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Recently, even Sting has taken it upon himself to dust off the precious and somewhat tarnished gilding that the sound of the lute seems to emit. Or rather, it was the skillful lutenist Edin Karamazov, whose contribution to Sting's ambitious project of reviving the seventeenth-century songs of John Dowland is fundamental, probably even more so than the vocal input of the former Police member, who nevertheless manages quite well for a novice. Yet another demonstration of how the lute lends itself, perhaps like no other instrument, to covering with a mysterious patina of ancient color the notes emanating from its almond-shaped soundbox, carefully decorated, almost as if the refined patterns that make each lute a small work of art have the power to beautify its sound as well, making it perfectly "ornamental." Angelo Branduardi knows this well, as he makes extensive use of it to give that unmistakable medieval touch to his ballads, even though it is actually a typically Renaissance instrument, hence even too "modern" for our minstrel's purposes.
Meanwhile, in the time of Johann Sebastian Bach the lute, after having successfully coexisted for about two centuries with the more peculiar ancestors of guitars and bass guitars, was already in full decline and would soon be definitively replaced by instruments quite comparable to today's acoustic guitar, which only in the 19th century would reach its typical form. Adding to this is the fact that Bach, despite his knowledge of various instruments, as required by his role as a chapel master, was by nature what we would today call a "keyboardist", who found in the organ and the harpsichord, the keyboards of the time, his favored instruments for playing and composing.
All this explains the quantitative poverty of compositions for lute not only compared to the colossal structure of Bach's entire work but also in comparison with his instrumental works alone. As if this weren't enough, this sparse repertoire partly consists of adaptations of pieces conceived for other instruments, such as violin and cello. There are still some unclear aspects regarding this, such as the lack of true "tablatures", or fingerings typical of lute writing, even in the few works attributed to this ancient instrument.
Let's leave these hypotheses to be mulled over by the experts, especially since the classical guitar has settled the issue once and for all, whose sound, although likely less decorative than that of the lute, is undeniably more robust and profound, hence more suitable for concert performances. Nowadays, unless specifically required by the work, whether in concerts or recordings, the lute is almost always replaced by an acoustic guitar. And if this is true for the most explicitly baroque works, it is even more so for the Bach Lute Suites, solid and timeless musical architectures, which only have the purely formal aspect of a succession of a prelude and a series of fast and slow dances, more or less the same ones already seen in the more well-known Orchestral Suites.
Starting from the great Andrés Segovia, the Bach repertoire for guitar was enriched with adaptations from the Violin and Cello Suites. In this album, the excellent John Williams presents us with the few precious works that Bach himself originally or secondarily intended for the lute. His touch is clear and essential, the virtuosity limited to the strictly necessary, as in the whirling Prelude BWV 999; to draw a pianistic parallel, it is a "Gouldian" style, which means it is perfectly suited to the representation of Bach's music.
The Suite in E Minor BWV 996 opens with an introduction ("Passaggio - Presto") concise yet distinctly split into a sober and calm prelude (Passaggio) and a subsequent intense fugue (Presto). Following the canonical "Allemande" and "Courante", moderately moved, the true meditation pause, in this as in other Suites, is the "Sarabande", although the name suggests otherwise to most. Sweet arpeggios and rarefied notes cradle us up to the dense minute or so duration of the "Bourrée", whose theme is well-known even to non-classical music fans thanks to Jethro Tull, who used it as a solid base for imaginative and apt jazz-style variations, renaming the piece with one less "r" ("Bourée"), yet without distorting or massacring it, which is no small feat. A brilliant "Gigue", a German dance yet related to the popular Scottish "jig," concludes the suite.
The Suite in A Minor BWV 997 presents itself compressed in only three movements, although they are elaborate. "Prelude - Fugue" largely consists of a not overly fast fugue, a placid yet relentless overlap of barely rippling musical waves, whose effect on the ear is absolutely beneficial. The slow "Sarabande" is based on an unusually melancholic theme, which few variations manage to elevate to the sublime; "Gigue - Double" layers an even more impetuous dance ("Double") over a hypnotic whirl of notes ("Gigue"), sealing this highly original Suite suitably.
Adapted by Bach himself from the Suite for Cello No. 5 BWV 1011, the Suite in A Minor BWV 995 is the most canonical, with its "Prelude - Presto", where "Presto" implies an agile and lively fugue, and its typical dances, each in its rightful place. Among these stands out, always assuming it can be called a dance, the central "Sarabande", once again the moment of maximum expressiveness of the Suite, an enchantment of lightly irregularly detached strokes, of extraordinary modernity, interrupted by the peremptory entrance of the festive "Gavottes 1 & 2", followed in turn by a syncopated final "Gigue".
The Prelude in C Minor BWV 999 and the Fugue in G Minor BWV 1000, despite appearing inseparably linked from the first hearing, constitute a kind of "common-law couple" (I hope the CEI will forgive the impious analogy) put together by the notoriously devout Johann Sebastian. While the Fugue originates from a similar movement (Fugue) from the Violin Suite BWV 1001, it is believed that the Prelude is a kind of "plug" created by the author to integrate this isolated fugue. If so, never was a patch so perfectly executed: in its minute and a half, the cyclical exposition of the theme, following a pattern similar to that of the Prelude No. 1 from the "Well-Tempered Clavier," manages to captivate the listener, preparing them to blissfully receive the generous cascade of notes that will follow in the sumptuous and complex Fugue.
And so in the blink of an eye, over an hour has passed, and all I've listened to is a simple guitar. But when you're surrounded by the very essence of music, do you really need special effects?
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