Munich Opera Festival (1) - Borgioni/Monteverdi Continuo Ensemble/Heumann - La Morte d'Orfeo, 28 June 2026

Prinzregententheater

Excerpts from:

Stefano Landi: La Morte d’Orfeo
Monteverdi: L’Orfeo
Giovanni Maria Trabaci: Durezze et ligature
Jacopo Peri: Euridice
Luigi Rossi: Orfeo

Interspersed with:

Lorenzo Allegri: Primo Ballo della Notte d’Amore
Monteverdi: Seventh Book of Madrigals: ‘Tempro la cetra’
Biagio Marini: Per ogni sorte di strumento musicale, op.22 no.21: Sonata sopra ‘Fuggi dolente core’
Alessando Piccinini: Intavolaturo di liuto: Toccata
Sigismondo d’India: Le Musiche: ‘Cara mia cetra’
Andrea Falconiero: Il primo libro delle canzone: ‘Battaglia de Barabaso yerno de Satanas’
Giovanni Legrenzi: La Cetra: Sonata
Monteverdi: L’incoronazione di Poppea: ‘Oblivion soave’

Mauro Borgioni (baritone)
Monteverdi Continuo Ensemble
Friederike Heumann (concept, director, viola and lira de gamba)

 

Founded to enable ‘historically informed’ performances of the three surviving operas of Monteverdi, Munich’s Monteverdi Continuo Ensemble both celebrated its thirtieth anniversary and commemorated the life of one of its founding members, lutenist Fred Jacobs, in a ‘Baroque concert’ contribution to the city’s annual Opera Festival. Gambist Friederike Heumann devised a programme around the idea of the death of Orpheus, in a sense creating a small(ish) concert opera in two acts, rejecting the happy end of so many retellings and exploring not only death but above all the power of music, through assembled texts revealing four protagonists: Orpheus, his lyre (in turn variously represented by harp, lira de gamba, and chitarrone), a narrator, and the ferryman Charon. 

At the heart of ‘La morte d’Orfeo’ stood excerpts from three seventeenth-century Orphic operas, by Monteverdi, Stefano Landi, and Luigi Rossi, as well as one from the oldest surviving opera of all, Jacopo Peri’s Euridice, written and first performed in 1600. It made for a fascinating evening, poised somewhere between concert and pasticcio, my only real cavil being the lack of titles to enable closer following and comprehension of the words. Yet so vividly communicative were the performances by baritone Mauro Borgioni, who has sung Monteverdi’s Orfeo (and Ulisse) in several productions, and the ensemble as a whole that the loss was mitigated: tribute, in its way, to the power not only of music, but that of its mysterious alchemy in song and in what we have come to know as opera. 

In the beginning was an overture: well, not quite, but music that served well in its new guise, Lorenzo Allegri’s Primo Ballo della Notte d’Amore, an ersatz-Sinfonia reflecting in its gathering momentum the interchange between lands north and south of the Alps that has contributed so much to the genre—and perhaps to Allegri’s life and work too, as a composer and lutenist at the Medici court in Florence sometimes referred to as ‘Lorenzino Tedesco’. Dance, we were reminded, in body as in spirit, has informed dramma per musica from the outset. The array of music, genres, and indeed styles that proceeded to feed into the whole reminded us ‘opera’ has, from the outset and arguably from before that outset, always found itself pulled between various poles: words and music, descriptive and prescriptive (even proscriptive), text and performance, and so much else. Sigismondo d’India’s ‘older’, more madrigalian harmony, for instance, registered in such richly expressive fashion that no one could seriously draw a straight line from any point a to any other point b. Indeed, if anything the later seventeenth-music could sometimes sound conventional, even restricted, in various modes of expression compared to what came earlier: Monteverdi, of course, yet far from only him. 

Peri’s Euridice stood, probably from coincidentally, at the centrepoint of the first ‘act’, voice and chitarrone (Michael Freimuth) opening a window on the world to be joined by their musical confreres. An ensuing sinfonia from Monteverdi immediately recalled to us why we consider his Orfeo to be the first operatic masterpiece – it remains hors concours even without words – but here the rewards in understanding through so many paths to and from his work and those of Landi and Rossi  were manifold. Monteverdi’s ‘Rosa del ciel’ was heart-rending, Rossi’s later lament was more ornate, in what we have come, rightly or wrongly, to consider more ‘Baroque’ style, echoed in fuller ‘orchestral’ response. Landi’s ‘It’ al sacro consiglio’ was perhaps more generic a setting, yet still interesting to hear in such context. The ‘Battaglia’ from Andrea Falconiero’s Primo libro delle canzone gently reminded us that opera is and always has been theatre too, two of the ensemble having slipped out returning with their instruments in a dialogue that here began, if only began, to approach some of our notions of music theatre. Orpheus and his instrument having travelled to Hades, other humans and their ‘musicking’ could join in musical sympathy.

For the second, shorter ‘act’, a Rossi passacaglia proved a splendidly apt and contrasting curtain-raiser: in later, more ‘orchestral’ style, yes, but also, more importantly, in dramatic mood. Landi’s narration, ‘Volge Orfeo gli occhi’, showed his artistry to more individually expressive effect, at least to my twenty-first-century ears, than the previous excerpt from his 1619 tragicommedia pastorale; here, perhaps conditioned by what had gone before, I found his simpler writing more allied to the later century and arguably in better company. Harp (lyre) music in both halves by Giovanni Maria Trabaci soothed the soul and furthered the action. For Orpheus’s farewell, Rossi and of course Borgioni rose magnificently to the occasion; no one could have entertained any doubt about what was happening and about to happen. A trio-instrumental treatment of the lullaby ‘Oblivion soave’ from L’incoronazione di Poppea, cornetist Gebhard David’s line rocking atop and against its continuo, worked its magic in winning new guise, prior to a splendidly theatrical change of mood for Charon/Caronte’s ‘Beva, beva secure l’onda’. This was Landi in festive mode, its strophic form nicely varied in Borgioni’s ornamentation and, of course, the Ensemble’ response. 

As an encore, the thwarted happy ending returned: again, emblematic of a key theme in the history of the genre. Borgioni and the players treated us to a solo rendition of the closing ‘chorus’ of L’Orfeo, ‘Vanne Orfeo felice a pieno’. Orpheus reborn once again: where should we be without him?

Munich Opera Festival (4) - Members of the Bavarian State Orchestra: Bach, Reincken, and Telemann, 29 July 2019

Alte Pinakothek

Bach: Art of Fugue, BWV 1080: Contrapunctus I and II

Johann Adam Reincken: Hortus Musicus: Partita no.1 in A minor

Bach: Art of Fugue: Contrapunctus XII and XIIb

Telemann: Pyrmonter Kurwoche (Scherzi melodichi per divertimento di colore, che prendono le Acque minerali in Pirmonte, con Ariette semplice e facili): ‘Venerdi’, TWV 24:e4

Bach: Art of Fugue: Contrapunctus VI; Sonata in G major for viola da gamba and harpsichord, BWV 1027; Art of Fugue: Contrapunctus IX; Trio Sonata in D minor, BWV 527, arranged for two violins and basso continuo; Art of Fugue: Contrapunctus XI

Barbara Burgdorf, Corinna Desch (violins)

Christiane Arnold (viola)

Friederike Heumann (viola da gamba)

Dirk Börner (harpsichord)

There could hardly be a more delightful venue for a concert of Baroque – or any –chamber music than one of the rooms of Munich’s Alte Pinakothek. Here, under the watchful eye(s) of Rubens’s Last Judgement, we heard from members of the Bavarian State Orchestra music by Bach, Telemann, and, from the previous generation, Johann Adam Reincken.

We started with Contrapunctus I and Contrapunctus II from the Art of Fugue: two violins, viola, and viola da gamba, no harpsichord. It was a ‘period’ sound, but not aggressively so, and mercifully not entirely without vibrato. More importantly, the music flowed, Barbara Burgdorf, Corinna Desch (violins), Christiane Arnold (viola), and Friederike Heumann (gamba) permitting Bach’s counterpoint to speak – and with it, his harmony. Dynamic contrasts were nicely variegated, and the two fugues were properly distinguished, the rhythmic lilt of the second’s subject informing its course, no mere add-on. You might say, ‘it would, wouldn’t it?’ but you might be sorely surprised. The music’s complexity grew, Schoenberg-like. All of us at heart know that Bach is the greatest of all. That need only be shown, not argued.

A modulatory harpsichord improvisation, the first of several from Dirk Börner, took us to A minor for Reincken’s Partita (as would be transcribed by Bach for keyboard, in his BWV 965). The musicians’ manner – minus viola – was now freer, which perhaps make sense in less complex music. There was certainly recognition that melody and harmony were very different. The different tempi of the first movement offered winning contrast, yet also sounded consequent. Burgdorf took her solo at quite a lick, without harrying it, Heumann hers with dignity and then, moving from ‘Adagio’ to ‘Allegro’, with a fine sense of release. A reflective ‘Allemand’ and related, yet distinct ‘Courant’ followed, the ensuing ‘Saraband’ perhaps somewhat hamstrung by ‘period’ manners. Still, the closing ‘Gigue’ made for a lively and highly musical conclusion, the musicians bringing form to life. This is not, by any stretch, great music, but it was interesting and worthwhile to hear.

Returning to Bach (XII a and b), the music sounded graver, deeper than still before. Then a further improvisatory passage led us southward, to Telemann in Italianate divertimento vein, here losing one of the violins. The ‘Introduzione’ seemed also to suggest a more Classical, or at least galant, voice, arguably bringing Bach’s distinctive qualities into greater relief (at least in retrospect). Each of the short movements was well characterised, without exaggeration. The ‘Largo’ was graceful, that grace founded on a delightful change of colour (gamba pizzicato): not unlike a brief number from an opera or ballet. The closing ‘Accelerando Allegro’ did what it suggested in equally delightful fashion. Even to this relative Telemann-sceptic, here were music and music-making that did not outstay their welcome.

Following an interval stroll among the visual Old Masters, we were well fortified for the ‘Stile francese’ from the Art of Fugue, its beating heart as German as ever, whatever the stylistic casing. We heard and felt both. If only the G major sonata for gamba and harpsichord, BWV 1027, had proceeded with such distinction. Heumann offered considerable grace, but Börner’s playing tended towards the unrelenting, even in the second movement, the sewing machine. The ‘Andante’ that followed sounded so effortful as often to lose its sense, although the finale offered a degree of vigour. Balance, moreover, proved a considerable problem, at least where I was seated, harpsichord often cruelly obscuring the gamba line. Even the ensuing Contrapunctus IX was hard-driven and scratchy, although the notes, for the most part, shone through.

Another of the by now all-too-predictable improvisations took us to the Trio Sonata for organ, BWV 527, here played by two violins and continuo. It can be done – but at least on this evidence, I should much rather hear it on the organ. At any rate, greater space to breathe would have been welcome, especially in the first movement. Desch’s playing on second violin proved more often than not the most pleasing, richer toned than that of her companions. Alas, Börner on harpsichord proved all too prosaic throughout. At least he was silent for Contrapunctus XI, which emerged, not coincidentally, with greater intimacy and gravity. Bach’s darkly expressive chromaticism worked its wonders in a performance of chiaroscuro that seemed at least to aspire to match the painterly examples surrounding it. A fugal gigue by Johann Gottlieb Goldberg made for a fine surprise as encore: as focused and as evidently relished as Telemann’s ‘Venerdi’. If Bach’s fortunes proved mixed in performance, he will always remain with us. This was a concert perhaps especially noteworthy for the opportunity it afforded to hear music from some of his contemporaries.

Munich Opera Festival (4) - Lefilliâtre/Heumann/Jacobs, Music from the Court of Louis XIV, 25 July 2016

Klosterkirche St Anna im Lehel, Munich

Etienne Moulinié – Si mes soupirs sont indiscrets; Bien que l’Amour; O che gioia

Charles Hurel – Prélude
Nicolas Hotman – Allemande
Pierre Corneille – Psyché: ‘A peine je vous vois’
Michel Lambert – Ombre de mon amant; Vos mépris chaque jour
Sieur de Sainte-Colombe – Les Couplets
Sébastien le Camus – Laissez durer la nuit; Ah! Fuyons ce dangereux séjour; Amour, cruel Amour
Michel Lambert – Rochers, vous êtes sourds
Robert de Visée – Prélude; La Mascarade: Rondeau; Chaconne
Jean de La Fontaine – Fables, Livre XII, 14: ‘L’Amour et la Folie’
Charpentier – Profitez du printemps; Celle qui fait tout mon tourment; Au bord d’une fontaine; Sans frayeur dans de bois
Marin Marais – Pièces de viole, 3^ème livre: Prélude and Grand ballet
Couperin – Zéphire, modère en ces lieux

Claire Lefilliâtre (soprano)

Friederike Heumann (viola da gamba)

Fred Jacobs (theorbo)

Klosterkirche St Anna, 1727-33

In many respects, this second ‘Festspiel-Barockkonzert’  made for an intriguing pendant to the previous night’s premiere of Les Indes galantes. All of the music was earlier than Rameau’s opéra-ballet, some of that in the first half – the programme was broadly but not pedantically chronological – considerably earlier. Music from the court of Louis XIV covers, after all, a good number of years, the king having reigned between 1643 and 1715. The works by Marais and Couperin at the close were probably the latest, both dated 1711, four years before Louis's death. Rather to my surprise, although not without exception, it was the first half that proved more compelling as a performance to me. Perhaps that was partly a matter of having tired a little; although this repertory certainly interests me, I can lay no claim to great expertise. One has to listen intently to appreciate its subtleties and its variety, just as one does with, say, the music of Luigi Nono. Maybe, then, I am – perhaps unusually - more accustomed to listening to Nono.

For there was certainly variety in the programming, within its chronological and courtly framework. Its French title – ‘Au bord d’une fontaine – Airs et Brunettes’ – alluded nicely not only to one of the Charpentier works and implicitly to Versailles itself, but also to the celebrated 1721 collection of songs arranged for flute by Jacques Hotteterre, ‘Airs et brunettes a deux et trois dessus pour les flutes traversieres tirez des meilleurs autheurs, anciens et modernes, ensembles les airs de Mrs. Lambert, Lully, De Bousset, &c les plus convenables a la flute traversiere seule, ornez d'agremens par Mr. Hotteterre Ie Romain et recueillis par M. ++++.’ And so, rather than arrangements, we heard ‘originals’, mostly vocal, with Claire Lefilliâtre as soprano, but with instrumental interludes, from viola de gamba (Friederike Heumann), theorbo (Fred Jacobs), and the two instruments in concert. We also heard a couple of recitations, Lefilliâtre reading from Corneille and La Fontaine. 

What I think I missed most of all, especially during the second half, was something more outgoing in Lefilliâtre’s vocal performances. Now there is much to be gained from intimacy, which I valued greatly in the vocal music of Etienne Moulinié and Michel Lambert in particular, and not all of this music, indeed not much of it, is ‘operatic’, whether in a seventeenth- or a more modern sense. By the same token, however, there were times when, despite trying to listen as I could, I missed a greater sense of variation both within and between pieces.

The Italianate style of some of the first-half performances – more than once, I thought of Cavalli – initially surprised me, until I reflected on Cavalli’s own Ercole armante, commissioned by Mazarin for the 1662 wedding of Louis to Marie-Thérèse. As the harpsichordist Luke Green reminded me afterwards, the roots go back further, however: to the influence of Marie de Medici. Such tendencies are not absent, of course, even in Charpentier and Couperin; not only did I miss them being brought to the vocal foreground more strongly, however; I missed much of what made those composers different, more modern. Their music looks forward to Rameau as well as back to the earlier years of Louis’s reign. A further oddity was the inconsistency in Lefilliâtre’s ‘historical’ pronunciation, whether in the declamatory Corneille or the vocal items. I have no particularly strong feelings either way about the practice as such, whether in my own language or another, but it was unclear to me why some word endings should be pronounced and others not. Details matter in most music, but they certainly do here. Diction and intonation could sometimes be a little wayward too.

                                                                                                            

There was, though, a moving sincerity to Lefilliâtre’s performances at their best – enhanced for me by the warmth of the church acoustic, although others . Tales of love and death – are they not often one and the same? – drew one in. So too, very much, did not only the ‘accompaniments’ but the instrumental items. Heumann’s gamba playing proved her not only mistress of her instrument but above all a deeply sensitive musician, responding to it just as a fine pianist would to Chopin. The pieces from Marais’s Pièces de viole sounded not only as justly acclaimed summits of this still little-known (at least beyond certain circles) repertory, but as instrumental music fully fit to hold its own with more celebrated successors. Likewise Jacobs’s theorbo playing, pulse always clear, and for that reason capable of meaningful rather than arbitrary modification. I do not think I had heard the music of Robert de Visée before; it emerged in Jacobs’s hands as something clearly worthy of further exploration. And that, whatever certain reservations regarding vocal performances, is surely the point.