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Rating: In the famous novel he developed independently but in tandem with Stanley Kubrick, Arthur Clarke writes that Dave Bowman – left alone in the vast ‘Discovery’ after the death of his companions and the necessary deactivation of HAL 9000 – understandably went through a period of unease and fear, which he overcame after many attempts only by 'finding comfort in the abstract geometries of Bach, as others before him’.
I have addressed the mystery of Johann Sebastian Bach in many ways, and for many years. I have listened to him continuously throughout my life, I have played his music, I have heard it played very much and much better than me. I have studied him: I have studied his compositions, I have studied his life, I have sought a particular pathos in his events, in his face, in the circumstances of his creations. I have been familiar with him since I was a boy, and above all I have always loved him without limits and without the need for justification, but I have always wanted to understand how and why. Why is his music absolute? How does he compose that way? Why is his message eternal and universal, more than is the case with any other composer, bound in any case to a period, to an artistic movement, to a particular sensitivity and expression?
In the end, I believe Clarke is right. Bach is eternal because he is absolute, he is the enchantment of the sublime relationship between notes, he is absolutely abstract and he never describes, he does not suggest anything. While others – great ones! – are nonetheless the Eroica, the Unfinished, the Night on Bald Mountain, Alexander Nevsky, the Ode to Joy, fate knocking, and the entire repertoire of man's passions and life, Johann Sebastian Bach is Gigue, he is Ciaccona, Bourrée, he is Aria and Badinerie, he is simply op. BWV and of course there is no Andante, there is no Largo or Scherzo. No key of interpretation is suggested, there is no more or less appropriate mood, there is no message. There is only his incredible music, and the effect it invariably has on the listener who embraces it within themselves.
Among the immortal works of Kapellmeister Bach are counted the Suites for Solo Cello, and it is not difficult to understand why. Unlike other instruments, the cello's fingering does not allow for arpeggios on many notes (at least six on the guitar, ten for the piano) which greatly limits the expressive possibilities of the instrument, which furthermore does not even have a timbre of intense lyrical soloism such as the violin can boast, virtually subject to similar limits (in fact, its fingering allows, for example, octave jumps and trills which are difficult to achieve on the cello). This means that the cellist can perform even fast scales, but cannot rely much on polyphony and little on counterpoint, being normally able to execute only the three minimum notes simultaneously to characterize a chord.
J.S. Bach does not even have at his disposal the expressive tools of dissonance, noise, and silence, which will give so much meaning to the works of the twentieth century: the absolute Master of counterpoint here has at his disposal 'only' the musical scales and the possible convolutions within the physical limits of the cello, which was also used in scores for only fifty years and mainly as an accompaniment, for the reasons previously examined. He will not only manage to compose at the highest level but also to stress the technical and expressive capabilities of the instrument, forcing the performer into a virtuoso but also postural marathon (in this sense I spoke of physical limits: the posture of the cellist is inherently rather uncomfortable and requires a great deal of shoulder work).
The six Suites for Solo Cello (Cello Suites, 1720: BWV 1007-1012) remained virtually unknown until 1936 when the famous musician Pablo Casals rescued them from a long oblivion and curated a renowned reference performance, and since then they have always been a milestone and a testing ground for the world's leading soloists. Since there are no original handwritten copies with indications for the performer, many interpretive decisions have been made from time to time by the most prestigious performers (among whom it is worth mentioning Mstislav Rostropovich, Mischa Maisky, and Yo-Yo Ma), with particular regard to staccato, execution times, bowing, sometimes making the various recordings perceptibly different from each other.
The first suite is the most famous, and it is also considered the 'easiest' (!), while from the fourth onwards the technical problems for the instrumentalist begin, culminating in Suite No. 6. Those familiar with Bach's works know what to expect: a work certainly of great formal rigor, great compositional charm, and bold instrumental solutions (to make an instrument that is inherently not very polyphonic as polyphonic as possible). Alongside these more technical aspects, those who love Bach (and we are billions in the world, I believe) will find – as is customary in his compositions – a particular longing, a sense of inner fullness, concentration, and contemplation that the composer always managed to infuse into each of his creations, from the immense works for organ to the wonderful orchestral suites, to sacred music.
I began writing immersed in the reverberation of Rostropovich's cello, one of the memorable interpretations of these Suites, and I gradually lost myself in the spiral of scales, in the abstract geometries of this sublime Architect, in the particular absorbed emotion that the Art of this composer invariably bestows upon those who are willing to be swept away with it. Many years ago I saw them played for the first time by Giuseppe Selmi, a few years before his death, and I have never forgotten them. I do not know well what I have written, I know I cannot have rendered in a few words the transcendence and universality of this work, but I know that the Suites for Solo Cello were written by a blessed man, that some capable instrumentalists have interpreted them, and that they are available in concert halls and on the shelves of our records, to give us every time a piece of that same transcendence, which renews itself with each listening and brings us closer to something better. I am not a believer, but if there is something greater than Man it surely has a relationship with this sublime Art.
My father loved to listen to these Suites in the dim light, in his armchair, in Casals's performance, and I learned to love them as a child. I have promised my son that we will soon go to hear them played in a concert hall, an exciting and important experience for a youngster, and we both can't wait. I just hope not to get emotional in front of him, I don't know if he would understand.
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