History of music

Strictly Come Dancing - Baroque style

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Following my exploration of Renaissance dances last year, it’s now time to step (or perhaps dance?) forward into the Baroque period to compare the changing choreographic and musical styles.

When we think of dance forms in Baroque music we’re mostly talking about steps which developed in France and spread throughout Europe. Some of the dance movements we encounter today would have been used for dancing to, while others are a more stylised reinterpretation, such as those used by Bach in his instrumental music.

The nature of Baroque dance

When we think of Baroque dances there are two main types:

Social dancing

The first are the type of dances enjoyed in a social context. Think, for instance of John Playford’s The Dancing Master - a volume of English dances, published in several editions between 1651 and 1738. The first edition was intended for teaching dancing and printed in a small format so a dancing master could secret a copy beneath his cloak to refer to surreptitiously! The Dancing Master only gave floor patterns for dances and not the steps, so it became common for dancing masters to travel the country, teaching the latest steps and how to perform them.

Formal dances

In France social dancing no doubt took place, but the court of King Louis XIV was central to the development of formal dancing - the precursor to classical ballet. These same dances were later introduced to England in the court of King Charles II and subsequent French dance masters worked all over Europe sharing their knowledge. Dances appeared in all types of formal entertainment, from court events to opera and ballet in theatres.

In 1661 the Académie Royale de Danse formally codified the French dance style, resulting in the Beauchamp-Feulillet shorthand notation of dance steps in 1700. This was followed by treatises on the topic, such as Pierre Rameau's Le Maître à danser (1725) which described the steps and gave rules for arm movements.

Now let’s look at the different Baroque dances, many of which you’ll have encountered in the music you play.

Allemande

Allemanda, almain, alman

This is a direct descendant from the Almain we see the music of Holborne and Dowland and the Baroque Allemande became one of the most stylised dances. A line of couples would take each other’s hands and walk the length of the room, taking three steps and then balancing on one foot. This means the music doesn’t need to be played quickly if playing for dancers. The tempo gradually increased as the century went by and the more stylised versions of this dance found in the suites of Bach and Handel are played relatively quickly, almost entirely divorced from the music’s dance origins.

Courante

Corrente, coranto, corant

The courante is often paired with the Allemande in Baroque dance suites. It was popular in both France and Italy and the two countries seem to have adopted different styles for the dance.

In Italy (where it was the Corrente) it was a fairly rapid running dance, with small back and forth steps in triple time. Meanwhile, in France (a Courante) the style was more majestic. In 1725 Pierre Rameau describes it as

“A very slow dance that inspires an air of nobility more than the other dances”.

The common factor between both forms of this dance style is the time signature, which is always in three, usually with a short upbeat of a quaver or semiquaver.

Gavotte

Gavot, gavote, gavotta

Perhaps one of the most familiar Baroque dances, the Gavotte originated from a lively peasant kissing dance. Danced with lifted steps, it became popular in England and France. Later, in 18th century France it adopted a statelier style, in two or four time with a half bar anacrusis and more ornate steps. In common with many baroque dances, most Baroque gavottes are composed in binary form, comprising two sections of music each of which are repeated.

The opening of the Gavotte en Rondeau from Bach’s Violin Partita in E

Bourrée

The dance steps of a Bourrée

Like the Gavotte, the Bourrée is also a dance in duple (two) time, but with a single upbeat and a brisker tempo. It was popular for around a century, starting off as a folk dance in the mid 17th century. It was adopted by the Academie of Dance at the French court, where its small, quick steps were formalised.

The Bach Bourrée above has been influential on many popular musicians, including Paul McCartney who’s said in interviews on a number of occasions that it inspired his song Jenny Wren.

Sarabande

This dance often follows the Courante in a Baroque dance suite but has very different roots. It’s often claimed as a Spanish dance, but there are also links to the New World and the Middle East, depending on which source you consult. There’s a definite connection to the Spanish speaking parts of the New World as the oldest reference to a Zarabanda appears in a manuscript in Panama from 1539. Of course it’s entirely possible the dance had previously been taken there by Spanish explorers, so exact truth may never be known!

The Sarabande’s original dance steps were deemed so salacious and erotic it was banned in Spain by the late Renaissance. Inevitably taking the dance out of reach this just made it even more popular - such is the power of banning something!

By the Baroque it had become a more serious dance and is often assumed to require a slow tempo. But this isn’t always the case - the tempo depends on location. It was played more quickly in Spain, Italy and England, and slower in France and Germany. Two things are consistent regardless of the nationality - the music is in triple time and has a characteristic rhythm. This features a lifted first beat, followed by a minim or dotted crotchet, creating a stress on the second beat of the bar. Phrases frequently end with a weak (sometimes called feminine) ending.

Sometimes the Sarabande is combined with a ground bass, such as La Follia (also from Spain). This chord progression in triple time fits the dance’s rhythmic patterns perfectly and often forms the basis of sets of variations, as in the example by Corelli above.

Gigue

Giga, jig, jigg, jigge

The Gigue is usually the last dance of a baroque suite and has a quick tempo. It was popular in England from the 15th century, eventually gaining popularity in both France and Italy. In its earliest form it was consider a vulgar dance and Shakespeare refers to this characteristic in Much Ado about Nothing:

“Wooing is hot and hasty Iike a Scottish jigge.”

Over time it evolved into a more refined dance and in the 17th century Purcell included several Jiggs in his theatre music. The most obvious characteristic of a Gigue is its compound time signature (usually 6/8 or 9/8), with its lively ‘rumpty-tumpty’ rhythms. More recently, the theme from the radio show The Archers could definitely be considered a Gigue! The complexity of the music varies according to location, with simple line and harmonies in Italian examples and more complexity in France.

Loure

The Loure is another dance whose roots are in France - probably with its origins in folk music. Usually in compound time (6/4 or 6/8 time), it’s a slow, poised dance - sometimes described as a slow gigue. Johann Mattheson described it in 1738 as

“proud and self important in character”.

The dance often begins with an anacrusis (upbeat) of one and a half beats, as you can see in this example by Telemann. Sadly its popularity was short lived and was little used by later composers.

The Loure from Telemann’s Water Music

Minuet

Menuet, menuetto

Originating in France, the Minuet was an elegant dance in triple time, performed by pairs of dancers who begin in couples before coming together to dance across the floor in an S or Z shape pattern - thought to be a reference to Louis XIV’s fame as the Sun King. The musical lines fall into straightforward four bar phrases, accompanied by a walking bassline mostly in crotchet beats.

Unlike many of the dances we’ve looked at so far, the Minuet retained its popularity well beyond the baroque period. Gradually it lost its connection with dance, becoming a common musical form in concert music, such as symphonies and string quartets.

One characteristic which persisted from the Baroque was the inclusion of a Trio in many Minuets. This originated as a middle section for three instruments, often two oboes and bassoon - a combination popularised by Lully. This creates a contrast and is followed by a repeat of the Minuet straight afterwards, but played without repeats.

Passepied

A lively dance from Brittany which became popular in the mid 17th century. It tends to be in a fast triple time (usually 3/4 or 3/8) with an upbeat and, as the name suggests, the steps consisted of the feet passing each other, crossing and re-crossing. It often appears in French Baroque opera and ballet in pastoral scenes, but the Passepied continued to appear in later instrumental music, such as the last movement of Bach’s Orchestral Suite No.1.

Rigaudon

Rigadoon

This is another lively dance in two time, similar to the Bourrée. Originally a folk dance from southern France, its hopping steps gained more formal popularity in the court of Louis XIV and remained in favour throughout the 18th century in France.

Hornpipe

Naval cadets dancing a hornpipe on deck in 1928

While the majority of the dances popular during the Baroque period developed in France, the Hornpipe was most popular in England. Today the term probably conjures up images of sailors dancing on deck, and it probably originated on English ships during the 16th century. Sailors’ hornpipes could be danced in duple or triple time, depending on the location. The Hornpipe performed at the Last Night of the Proms each year is in two, while the folk form danced in Northumberland and Scotland is often in three.

The hornpipes composed during the Baroque period tend to follow this latter format, with a triple time signature. There are lots of examples in Playford’s The Dancing Master, while both Purcell and Handel composed Hornpipes too, sometimes incorporating Playford’s popular dance tunes.

Hopefully this fandango through a myriad of Baroque dances has left your toes tapping. Which ones are your favourites? I’m partial to a sonorous Sarabande myself, but when the mood takes me I could be tempted to gad around to a lively gigue! Below you’ll find a list of some of my own consort videos which include these dances, so you can play some of them yourself - either with me or with friends. Enjoy!

Bach Rondeau from Orchestral Suite No. 2 Gavotte

Bach Orchestral Suite No.3 Gavotte, Bourrée and Gigue

Handel Water Music Sarabande, Bourrée and Minuet

Handel Fireworks Music La Rejouissance and Menuet

Mozart Menuetto from Symphony No.39 K.543

Pezel Four Dances Sarabande, Allemande and Courente

Telemann Suite in G major Gavotte

An instrument of many different characters

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For many people the first image to come to mind when the recorder is mentioned will be the descant they encountered during their school years - quite possibly a plastic one, played very badly. But those of us in the know understand our favourite instrument has many more facets. Even so, many recorder players are really only familiar with mass produced Baroque style instruments, whether they’re made from plastic or wood.

Throughout history, the music composed for the recorder has changed, and the instrument has evolved in parallel to suit new fashions and styles. This is the first of a series of blog posts about the recorder’s different characteristics, exploring the way the instrument’s design has changed over the last six centuries. Today I’m going to talk about Renaissance and Baroque recorders. Since the recorder’s revival in the early twentieth century there have been many more developments, but I’ll talk about those in a subsequent post.

There’s absolutely nothing wrong with using Baroque style recorders to explore our varied repertoire, but maybe this will open your eyes to the way a historically appropriate design of recorder can influence the way music from different periods is performed.

The Medieval period

The oldest surviving recorders date back to the fourteenth century. The best known is perhaps the Dordecht recorder, found in the Netherlands in 1940. These ancient instruments are a simple design, made from a single piece of wood, but they share the recognisable features of our modern recorders - a windway created by the insertion of a fipple (the block) into the mouthpiece and a thumb hole to allow for a greater range of notes than a simple whistle. Sadly many of the surviving recorders are in poor condition as their wooden construction made them prone to damage or decay after they were discarded.

Renaissance recorders

By the time we reach the Renaissance period, we not only have a much larger array of surviving original instruments to study, but plenty of imagery too. This illustration, taken from Michael Praetorius’ treatise Syntagma Musicum (1614-20), clearly shows a sizeable family of recorders, from tiny to large.

The Renaissance look

Renaissance recorders look very different to the Baroque ones we often play today. The smaller instruments, from the tenor upwards, were usually made from a single piece of wood, while the larger recorders were creates in two pieces. Their outline tends to be very simple, with few decorative features - a straight body with a flared bell.

Another detail you may notice from the image above is the appearance of two holes for finger seven (clearest on the 6th recorder from the left). This allows the instrument to be played with the left or the right at the top and the unused hole would have been filled with wax. Larger recorders needed keys to make the lowest notes playable and these were made with a characteristic butterfly shape for the same reason. It’s normal to play with the left hand uppermost today, but if you study paintings from this era you’ll see they feature both left and right handed recorder players fairly equally.

A consort of recorders by Adrian Brown, based on an image from Sebastian Virdung's treatise Musica getutscht. The recording below was performed on a consort like this.

The elegant butterfly keys were only necessary for the larger sizes of recorder - certainly on basses and on some tenors too. The lower part of the key was often covered with a fontanelle made of perforated metal or wood. This protected the vulnerable mechanism, but added a decorative element too. The holes in the fontenelle also allow air to escape - without these it would have a negative effect on the tuning.

You might think that having instruments made from a single piece of wood would create difficulties with tuning – after all, you can’t adjust the pitch of a single piece recorder by pulling out the headjoint. Recorders of this period were almost always made in consorts at one pitch, so this was less of a problem than we would consider it today.

Most Renaissance bass (or basset as Praetorius calls them) recorders were direct blow models, although you need longer arms to play these compared to modern knick basses. Larger bass instruments existed too, the longest of which is listed in the inventory of Queen Mary of Hungary. It’s described as being a ‘baras’ in length - that’s about two and a half metres! For these largest recorders a crook or bocal is needed to carry the player’s breath to the windway, as you can see in the Praetorius image earlier. The video below features the Royal Wind Music performing on a consort of low recorders and you can see at close quarters the additions needed to make the biggest ones playable!

Not just recorders in C and F

Today’s recorders tend to use mostly C and F fingerings, but Renaissance recorders weren’t so consistent. Consorts of instruments were often pitched a 5th part - for instance a basset in F, a tenor in C, a treble in G and perhaps even a descant in D. These letters always refer to the lowest note of the recorder. To our modern brains playing recorders in G and D might require greater mental gymnastics than we’re used to, but I’m sure Renaissance musicians were entirely comfortable reading at any pitch, playing from a greater variety of clefs than we expect today too.

Renaissance tone begins inside the recorder

While Renaissance recorders look simpler on the outside, the shape of the internal bore is also very different. Inevitably this varies between the historical instruments which survive today, but they all have certain similarities. The bore tends to be mostly cylindrical, but with a noticeable flare at the bottom end. It’s this internal shape that influences the characteristics of the recorder’s tone and response.

Recorders from the Renaissance, often have a slightly smaller range than Baroque models - sometimes as little as an octave and six notes. Most music echoed the range of the human voice though, so this wasn’t a great restriction for composers. The lowest notes tend to be much richer and stronger, often demanding greater reserves of breath to fill out the tone. Because of this strength of tone more incisive articulation is also possible, making it easier to bring out the complexities of counterpoint and melodic shapes we so often see in Renaissance music. You can hear this clearly in Sirena’s performance of La Lusignola by Tarquinio Merula.

Fingerings and pitch

Most mass produced modern recorders are played with a pretty standard set of fingerings. The different bore shape of Renaissance recorders requires some variations on these fingerings. For instance, the ninth note from the bottom (middle D on a tenor recorder, or G on a treble) would have been played by covering none of the finger holes rather than using finger 2 as we would today. Handmade professional consorts of Renaissance recorders, such as those by Adrian Brown or Tom Prescott, retain these authentic fingerings. However, many of the more affordable consorts by makers such as Moeck and Mollenhauer, have been tweaked to allow the use of the more familiar modern fingerings.

Some time ago I shared a blog about the history of pitch, where we discovered that the standardisation of musical pitch is really quite a recent concept. During the Renaissance period music was generally performed at a higher pitch than we would expect today, and as a result some modern copies of old instruments are made at A=466. This is a pitch of convenience which has become internationally recognised, but it wouldn’t have been the case then. Instruments would have been crafted to match the pitch of instruments which can’t easily be adjusted, such as church organs, and pitch would probably have varied from village to village. The solution was to make recorders in matching consorts so you could make music together - undoubtedly why King Henry VIII’s inventory lists no fewer than 76 recorders!

Before you buy…

If you’re thinking about purchasing some Renaissance style instruments it’s important to consider how you’ll use them first.

Many professional ensembles commission a matching set of consort instruments from their preferred recorder maker. This creates a well matched sound and makes the tuning easier. Such instruments are often pitched at A=466 - around a semitone higher than modern concert pitch. If you only play the recorders together this is fine, but it’s probably more practical to stick with A440 if you want to have the flexibility to play with others.

The Renaissance instruments offered by the mainstream recorder brands are a good place to start if you want to dip your toes into this sound world at a more modest price point. I use Mollenhauer’s Kynseker instruments, but there are similarly priced Renaissance instruments available from Moeck and Peter Kobliczek, and it’s worth keeping a lookout for instruments for sale secondhand.

The Ganassi recorder - reality or myth?

In his 1535 treatise Opera intitulata Fontegara Sylvestro Ganassi reveals his discovery of a further octave of notes above those normally played on the recorder. He shares fingering charts for these additional high notes, noting adjustments which need to be made to one’s breath and articulation to achieve them.

The title page of Ganassi’s Opera intitulata Fontegara, featuring a consort of recorder players.

One thing Ganassi doesn’t include is a detailed description of the type of recorder required to play these notes. In the 1970s unsuccessful efforts were made to locate an original recorder capable of playing with his fingerings. In the absence of such an instrument, several contemporary makers, such as Fred Morgan, Alec Loretto and Bob Marvin, created their own designs to fill this gap. Externally they were modelled on pictures from La Fontegara, but much experimentation was needed to find the appropriate bore shape and level of flare at the bell to work with Ganassi’s fingerings. Ultimately the ‘Ganassi’ recorder is a modern creation, but still much loved by players today. I have a Von Huene Ganassi descant myself and love its rich tone, full low notes and the ease with which it plays the higher notes.

Baroque recorders - a change of purpose

The concept of the recorder as a consort instrument became less pervasive as time passed. There’s a small handful of pieces composed specifically for recorder consort (the Schmelzer Sonata à 7 is probably the most familiar) but in general the instrument took on a new musical role. As composers began to include the recorder in chamber music with other instruments and as the solo line in concertos a new sound and style was needed.

Whereas the Renaissance consort used the different sizes of recorder equally, during the Baroque the treble became the most popular size of instrument. The other recorders didn’t entirely fall out of use, but it was the treble that Bach, Telemann and Handel chose to use in their solo sonatas, cantatas, chamber music and concertos in combination with many other instruments. For instance, Bach’s Brandenburg Concerto No.2 has four soloists, playing recorder, oboe, violin and trumpet.

Baroque elegance

At first glance the biggest change to the Baroque recorder is its external shape. Gone is the one piece design. Almost all recorders from this period (aside from some sopraninos and descants) are made from three pieces - the headjoint, body and footjoint. Creating breaks in the instrument adds points of weakness, so makers compensated by making the wood thicker here. These bulbous points added strength, but also created an opportunity for decoration - a stylistic feature we also see in Baroque architecture and fashion. Some makers took this to extremes, using complex wood turning and ivory rings.

The iconic image from Hotteterre’s 1707 treatise on playing the recorder, flute and oboe. The recorder’s decoration is as ornate as the player’s cuffs!

Another change to the Baroque recorder is the shape of the mouthpiece - often elegantly carved to look more like a beak. This has no effect on the tone, but was no doubt more in keeping with Baroque style and elegance. This feature also brought us the French name for the instrument - flute á bec.

At the other end of the recorder, another innovation was introduced by Peter Bressan - the addition of double holes for the lowest two notes. We take such luxuries for granted today, but this simple innovation makes the lowest semitones stronger and  clearer - something that would become more important as music became more chromatic.

Many recorders have survived from the 18th century and can be seen in museums around the world. Fortunately contemporary makers have been allowed to examine these instruments and take measurements, resulting in modern copies for us to play today. Look at any recorder maker’s website and you’ll find recorders based on those by Peter Bressan, Jean-Jacques Rippert, Jacob Denner, Thomas Stanesby and others.

Inside the Baroque recorder

The Baroque recorder doesn’t just look different on the outside - the interior also changed to meet the demands of the new music. The headjoint remains almost cylindrical, but a taper is introduced through the body of the instrument, becoming most extreme at the footjoint. This taper has two purposes. From a practical point of view it allows for more comfortable placing of the fingerholes, but more importantly it greatly affects the sound of the instrument. Gone are the fruity low notes - the lowest tones are now much gentler. By way of compensation, the high notes are much stronger and easier to play - perfect for the florid passagework of Bach and his contemporaries. The Baroque recorder has a larger range too - at least two octaves and a note, but some composers (particularly Telemann) went further still, expecting players to reach the giddy heights of top C on the treble from time to time!

Mimicking the human voice

While recorders in C and F were the most common, a handful of other variations exist too. One of these is the Voice Flute - a recorder which sits between the treble and tenor, whose lowest note is D. The voice flute probably originated in the court of King Louis XIV of France, in Lully’s orchestra. It allowed recorder players to play music originally intended for the flute at the correct pitch. Of course its range, from the D above middle C also mimics that of the female human voice and this is likely to be the origin of its name.

It was commonplace during the Baroque to transpose flute music a minor third higher to place it within reach of the treble recorder. But this makes the music sound brighter and loses some of the mellower tonal qualities of the transverse flute. The voice flute, with its lower pitch, retains some of this character, while also being as agile as the treble recorder. Several original voice flutes survive today and modern copies based upon instruments by Bressan, Rippert and Stanesby are available for those who wish to explore this lovely sound world.

Other curiosities

Smaller recorders became less common during the Baroque period, but a handful of wonderful works exist for the higher instruments. Vivaldi composed three concertos for the ‘flautino’ or sopranino, although his scores also indicate that the music can be played a fourth lower on the descant.

The descant recorder and its close relatives also largely fell out of fashion at this time, although a handful of composers persisted with it in England. The names of such recorders often described their relationship to the treble recorder. Therefore the descant was a fifth flute because it’s pitched a fifth above the treble. It’s this recorder for which Giuseppe Sammartini, an Italian oboist working in London, composed his delightful concerto.

Alongside the descant there are two other variants. The fourth flute was pitched in B flat, a fourth above the treble and sounds rather mellower than the modern descant. It’s something of an anomaly, but two lovely suites by Dieupart survive for this instrument.

A more common small recorder (at least in England) was the sixth flute, sounding a sixth above the treble, and an octave above the voice flute. Three composers, William Babell, Robert Woodcock and John Baston, chose this as their instrument of choice for their charming concertos. These were almost certainly composed to be played between the acts of operas in London and the high pitch would no doubt have commanded the audience’s attention.

Should you invest in different types of recorder?

The decision of buy different types of recorders is a very personal one. If your playing comes as part of a massed ensemble, such as an SRP branch, a Baroque style recorder may suit your needs just fine.

On the other hand, if you play lots of Renaissance music, especially in smaller consorts, using historically appropriate instruments may help you get closer to the sound world of the period. Renaissance recorders require a different style of playing, from breath control to articulation, and can help you understand the music better. During my first year at music college our department invested in a double consort of Mollenhauer Kynseker recorders. We immediately noticed the difference. Suddenly we could use the appropriate articulation to bring out the cross rhythms and it was much easier to create sweetly tuned chords. Even when recording my consort videos now, I always use my Kynseker recorders for Renaissance repertoire and I hope perhaps you can hear some of these differences in the tone, style and articulation.

Ultimately your choice may come down to budget - after all, none of us have bottomless pockets. If this is the case and you have no plans to buy more recorders, I would still encourage you to at least try them when you have an opportunity - perhaps at an early music festival or during a recorder course where there’s an in house recorder shop. Trying a Renaissance recorder or voice flute for even a few minutes will give you a glimpse into these different sound worlds and a greater understanding of how the instruments we play can change the way we play the music written for them.

Strictly come dancing - Renaissance style

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Do you dance? I have to confess I’m not a dancer myself, but that doesn’t stop me enjoying Strictly Come Dancing when it reappears on the television each autumn. Of course, I still encounter lots of dance music through my playing and I’m sure you do too, regardless of whether you have two left feet.

Knowing a little about the dance music we play is important as it helps us understand the character and style of each one. Initially I intended to cover both Renaissance and Baroque dances in this edition of the Score Lines blog, but it quickly became clear it was in danger of becoming overwhelmingly long! Instead I’m going to concentrate today on Renaissance dances and return to the Baroque period in a subsequent post. As you’ll see then, some of the dances simply evolved, but the Baroque also features some distinct dance forms of its own.

Where to begin?

When it comes to Renaissance dances an excellent starting point is Orchesographie. This is a treatise written by the French cleric Jehan Tabourot under the pseudonym Thoinot Arbeau - an anagram of his real name. Published in 1589, it describes the dances through a conversation between Arbeau and his student, named Capriol.

If that name seems familiar, you’ve no doubt encountered it through Peter Warlock’s Capriol Suite. This is a collection of six dances, composed for piano duet in 1926, where Warlock takes melodies from Orchesographie and creates his own music from them. It’s since been arranged for many different ensembles, include strings, symphony orchestra and for recorders too.

Orchesographie includes no fewer than 47 dance choreographies, including the dances I’ll talk about today. He includes history of the dances, advice about the behaviour of those dancing them, along with woodcut images and tablature illustrating the steps. This invaluable treatise is still available today, both as a facsimile of the original (you can download it free from IMSLP here) and in an English translation, published by Dover Books.

Let’s now take a look at the Renaissance dances you may meet while playing the recorder. We’ll explore the background to each one (including alternatives names used for many of them), the style of dance and some examples of each.

Pavan

Pavane, pavana, padovana, paduana

One of the Pavans from Orchesographie - click to see enlarged.

The Pavan (along with the galliard) is perhaps the most familiar dance from this period. The earliest known example was published in Joan Ambrosio Dalza’s Intabolatura de lauto libro quarto in Venice in 1508. It gradually grew in popularity, peaking in the mid 1500s and dying out by the end of the 16th century. However, its popularity as a form of music continued well beyond that and there are many examples from more recent composers such as Fauré and Ravel.

The Pavan is a stately dance in two time, for many couples in a procession, slowly circling the ballroom. The choreography is quite simple, with backward and forward steps and moments where the couples rise on the balls of their feet and sway from side to side. The steps can also be ornamented if the dancers desire. Arbeau describes it as an opportunity for the them to display their elegant attire.

Dances often come in pairs (this is equally true in the Baroque period) and the Pavan is often followed by a Galliard (of which we will learn more shortly) as you can see in the following example.

Holborne Pavan & Galliard

Perhaps the most famous Pavan is John Dowland’s Lachrimae, his signature tune, to which he later added lyrics to create the lute song Flow My Tears.

Dowland Lachrimae Antiquae - Jordi Savall & Hespèrion XXI

Galliard

Gaillarde, gagliarda

Often paired with a pavan, the Galliard is a livelier dance, in three time, popular throughout 16th century Europe. It’s a carefully choreographed dances, where the dancer hops on one foot while making a flick of the other foot, as if to kick someone, interspersed with bigger leaps.

While the dance is quick, the music must be slow enough to accommodate all these detailed steps. Arbeau notes that the music will need to be slower when playing for big men as they will take longer to execute these steps than a man of smaller stature. He also urges dancers to control their movements so the ladies don’t show their knees and to take care not to kick one’s partner!

The Galliard was reportedly one of Queen Elizabeth I’s preferred dances, despite its vigorous nature. In 1589, when the Queen was already in her mid-fifties, John Stanhope of the Privy Chamber reported,

“the Queen is so well as I assure you, six or seven galliards in a morning, besides music and singing, is her ordinary exercise.”

Byrd Galliard a 6 - Fretwork

Almain

Almand, allemande, allemanda, alman

The Almain is a livelier dance than the Pavan but not wildly energetic. The music has two beats per bar and Arbeau describes the dancers as processing hand in hand in pairs, walking for three steps and then balancing on one foot. Later versions of the dance used three springing steps and a hop. Over time the Renaissance Almain developed into the Baroque Allemande which we’ll look at in part two of this series.

Ferrabosco Almain in D - English Cornett & Sackbut Ensemble

Coranto

Courante, corrente, corant

The Coranto is a brisk dance whose title derives from the Italian word to run. Arbeau describes it as having fast running and jumping steps, although curiously he also describes it as being played in two time, when most music of this title has three beats per bar! The dance continued its evolution, becoming the Courante during the Baroque period.

Byrd Coranto - Buffalo Guitar Quartet

Towards the end of his 1599 collection of dances Antony Holborne includes a number of Corantos. Perhaps the most famous is The Fairie Round, which perpetually shifts between 3/2 and 6/4 rhythms, although these changes often happen independently in different parts. This offers many challenges for the musicians playing it and I can’t help wondering whether he intended the music to be used with dancers. The myriad of cross rhythms would certainly make their life exciting too!

Holborne The Fairie Round - David Munrow & Early Music Consort of London

La Volta

Volta, volte

An example of Arbeau’s choreography notation for La Volta - click to see enlarged

This was reportedly another of Queen Elizabeth I’s favourite dances, although it was considered to be somewhat vulgar by many. Like the Galliard, it has a brisk three beats in each bar and is danced with hopping and jumping steps. But the risqué element comes when the man lifts his partner, holding her corset, while turning - tame compared to today’s ballroom dances but no doubt quite shocking for the 16th century!

Byrd La Volta - The Academy of Ancient Music

Branle

Bransle, brawl

The Branle is another brisk dance, this time in two. The name comes from the French word branler which means ‘to sway or shake’ and this is reflected in the sideways, swaying steps. As with so many historic dances, the Branle was danced differently depending on where you were in Europe. It has many varieties, including a number named after different regions of France. Arbeau gives choreography for no fewer than eight different varieties of Branle!

Branle de Bourgogne - Bavarian Brass

As an additional example this one rather tickled me - the Washerwoman’s Branle, performed in a launderette!

Basse dance

The Basse dance, or low dance, was a popular court dance in the 15th and 16th centuries. Its name reflects its choreography, where the dancers’ feet glide gracefully, barely leaving the floor. Like the Galliard, it’s in triple time, but often played at a more measured pace. Another similarity to the Galliard comes with its use of hemiolas, where two bars of three are grouped to feel like three bars of two.

If you’re familiar with Warlock’s Capriol Suite you’ll recognise this example which features the melody used in Orchesographie.

Arbeau Basse Dance - Praetorius Ensemble & Christopher Ball

Basse Danza Lauro

That completes our quickstep through the dances of the Renaissance period. It’s been fascinating to explore the different dance types and to see their choreography and if that has whetted your appetite to learn more there are endless videos available on YouTube. I’ll return to this topic again in a few weeks time with a look at dances from the Baroque period. Here we’ll encounter some familiar dance names, albeit with choreography which has evolved along with the music.

A brief history of tempo

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We all wrestle with the concept of tempo from time to time. Does a given piece of music need to be fast or slow? Are we capturing the speed and character the composer had in mind when they wrote it? Where did the markings we see on our music come from and how should be interpret them?

What is tempo?

Fundamentally, tempo is the speed at which music is played. Every piece of music has an internal pulse holding it together – think of it like your own heartbeat. Sometimes a slow pulse is best (your resting heart rate while you’re sitting still, relaxing); at other times a quick pulse creates a sense of drive and excitement (just as your heart rate rises when you become more active).

So how do we know which speed of pulse is appropriate for any piece of music? Some composers are very explicit in their instructions, but often you need a little knowledge of musical history or be willing to do some detective work. Notation has changed a lot over the centuries, so an appropriate speed for the music of one period will be completely unsuited to repertoire from a different era.

Let’s take a look at how tempo has been notated through history and consider what this means for our own playing.

The Renaissance 

Introducing the Tactus

Without time signatures and barlines, the earliest forms of music used a different  type of pulse to that indicated by a modern conductor. The rhythmic focus in Renaissance music was called the tactus - a unit of time indicated by the raising and lowering of the hand (to help the musicians keep good ensemble) and music began with a mensuration sign. This indicated how the tactus would be split, be it into two or three subdivisions. This tactus may have generally been close to the resting heart rate (a speed of which all humans have an awareness) perhaps 60 - 70 beats per minute, but historic sources aren’t consistent on this subject. Each tactus indicated the main beat (often a semibreve) which would be divided into either two or three minims, depending on the mensuration sign.

This is why much renaissance music is written in minim beats. To our modern eyes it often looks slower than other music, but to Renaissance eyes the type of notation helped indicate the tempo. As music became more complex the number of note values expanded to include smaller notes (our crotchets and quavers) to allow for faster music, but the tactus fundamentally remained the same. If you’re interested in learning more about the tactus and how it was used this video explains it very well:

So where does this leave us when we have to select a tempo for Renaissance music? The historic sources we can refer to are conflicting, so it often comes down to common sense and our own musicality. Here are some tips to help you:

Context

Look at the music and observe the types of note values it contains. Is it mostly semibreves and minims? If so, a semibreve pulse may be appropriate. On the other hand, if the music breaks down into smaller note values (crotchets and quavers) perhaps a minim pulse would be better. 

Some music editors (particularly in older editions) try to be ‘helpful’ by halving the note values, turning minims into crotchets and so forth. For musicians who aren’t used to feeling a minim pulse this may be helpful, but the downside is the entire piece looks faster. Where once you had quavers you now have semiquavers. To inexperienced musicians that can look scarily fast, causing then to choose a pulse which is too slow to compensate. I know many musicians find counting in minim beats tricky, but it’s a skill you should persevere with learning because it opens up a vast array of music to you. Of course, if you ever choose to play from facsimiles of Renaissance publications reading minim (or even semibreve) beats is a must.

Below we have the same Byrd Fantasia in two different editions, The first uses Byrd’s own note values, while the second halves the note values to try and make it easier to read. Of course, this process also makes the music look quicker!

Vocal music

Do consider the text in the music you’re playing. Is it a cheery madrigal which demands a lively approach? Or perhaps it’s a melancholic love song where a slower tactus might be more appropriate? If you don’t speak the language used in the lyrics, set aside some time to Google the composer and title of the piece and find out what it’s all about. 

Dance music

Here we have more clues to work with - the type of dance. A Pavan is a stately dance (although not necessarily very slow), while the Galliard is livelier, requiring the dancers to hop and leap in the air. I’m planning a future blog post looking at the different dance styles, but in the meantime the internet can once again be your friend. Most dances have a page on Wikipedia where you can learn more about the style and typical dance steps. This knowledge should inform your choice of tempo.

Switching between duple and triple time

Renaissance music often shifts between two and three time, but how do you know what to do with the tactus when this happens? 

Look at many modern editions of Renaissance repertoire and you’ll often see a marking suggesting the length of the triple time bars should be equal to half a bar of the preceding time signature. This often creates a satisfying mathematical connection between the sections. If you refer back to treatises from the period you’ll find some recommend exactly this approach, while others advise making the whole bar length equal in both duple and triple time. One would hope there might be a clear notational way of showing which is correct in any given piece, but you’d be disappointed! This is one area where there was no notational consistency so my advice would be to try both and see which feels right to you. Sometimes the pragmatic approach is best…

Gabrieli Canzon Primi Toni, with an editorial suggestion regarding tempo relations at bar 44.

The Baroque

By the time we reach the Baroque period composers began adopting time signatures and bar lines consistently (there is inevitably an overlap with both being used around 1600), so the notation looks more familiar to our twenty first century eyes.

Use of language

Another new development was the use of language to indicate the tempo. Italian is the most common choice, but composers of other nationalities sometimes used their own language. It’s worth remembering that the Italian musical terms we’re familiar with today didn’t necessarily have the same meaning in the 17th and 18th centuries. For instance, in Romantic music Vivace is often interpreted as very fast, but for Baroque music it tends to imply a lively tempo - somewhere between quick and slow. 

The concept of a unifying pulse hadn’t entirely disappeared and the term Tempo ordinario (often used by Handel) may well relate to a human’s normal walking pace. Other words used to describe tempo are intended to direct us to a speed relative to this consistent tactus, be it faster or slower.

Italian is not the only way…

Italian may have been the most common language for tempo indications, but it wasn’t universal. Many French composers used their own language and some of their terms are more expressive than their Italian counterparts - for instance Doucement (sweetly) and Gracieusement (graciously - as in the example by Hotteterre below).

Henry Purcell used Italian words in many of his works, but sometimes he used straightforward English words like Brisk and Slow, leaving the musician to figure out just how fast or slow that should be. In many of his Fantasias you’ll also find the word Drag written in places where he wishes to slow the tempo.

The influence of a time signature

Another way Baroque composers indicated the speed of a piece was through their choice of time signature. Explore the recorder sonatas of Telemann, for instance, and you’ll see that slow music is more likely to have a time signature where the lower number is a 2 - indicating a slow minim pulse. In contrast, music with a time signature where the lower number is 8 is generally played quickly. He uses both in his Recorder Sonata in C in exactly this way.

Telemann Sonata in C, 3rd movement

Telemann Sonata in C, 4th movement

Dance music

Dance forms were just as popular as during the Renaissance, although the dance types inevitably evolved over time. Here again, a little knowledge about the dance types should inform your understanding of the appropriate tempo, but bear in mind the composer may not have actually expected anyone to actually dance to the music if it appears as part of a sonata or concerto.

I saw a practical example of this many years ago at a competitive music festival where one of the set pieces was a Sonata in A minor by Schickhardt. The second movement is marked Allemanda and most of the competitors chose to play it at a swift tempo. This gave the music a breathless feel and many of the youngsters struggled with the semiquaver passagework. To illustrate a more appropriate tempo the adjudicator, Evelyn Nallen, got everyone on their feet and had us all dancing an Allemande together. The dance steps fall on the quavers beats so when we related this back to the Sonata, the music suddenly felt much more poised and playable. I think everyone there that day learnt an important lesson! 

Schickhardt Sonata in A minor, 2nd movement

Harmonic tempo

In Baroque music one of the most important musical elements is the bassline. So much of the period’s music is led by the harmony, so if you only look at your own part you risk missing out on some crucial musical clues.  

Take this Telemann Recorder Sonata, for instance, whose Cantabile marking suggests a singing style more than a tempo. Many players, when reading just the solo line, will select a very slow tempo, feeling a quaver beat, to make the faster notes easier. Now check the bassline and what do you notice? The majority of the harmonic movement falls in crotchet beats. Feeling a quaver beat means each bass note is very slow and it becomes almost impossible to retain a sense of pulse and movement in the continuo line. Instead, choosing a slow crotchet pulse (perhaps 54 beats per minute) allows the bassline to flow more easily, while the faster moving recorder part can still sing without being manically busy. 

Telemann Sonata in C, 1st movement

This is just one example, but you’d be wise to consider all the musical elements before selecting your tempo. Harmonic tempo is a tool composers use in different ways to influence our understanding of the music. As we learnt when we explored the subject of hemiolas, these were often used as a means of speeding up the rate of harmonic change to flag up the ends of phrases. If you missed it, you’ll find that blog post here.

The Classical and Romantic

Beyond the Baroque, the recorder lost popularity and was largely ignored as a musical instrument until the early years of the 20th century. However, it’s worth taking a look at music of this period as it directly influences tempo markings in today’s repertoire.

Beethoven Symphony No.9

Perhaps the biggest development was the invention of the metronome by Johann Maelzel in 1815. This allowed composers complete clarity in their speed markings. One of the earliest adopters as Ludwig van Beethoven, whose first use of a metronome speed came in 1815 in his Cantata Calm Sea and Prosperous Voyage, Op.112. Beethoven’s fast tempi have inspired much debate over the years as to whether a disagreement between him and Maelzel resulted in the metronome’s inventor providing him with a faulty one. However, we also know from Beethoven’s own correspondence that he regularly had his metronome calibrated so it’s like he really did intend his fast speeds. 

If you’re intending to play a piece which has a metronome mark I would treat that as something to aim for, but don’t be disheartened if the indicated speed is beyond you at first. If you have to opt for a more cautious speed initially and work up to it that’s absolutely fine. A musical performance which gets close to the composer’s metronome speed is always preferable to a scrappy, panic stricken interpretation which adheres slavishly to the marked tempo! 

One trap I often see students falling into is when they look at the tempo markings which appear on many metronomes. For instance, yours might suggest that a marking of Allegro should be played somewhere between 120 and 168 beats per minute. Do remember the correct speed can vary enormously and the best pulse will depend on the type of rhythms and the notation. In my experience I’ve almost always found the markings on my metronome to be distinctly unhelpful and bearing no relation to the music I’m attempting to play, so I generally ignore them and follow my musical instincts instead! 

Expressive use of language

Of course a metronome mark is only one part of the equation when it comes to showing a composer’s musical intentions. Speed is one thing, but as Romantic music became ever more expressive it was often necessary to give further information. Composers often augment their tempo words with additional terms to add a greater sense of expression. One of my favourites is Brahm’s instruction in his second Clarinet Sonata which marks the first movement as Allegro amabile - lively and friendly!

Brahms Clarinet Sonata Op.120 No.2

Some composers take these additional markings to extremes. In his 9th Symphony Gustav Mahler marks the second movement as Im Tempo eines gemächlichen Ländlers, etwas täppisch und sehr derb. If your German is as minimal as mine and you’re wondering what on earth that means, he intended it to be played as a slowish folkdance (like a Ländler), with some awkwardness and much vulgarity! 

Tempo today

That brings us to music from the 20th and 21st centuries where, one could argue, we have the best of all worlds. With metronome marks and the ability to translate any language easily with modern technology, composers can typeset their music with ultimate clarity. 

Paired with all the other possible expression marks (dynamics, phrasing, articulation etc) it’s easy to wonder how much autonomy we actually have as performers when composers specify so much detail. Should we ever deviate from those markings in the process of creating our own performance? Don’t forget we still have control over many aspects of our music making, including how flexible we are with the tempo - those little nuances of rubato which are unique to each of us. And some composers are still remarkably flexible about their creations. One composer I’ve worked with many times is very practical with her music and is often open to tweaks which might lead to a more fluid performance. 

A composer’s prerogative to change their mind

Of course, composers can sometimes change their minds about what they’ve written. One example of this can be found in Rachmaninov’s Piano Concerto No.2. As well as being a composer, Rachmaninov was a superb performer and conductor and recorded this piece twice with Leopold Stokowski and the Philadelphia Orchestra in 1924 and 1929. In his own performances you’ll find subtle changes to the tempi, notably accelerandi, which aren’t notated in the score. He also chose to shape the second musical theme in a way which isn’t shown in the score.

You could argue these are spontaneous and unimportant changes, especially as there was no way for recordings to be edited at the time. However, Rachmaninov also worked on the piece with Willem Mengelberg and the Concertgebouw Orchestra over a decade earlier and the conductor’s impeccably annotated scores concur with these changes.

These recordings are a fascinating glimpse into the mind of Rachmaninov the composer and performer and at least show us that no piece of music can be a rigid and unchanging entity. If only we had the chance to time travel in the same way and find out how composer/performers of earlier periods interpreted their own music!

So where does this leave us when we have to make our own decisions about the music we play? Ultimately I think we have to be practical and pragmatic. Yes, we should observe any instructions left by the composer, and if there are none we must be willing to find out what was expected via historical sources and online resources. Sometimes though decisions have to be made which allow us to create a musical performance. 

There will be times when our own technical limitations stop us following a composer’s intentions to the letter. Does that mean we shouldn’t attempt to play that piece of music? I would argue absolutely not! The majority of musicians in the world are hobbyists, playing for their own enjoyment. Holding back from even trying a piece of music potentially deprives us of the opportunity to explore new music. Sometimes you need to have a go, even if that means playing the music slower or faster than the composer intended, knowing you’ll gain something from the experience, regardless of whether we’re ultimately capable of honing the notes to performance standard. Yes, do research the piece so you know what you should be doing, and then throw caution to the wind and enjoy the moment as a true amateur - someone who plays for the sheer love of music!

The Bassanos - a dynasty of recorder makers, players and composers

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We take it for granted that we can learn more about performers, composers and instrument makers today - almost anything we could wish to know can be found via the internet. Go back 150 years and even then the most famous performers often became well known beyond their home countries, thanks to newspapers and the advent of recording techniques. But once you look back further things become hazier. International travel was less common and musicians’ fame tended to be more localised, with a few notable exceptions.

In the early 16th century an Italian family of musicians made their mark in England and much of what we know about them is because they were employed by one of our most notorious monarchs - King Henry VIII. It’s difficult to imagine the impact the Bassano family must have had on musical life in the English court, but their influence continued for nearly two centuries. No fewer than seventeen members of the Bassano family worked in the English court as musicians during the 16th and 17th centuries and even today their descendants continue working in the performing arts.

Let’s start by looking back to where it all began, in Italy….

In 1502 Jeronimo Piva and his son Jacob were employed by the council of Bassano, a town around forty miles from Venice, to maintain the town’s organs, with the perk that they didn’t have to pay tax on this income. Jeronimo was already making instruments and has been credited with the invention of the pifaro, probably a type of curtal - the bassoon’s ancestor. His instruments were highly thought of and the Bassano maker’s mark was one which indicated an instrument of high quality. It’s believed that Jeronimo was the first in his family to follow this route, but it remains a mystery as to where he learnt his skills.

The Bassano family, © Victoria and Albert Museum, London

Building the family name and the move to England

Jeronimo had six sons who were musicians and instrument makers. Four of the brothers visited England in 1531 and an entry in Henry VIII’s Privy Purse Expenses records a payment to the Bassano brothers who had played in his sackbut consort.

After a return to Italy five of the brothers finally emigrated to England and in 1540 Henry VIII granted places to “Alvixus, John, Anthony, Jasper and Baptista de Basani, brothers in the science or art of music”. It wasn’t unusual for musicians to incorporate the place they lived into their name and the Bassano name certainly became a useful trademark for them over the centuries.

It’s possible that Henry VIII’s sixth and final wife, Catherine Parr, may have had an indirect influence in bringing the family to the court. Her brother William, Lord Parr, was passionate about music and had enough influence in court to bring the Bassanos to England. When his sister married the King in 1543 she became their patron. Following the King’s death Catherine subsequently lived with her second husband near the Bassanos in Charterhouse Square.

One of the ways Henry tempted the Bassanos to return to a England was by offering appealing accommodation. They lived in the former monks’ quarters in the now dissolved Charterhouse monastery, rent free. This would have been an attractive place to live, with its own clean water supply, sewage system, laundry and brewery. Charterhouse was located just to the north west of the City so the brothers wouldn’t have had to endure the cramped and unsanitary conditions which existed within the City walls. Each brother was allocated a cell as their personal living space and Alvise converted another of the buildings for his working space to make instruments.

The location of Charterhouse in relation to the City.

The Bassanos remained at Charterhouse until 1552, when Sir Edward North took ownership of the old priory and wished to convert it to a suitably imposing mansion. After harassment from North they finally moved to new living quarters in Mark Lane, near the Tower of London. amid London’s Italian community.

Instrument makers to the King

One of the Bassanos’ main roles in England was as instrument makers. Their creations were much prized and they sold widely beyond England.

‘Instruments so beautiful and good that they are suited for dignitaries and other potentates.’ - Johann Jakob Fugger, artistic advisor and superintendent of music at the Bavarian Court.

An inventory of music at the Bavarian court from 1571 lists no fewer than 45 wind instruments with the Bassano mark, including 10 cornetti, 12 crumhorns and 9 recorders. Their instruments are also documented elsewhere in Europe, including Brussels, Paris, Leipzig, Nuremberg, Rome, Vienna and Salamanca. One of their instruments was even recovered from the wreck of the Mary Rose, which sank in 1545. Charterhouse Square was home to the French and Spanish ambassadors and other members of the Tudor elite at this time so they no doubt had a ready market for instruments of such quality beyond the royal court.

Examples of the marks which appear on the Bassano’s instruments

Research by recorder maker Friedrich von Huene in 1974 revealed that the Bassanos’ mark, similar to the shape of a rabbit’s foot, survives today on a huge number of instruments - specifically, 48 cornetti, 6 crumhorns, 8 curtals, 7 flutes, 45 recorders and 7 shawms

When Henry VIII died in 1547 an inventory was made of his musical instruments, which included cornetti, crumhorns, dulceuses, fifes, flutes, recorders, shawms and a tabor pipe, at least some of which would have been made by the Bassanos. The inventory mentions a collection of some 76 recorders. The only ones to be specifically named are four basses and a great bass, but it would be logical to assume they were made in consorts. Pitch wasn’t standardised at the time so having matched consorts would allow Henry to invite others to join him to play. Perhaps he kept a consort of instruments at each of his Royal palaces to avoid the need to transport them around?

Ultimately the Bassanos became some of the most important European instrument makers in the 16th and 17th centuries - quite an achievement from Jeronimo’s early steps in Venice. In England the golden era for the family’s instrument making appears to rest with the first generation, as only Arthur and Anthony II from the 2nd and 3rd generations respectively are known to have made instruments. 

The court recorder consort

One of the jobs Henry VIII granted the Bassano brothers in 1540 was the foundation of a court recorder consort. This was an ensemble of six players, five of whom were members of the Bassano family. It existed continuously from then until around 1630, after which the players were absorbed into the general group of wind players.

Although the recorder consort would have formed much of their work, the Bassanos almost certainly played all of the instruments they made too - cornett, crumnhorn, flute, lute, recorders, shawm, viol and sackbut. They may have been primarily employed as recorder players but they were likely to have been called upon to deputise for others from time to time as well. 

During his reign, Henry VIII greatly expanded the range of court music, with consorts of cornetti, sackbuts, viols and violins, as well as the recorders. He was a keen recorder player himself and it’s known that between 1542 and 1545 a case of walnut recorders was signed out for the King’s personal use. 

No doubt Henry already had people at court who could play the recorder, but he leapt at the chance to form a consort who specialised on the instrument and the Bassanos were unique in being described as ‘musicians’, as opposed to other less senior employees who were classed as minstrels, flutes or viols. 

The consort continued to flourish beyond the reign of Henry VIII. No fewer than seven recorder players received liveries for the funeral of Queen Elizabeth I in 1603, five of them from later generations of the Bassano family. There’s little written evidence of exactly what the consort’s duties were, but no doubt there were many calls upon them. They may have been required to provide music for the monarch’s entertainment, as well as a presence at major events such as royal weddings or the arrival of foreign dignitaries.

Life as a court musician

Pay for musicians in the Royal court was very varied. The London Waits were paid just £11 a year, but in comparison the Bassanos were handsomely rewarded because of their special skills as both players and instrument makers. Alvise is recorded as having been paid £50 a year, although wages were often paid late. By 1635 King Charles I was six months in arrears paying his musicians!

During Henry VIII’s reign musicians also received clothes or material (known as a livery) from the Great Wardrobe. The King’s Great Wardrobe, near Blackfriars in the City of London, housed the royal stores and ceremonial robes. The building was destroyed in the great fire of 1666, but a nearby church, St Andrew’s by the Wardrobe, is a reminder to this day of its existence.

By the reign of Elizebeth I practices had changed and musicians instead received money in lieu of livery, with an allowance of sixteen pounds, two shillings and sixpence paid per annum. Extra allowances were offered to cover the cost of the clothes needed for monarchs’ coronations and funerals. In 1547, for the funeral of Henry VIII, Alvise, John, Anthony, Jasper and Baptista received a suitable regal combination of seven yards of damask crimson, two yards of velvet crimson and five years of satin crimson cloth. One can only imagine how splendid they must have looked in such riches! 

One final task for some members of the Bassano family was that of composing. No doubt many of them wrote music but today fewer than twenty pieces survive from the 16th century, composed by Augustine and Jeronimo.

Later generations of the Bassanos

The Bassano family continued along dual paths, with some family members continuing to work in Venice. The English branch of the family certainly flourished and seven members of the first generation also served in the court recorder consort. Other descendants continued to serve in the sackbut, flute and viol consorts until 1665.

Beyond 1665 the Bassanos may no longer have worked as court musicians, but their musical activities and interests continued to the present day. Christopher and Richard Bassano (great gandsons of Anthony II) both sang as Vicars Choral at Lichfield Cathedral in the 18th century and Christopher’s Six Select Anthems were published in 1770. Louisa Bassano sang in the first performance of Mendelssohn’s oratorio Elijah in 1846. Then early in the 20th century George Henry Bassano, great-great nephew of Richard owned a factory in Derby manufacturing wind up gramophones which he called Bassanophones.

Moving on to the modern day, the artistic connections continue. One branch of the family by marriage (the Laniers) emigrated to Virginia in the 1650s and their family tree includes both Tennessee Williams and Quincy Jones! Here in England, Peter Bassano, a descendant of Anthony (one of the first generation of brothers who moved here in 1540) is a musician too. He was a trombonist with the Philharmonia Orchestra for 27 years and more recently has worked as a conductor with both modern and historical performance groups.

The musical genes in this notable family are evidently strong and let’s hope they continue to be part of British musical life for many years a to come!