Carl Philipp Emanuel

“The amateur–literally one who loves–is the person who adores his work; and no art, and no achievement in society, can flourish unless it is based on thousands of people who are dedicated amateurs–on people who love to paint, to build, to cook, to play the violin.” –Yehudi Menuhin

I am practicing the third movement of the sonata in D major, Wq 137, by C.P.E. Bach for viola da gamba and continuo. This movement, which closes the sonata, has eluded me for quite some time.

The other movements reveal themselves more readily. The first is sweet perfection in simplicity; a lovely melody in D major transposed to A major and then back again with room for a cadenza at the end. The second movement, the centerpiece of the sonata, is a virtuosic whirlwind that leaves me breathless every time I play it. Improvisatory lines weave in and out of melodic ideas that are simultaneously romantic, nostalgic, and ecstatic.

The feeling is the same as when you are a child and your uncle tosses you up in the air. “Do it again!” This is how C.P.E. Bach at his best can make you feel; like a child overcome with complete, unobstructed pleasure. Listen to a good recording of the first or last movement of the cello concerto, Wq 172 (also scored for flute, Wq 168, perhaps a better version), and you may have this feeling; an amusement park ride which you desperately hope will never come to an end and for which you will get in line again as soon as it is over. It is no wonder that Mozart said of C.P.E. Bach, “He is the father, we are the children.”

The slow, wandering, last movement, though, seems puzzling at first glance; a let down after the brilliance of the second and sweetness of the first. Some hours spent with it and my viol, however, have uncovered a gentle but unrelenting sensuality. The gradually ascending second theme is imbued with Eros. No single melodic figure in this movement is repeated verbatim, but instead given a delightful, playful twist each time; a wonderful way to end such a thrilling piece.

C.P.E. Bach composed during a transitional period. Up until his time, the viola da gamba was quite popular, played by both amateurs and professionals. In the 1740’s, a decade in which both C.P.E. and his father J.S. Bach wrote sonatas for the viola da gamba, the instrument was in decline, but there were still able practitioners of the instrument active. One fantasizes that perhaps the gambist Carl F. Abel, who was closely associated with the Bach family and still in Germany at the time, would have been involved with these important works.

The literature written for the viola da gamba is to me a treasure. It comes from an era free of light pollution, genetically modified corn syrup, and mass media. Because the instrument is so alien from the instruments upon which I have spent most of my musical training, and because I have largely had to teach myself, my musical and technical approaches to the instrument have been necessarily intuitive and fresh. The viola da gamba, for me, is simultaneously physical and spiritual. It is a ripe peach, dark chocolate, aged cheese, or a cup of good coffee. It can be a fine wool sweater on cold winter evening or the flicker of candle light reflecting on the ceiling.

By the end of 1700’s, after Abel’s death, the viol became an obscure relic. While the tradition of the amateur musician continued up to the 1900’s, it was displaced, first in small bits by the phonograph, and finally by the ultimate in disempowering technology, the television. This was the century in which Theodor Adorno wrote that one did not even have to hear music, pointing out that he could quietly read the scores of Beethoven’s string quartets and piano sonatas like a novel, getting the same intellectual satisfaction he would in a performance by following the linear narrative structure.

There is the story of St. Ambrose, recounted by St. Augustine, who, in the 4th century, was unique in his ability to read silently. Music has always developed more slowly than other art forms. If Adorno is to be believed, at least superficially, it took about 1600 years for music to catch up with the written word.

The rub is that during the 20th century, language once again became liberated from the page. The linear meta-narrative exploded while, at the same time, the world became a single place. Film, abstract expressionism, the internet, James Joyce, jazz, and social changes all came about, extending into the 21st. Music changed; performances are greater in diversity, quantity, and quality than ever before. All of these things, and other phenomenon, are in a related and intensifying continuum.

I play old music on gut strings and copies of old instruments because I love to play compositions from men and women who experienced the world differently than we, combined with the sound of the instruments which speak immediately in a nonintellectual way. I also live in a world that, in my mind, needs to become reacquainted with intuition, trust, and being; qualities that the 19th and most of the 20th century attempted, but failed to stamp out.

I often marvel at how fortunate I am to live with such beautiful instruments and music, to be able to spend time making beautiful sound. An amateur is one who loves. A professional is one who professes, publicly, to be an expert. Contained within the definition of a professional is a separation of two distinct groups of people; the expert elite and the non-expert public. The two terms are not literal opposites, but amateur has oddly been used as an insult in our vernacular against those perceived as “unprofessional.” It is my hope that musicians of today could embrace the first word, which has nothing to do with separation or skill, but only motivation. It is my hope that the wall between student and teacher, performer and audience, can dissolve if we approach art from a place of love.