 in B minor for solo violin (BWV 1002) 1, 2
Partita no. 2 in D minor for solo violin (BWV 1004) 1, 2
Chaconne 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7
Mendelssohn’s piano accompaniment 1, 2
Partita no. 3 in E major for solo violin (BWV 1006) 1
arrangement for lute 1
Prelude 1, 2
Gavotte en rondeau 1
Partita in D major for keyboard (BWV 828): Allemande 1
preludes for organ 1

‘riddle canon’ 1

St John Passion (BWV 245) 1, 2, 3

key symbolism 1
religious symbols 1
‘Jesum von Nazareth’ 1
‘Es ist vollbracht’ 1
St Matthew Passion (BWV 244) 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7
key symbolism 1
religious symbols 1, 2
‘Erbarme dich’ 1
‘Gebt mir meinen Jesum wieder’ 1
‘Komm, süsses Kreuz’ 1
‘Aber Jesus schrie abermal laut und verschied’ 1
Sinfonia in F minor (BWV 1046a): Adagio 1
sonatas for solo violin 1, 2, 3, 4
manuscripts 1, 2, 3
manuscript copies 1
religious festivals 1
Sonata no. 1 in G minor for solo violin (BWV 1001)
autograph manuscript 1, 2
and Christmas 1
number of bars 1
Sonata no. 2 in A minor for solo violin (BWV 1003): and Easter 1
Sonata no. 3 in C major for solo violin (BWV 1005): and Pentecost 1
sonatas for violin and keyboard
manuscript copy 1, 2
number of bars 1, 2

violin: works for solo violin 1, 2, 3, 4

articulation markings 1, 2
bowing 1
contrapuntal textures 1
four-note chords 1
Mendelssohn’s piano accompaniments 1
Schumann’s piano accompaniments 1, 2
as teaching exercises 1
see also partitas and sonatas for solo violin

Well-Tempered Clavier, The 1, 2, 3, 4

manuscript copy 1
performances 1
Prelude and Fugue No. 1 1
 About the Author

Steven Isserlis enjoys a unique and multifaceted career as soloist,

chamber musician and educator. He appears regularly with the world’s
leading orchestras, gives recitals every season in major musical centres,
devises fascinating chamber music programmes, performs with period-
instrument ensembles, enjoys giving concerts for children and works
with many contemporary composers. He has written two children’s books
and gives masterclasses worldwide. For the past twenty-five years he has
been Artistic Director of the International Musicians’ Seminar at Prussia
Cove, Cornwall.

Steven Isserlis’s Hyperion recording of the Bach Cello Suites met with
universal critical acclaim.
 By the Same Author

WHY BEETHOVEN THREW THE STEW

WHY HANDEL WAGGLED HIS WIG

ROBERT SCHUMANN’S ADVICE TO YOUNG MUSICIANS

 Copyright

First published in the UK and USA in 2021

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