Johann Sebastian Bach
Il clavicembalo ben temperato - Libro I (Glenn Gould)

One of the things that us simple music enthusiasts envy in those who can play an instrument, aside from mastering it, is the ability to practice compositions that, by just listening to them, provide us with absolute pleasure and a form of nourishment for the spirit. One wonders what horizons might open up for those who understand the technical secrets behind such masterpieces, and perhaps even apply them. The musical heritage is rich with such works, especially for those who play the piano: ranging from Mozart's (relatively) easy Sonatas to the fascinating Études by Debussy, suitable for already very skilled pianists. But even as far as these "educational" compositions are concerned, like many other genres, the first stone was laid by Johann Sebastian Bach, and it is not a small insignificant stone like an inauguration stone for the Strait bridge, but rather a colossal granite foundation on which many subsequent works would rest. "Preludes and fugues in all the tones and semitones, both major and minor, for the use of youth eager to learn about music, as well as for the particular enjoyment of those already versed in such study": thus reads the subtitle of the first book of "The Well-Tempered Clavier". Beyond the football-like references of "Tones and semiTones" (the current one being a semiTone) and aside from including pure listeners like me among those who can derive "particular enjoyment," the definition already well illustrates the content of this monumental collection of 24 preludes and as many fugues. It's the finest imaginable demonstration of the properties and relationships among the twelve notes available to every musician, and (luckily) to every listener as well. In Bach's time, the division of the distance between two identical notes but of different pitch (the octave, from one C to the next) into 12 equal intervals (the famous semitones) was already theorized. But his ability was truly immense in making the symmetries present in this circle, the result of a coldly geometrical but at the same time magical partition, directly perceivable and bright, curiously similar to that of the celestial vault divided according to the 12 constellations of the Zodiac. It begins with the property that allows each of these segments to construct two types of scales (major and minor) depending on the width of the intervals following the base note. Then, for each of the 24 obtained keys, first (in the Prelude) the melodic potentials, and then (in the Fugue) the contrapuntal ones are explored, related to the overlapping of multiple themes intertwining and overlapping in a kind of perpetual motion that seems to lean towards infinity. The presence of a fugue for every key is yet another confirmation of how central counterpoint is to Bach's art, even in works like this, which are about something else. The quintessential musical essay on counterpoint will be the enigmatic and unfinished "The Art of Fugue". As many as 48 preludes and fugues make up this first book, already perfectly complete from a theoretical point of view, but in his later years, Bach would find the strength to start again from the C major and build upon the same bases another mighty structure, which is the second book of "The Well-Tempered Clavier". Given their number, it is not feasible to delve into the description of each of these precious pieces of music. Here and there the most original ones are mentioned: the Prelude No. 1 in C major is undoubtedly the most famous. Its unmistakable theme, "cyclical" like the movement of an endless screw, is also that of the so-called "Ave Maria by Bach-Gounod" (much more Bach than Gounod, I'd say); the No. 4 in C-sharp minor and the No. 8 in E-flat minor stand out for their extension and especially for the sublime, very melancholic melodies, the No. 9 in E major for the gentle salon tone announcing the soon-to-come Rococo style, while the No. 6 in D minor exhausts in a flutter of notes as rapid as a flap of wings; the No. 16 in G minor opens with an eerie trill and continues no less grim. Particularly pleasing and "modern" for the extreme widening of measures, with detached and rarefied notes that at times seem to even anticipate Satie, are the Preludes No. 12 in F minor and No. 22 in B-flat minor. I mentioned only preludes, but it is implied that the corresponding fugues are no less: the limits of imagination imposed by the strict rules of counterpoint are more than compensated by the perfect interlocking between the themes that chase each other like the waves of the sea: as one exhausts, the next arrives with renewed strength. Conceived in the 1700s for the harpsichord, an ancestor of the piano with a dry and metallic sound, this work has proven particularly suitable for piano performance, but this is true for all of Bach's keyboard compositions (and not only). Further proof of their timeliness, or rather of their total atemporality: this is absolute music, thus not attributable to a specific era. With all due respect for the countless pianists who have embarked on the endeavor, Glenn Gould's interpretation possesses something unique not only for his exquisite technique (which is taken for granted in great pianists), but especially for how he manages to combine imagination with absolute attention to the contrapuntal aspect, which Gould (just like Bach) considered central in his musical conception. Especially in the fugues, one senses that Gould is in his natural environment: just listen to how inimitably he highlights the entry of a new theme covering the previous one, with such decisive notes and with outlines so precise and marked that they give the sensation of having a solid consistency. Behind the apparent naturalness of these performances actually hides the arduous and almost obsessive quest to faithfully reproduce the dry and essential sound of the harpsichord on the piano. To achieve this, Glenn Gould even went through bizarre attempts, like creating a hybrid piano ("harpsipiano") reinforced with metal pins, but at a certain point, he had to convince himself that his immense technical skill would be the only way to play a piano as if it were a harpsichord, hardly exploiting the resonance effects. A measure of how much effort all this required is given by the dates of the individual recordings of preludes and fugues: they range from 1962 to 1965, and moreover in a scattered order, not by key. But despite how uneven the path was to recompose this mosaic of 48 pieces, the final result demonstrates without a shadow of a doubt that it was worth it.