Claudio monteverdi biography madrigals tend
La Morte d’Orfeo
Instead of the little tears that were shed at the end of Arianna’s lament in 1608, here, as semi-deo ex machina, Vanità/Orfeo takes over and revenges the lieto fine (happy end) that was imposed on the opera in the edition of 1609. The first performed version of 1607 ended with Striggio’s verses of liquidation by Bacchanti (furies), shaped as Bacchanale choirs alternating soli. The music of that ending is lost, just like the rest of Arianna, and leaves us curious about its character.
Several scholars agree that the later (printed) version would not have been possible in the narrow space of the Orfeo première. Monteverdi’s dedication to Prince Francesco of the 1609 print made Nino Pirrotta finally exclude the possibility of elaborate machine work for descending and ascending gods.
Serenissimo signore mio signore et patrone colendissimo, La favola d’Orfeo che già nell’Accademia de gl’Invaghiti sotto gl’auspitij di Vostra Altezza fù sopra angusta Scena musicalmente rappresentata, dovendo hora comparire nel gran Teatro dell’universo à far mostra di se à tutti gl’huomini, …*)
(“Most Serene Lord, my lord and most esteemed patron, The fable of Orpheus, which was already performed in a narrow stage musically in the Accademia de gl'Invaghiti under the auspices of Your Excellency, having now to appear in the great Theater of the universe to show itself to all men, ...")
In La Tragedia di Claudio M, the initial finale of Orfeo is crossfaded with the original ending of L'Arianna, where Bacchus arrives as the saving god, and the original ending of Orfeo, the death of Orpheus, lynched by the furies (Baccanti).
Orpheus’ lamenting monologue at the beginning of Orfeo, Act V, which is only answered by an echo (Eco), demonstrates his narcissistic and projected love for an idealised Eur Monteverdi and the genesis of Baroque music Although his work fell into almost complete oblivion between the early 18th and mid-20th century, Claudio Monteverdi (1567-1643) is now recognized as a giant in the history of Western music. He is comparable to Beethoven in that he stands as a bridge between two radically different eras of music history, and contributed works in both the earlier and later styles, many of which are treasured as masterpieces. He is also comparable to Shakespeare, born only three years earlier: both were creative masters who came out of the glorious flowering of the late Renaissance, assimilated a huge amount of what was going on around them historically and culturally, and memorably helped both shape and sharpen styles and attitudes fundamental to the rapid evolution of modernity in the 17th century. In Monteverdi’s case, the evolution from old to new was clearly perceptible and a subject of argument even as it happened, when he was in his 30s. He had published his first three books of madrigals by the time he was 25, but then it was over ten more years before the appearance of the fourth, quickly followed by the fifth. It is evident that during that time he was developing his new style. The difference was first identified rather pejoratively, by the critic Giovanni Artusi in his 1603 treatise On the Imperfections of Modern Music, in reference to some still unpublished madrigals of Monteverdi’s he had first heard in 1598. Artusi was a theorist and champion of 16th century polyphonic style, and was severely critical of all Monteverdi’s innovations, accusing him of being entirely committed to the new style and mocking the old: “[Modern composers] are content with knowing how to string notes together in their own way and to teach how to sing with much movement of the body, accompanying the voice with those motions, and ultimately t How do we learn to listen? Like most worthwhile things, listening well takes time, practice, and perseverance. While it might seem like good music ought to reveal its fruits intuitively to curious listeners, even the most visceral and immediate connection to music is a complex interchange of expectations and experiences. The most skilled composer guides their listeners’ ears in the same way that a painter guides the eye: they may not tell us exactly what the art ‘means’, but they can show us the way to engage it in their own mode and medium. Such is the case with one of the most prolific and influential musicians of the early seventeenth century: Claudio Monteverdi (1567–1643). Music of the past can present unique challenges to meaningful listening. Its style, language, and instrumentation may seem remote and unfamiliar to modern listeners. But this music nevertheless offers us rare glimpses into the lives of men and women centuries ago. It suggests to us that, despite living in very different worlds, we nevertheless share basic human concerns with the people of the past. The unfamiliarity of style and expressive language we may hear in historical music allows us, rather unexpectedly, to connect with those that created it; this happens not despite, but precisely because musicians of the past expressed these basic concerns differently. Marvel, wonderment, and curiosity work through this kind of representational paradox. That which astonishes and leaves us in a state of wonder is unfamiliar and even overwhelming, but it propels us into new understandings and instils in us a desire to understand. It is both humbling and enlightening, divine but very human. Such an engagement with music tends to encourage a particularly constructive kind of sympathy towards those who came before and will come after us. In other words, it is a kind of experience which situates us in the past, present, and future. Listening to the music of the past is particul Monteverdi Vespers of 1610 - Notes
Charles Douglas, March-April 2024
But that does not detract from the importance of Monteverdi, nor from his emergence from the earlier style and role in the creation of the newer style (called at the time the prima praticaand seconda pratica). My links to the Wikipedia articles are not meant to acknowledge their credibility, by the way. Whoever wrote them is rather confused about the whole thing! The prima pratica refers to the older style of the ars perfecta with its smooth lines and highly controlled dissonance. The newer style was not thought of as "Baroque" of course, that term came along very much later as a critique of Rameau. The exemplar of the ars perfectais Palestrina, very much a 16th century figure writing in what we traditionally called "Renaissance" style. As Taruskin writes: ...the central irony of the "Renaissance," as the term is applied to music, is the way in which the Greek revivalism that motivated the "rebirth" of philosophy and the other arts actually undermined the dominant "Renaissance" musical style, if we take that style to be the ars perfecta. [op. cit. vol. I, p. 797]
Instead of the term "Baroque" which Taruskin insists we don't need as it does little more than mislead, he proposes several others that point towards the developments in science and philosophy. If we need a musical term we might note that the era is typified by the emergence of musical theatre, one of the characteristics of the 17th Fifteen Eighty Four