Lillian Gordis: French Connection

Adelaide Place, Glasgow, 29/1/26

Lillian Gordis (director & harpsichord), Matthew Truscott (violin), Rosie Bowker (transverse Baroque flute), Jonathan Manson (viola da gamba)

Glasgow’s Adelaide Place was the venue on the evening of 29th January for the first of two outings of a programme of Baroque chamber goodies with a “French Connection”, curated and guest-directed by Paris-trained (and Paris-resident) American harpsichordist Lillian Gordis, with Dunedin Consort players, leader Matthew Truscott, guest flautist Rosie Bowker and guest gambist Jonathan Manson.  The programming had an arch-like symmetry, beginning and ending with a pair of Rameau ‘Pièces de clavecin en concerts’ (1741), and peaking with a pair of contrasting Bach Trio Sonatas (one from the late 1740s, the other from the late 1720s) flanking the interval.  A third piece in each half was the very tasty filling in its sandwich: a 1695 Trio Sonata by Élisabeth Jacquet de la Guerre in the first half; one of Telemann’s 1730 first book of ‘Paris’ Quartets in the latter.  Thus, music charting the transition from Baroque to the Galant style was presented, with the emergent simplified symmetries of Galant phrase structure echoed in the very structure of the programme itself, something this reviewer found immensely satisfying.  Add the spacious airiness of the venue, its warm live acoustic, a modest but enthusiastic audience and a revelatory pre-concert talk/interview from Lillian Gordis herself, not forgetting the impressive curricula vitae of the performers) and all the elements were there for a memorable chamber recital.  Matthew played from a tablet (I was tickled by the fusion of ancient and modern); the others played from sheet music.

In Jean-Philippe Rameau’s set of 5 ‘Pièces de clavecin en concerts’, his only chamber music works, the keyboard instrument has abandoned its continuo role and has become a protagonist in the concertante conversation, anticipating Haydn’s piano trios.  We heard the first and last of the set, both 3-movement works on a brisk-slower-fast model, opening and closing the concert.  The movements are character pieces, pen-portraits of Rameau’s contemporary composers or general personality types.  Scored for trio, the treble part was variously given to the violin alone, the flute alone, and the two together. The viola da gamba part was also extremely characterful, with lots of dialogue and imitation, as well as very full and agile exploration of the compass of the instrument.  Not to detract in any way from Haydn’s status as a chamber music innovator, but these two elegantly-crafted and exquisitely-performed works were revelatory of the groundwork that pre-dated the Rococo/classical master and on which he undoubtedly built.  All very lovely, but the slow middle movement of the ‘Cinquième concert’, a melancholy arioso with the treble part on flute alone and the sweetest dialogue with the 6-string gamba and delicate ornamentation in the harpsichord part was an unforgettable highlight.

For Johann Sebastian Bach’s Trio Sonata in C major, BWV 529, which dates from the late 1720s (probably), the ‘trio’ was “originally” two hands and the pedals of an organ (the inverted commas because it is suspected that some of Bach’s Organ Sonata music was actually recycled from earlier 3-performer instrumental trios).  We heard it just after the interval, with (for the most part) the right hand in the two treble instruments, the left and pedals shared with the harpsichord and gamba as continuo.  To my ears it felt like a 3-movement double concerto, typically, richly and deliciously contrapuntal, with two brisk playful outer movements and a richly ornamented Largo central movement.  Gorgeous.

Before the interval was the beefiest work of the programme, the central 4-movement Trio Sonata from the 1747 collection, ‘A Musical Offering’, BWV 1079. In its original instrumentation for flute, violin and basso continuo (provided by harpsichord and viola da gamba), this was Bach’s response to a challenge from none other than Frederick the Great of Prussia to compose a six-voice fugue on a particularly challenging chromatic theme that the king had provided.  As the king was a passionate amateur flautist, the flute features prominently in the voicing. This is Bach luxuriating in the contrapuntal complexity and ingenuity for which he was famous: there is hardly a whiff of the Galant style.  A moody Largo is followed by an Allegro, full of complex and virtuosic imitation and imaginative modulation.  The Andante too, despite the pastoral mood, is rich in key exploration and chromaticism.  The playful cheery Allegro finale has a lilting 6/8 metre that further lifts the mood, without disguising the underlying contrapuntal rigour.  Ah, Bach.  Fabulously satisfying.  Amusing, though, that a piece written for the most Francophile of the Prussian kings, who played an instrument most readily associated with French tastes and built a summer palace modelled on Versailles and called ‘Sanssouci’ (carefree), should eschew French influence and be so resolutely Germanic in outlook.

Belonging to the generation between Lully (Italianate style wearing French couture and parfum) and Rameau (full-on Galant), a child prodigy at the court of Louis XIV, Élisabeth Jacquet de la Guerre, like François Couperin, brought a re-fusion of French and Italian tastes.  Her Trio Sonata in B flat major (No.2 of a set of 4) is typical of this goûts réunis style.  It is suite-like, with several sections of contrasting tempo, metre and mood, played without a break.  I was captivated by the expertly-crafted counterpoint and the deliciously daring chromaticism in some of the episodes.  A super piece, and it received an elegantly persuasive performance that was, for me, another highlight.

The first piece in Georg Philipp Telemann’s first book of ‘Paris’ Quartets (so-called by modern scholars because of their association with a celebrity visit to Paris by Hamburger Telemann in 1737), designated TWV 43:G1, is in a concertante style in G major. They are ‘true’ quartets, in the sense that the viola da gamba is emancipated from the continuo role and converses in free obbligato with the flute and violin, and even gets to introduce some themes. Three joined-up movements, each with a slow introduction and a brisk main part, were suffused with the buoyant bonhomie I always associate with Telemann.  And the first time I’ve been moved to consider Telemann as a layer of the groundwork for Haydn’s chamber innovation.

This was an expertly curated, presented and performed programme of chamber music that respected and displayed its historical significance without robbing it of one lumen of its radiant charm and elegance.  Thoroughly marvellous.  Full marks from me.