Two Settings of David's Lamentation, Part III
Heinrich Schütz's Setting
In the concluding part of this series, I will discuss Heinrich Schütz’s (1585–1672) setting of David’s Lamentation. We opened by going over the text. Last week, we discussed the central tenets of the early 16th century motet Absalon. Our key takeaways, copied here as a reminder:
Absalon is modally straightforward in the first half, where the text discusses David’s personal grief.
However, the composer employs a series of clever mutations to paint the “descent to hell” from the text, transforming the accepted hexachordal system and accommodating “foreign” notes to depict the intense emotions.
This leads to more contemplation on this unfurling climax, drawing away from David’s own grief to generalize that of a father mourning his son.
Schütz’s setting, however, is entirely different in scoring, structure, and, consequently, tone and theme. Here is the text again:
The Schütz setting:
Fili mi Absalon, Absalon fili mi: quis mihi tribuat ut ego moriar pro te, Absalon fili mi, fili mi, Absalon. My son Absalom, Absalom my son: would to God that I might die for thee, Absalom my son, my son, Absalom.
Slightly different Latin than Absalon and sticking to the point: no other texts except 2 Samuel 18:33, which covers David’s grief. This by itself focusses this setting more on David’s personal grief. Schütz is interested in exploring this intense, personal emotion in his setting. His indispensable tool to achieve this is rhetoric.
First, a brief look at what had changed in the musical world between our two pieces of analysis. Short answer: a LOT. The 16th and 17th centuries were vehicles for tremendous change in how people thought about music. The Renaissance brought a renewed appreciation for ancient Greek music; composers strove to be more expressive and recreate the long-lost beauty of the ancients. When the young Schütz was gathering his musical roots, composers like Monteverdi and Cavalieri were advocating for text to dominate music; the words must shape the notes and dissonances must be used to express harsh emotions.
Before these changes took root, in the world of last week’s post, text was highlighted more by word-painting, depicting specific words quite literally in music. Composers would use fast notes on words like “fleeting”, descending notes on words like descendere (to descend), and flurrying accents on intense emotions like “my heart burns”. They soon tired of what they considered ornamental artifices; these word-painting tools were useful as units but could not effectively portray the sentiment conveyed by longer phrases and sentences. Music’s new role was to alert listeners to important words or phrases in the text, not imitating them precisely, but clearly delivering, enhancing, and at times even obscuring messages in the text. New genres featuring a declamatory style for the solo voice allowed composers and singers to capture the natural diction of spoken language in music.
Schütz, employed in the court of Dresden, visited Venice for the second time in 1628. He studied with Monteverdi and was impressed by his up-to-date musical methodology and philosophy. He published the Symphoniae Sacrae I in 1629 in Venice; this collection of sacred songs contained music brought along from Dresden as well as new works written showcasing his newfound skills. Fili mi, Absalon was published in this collection. Its musical construction and scoring, solo bass accompanied by four trombones and continuo, suggests it dates from Schütz’s first visit to Venice in 1609-12, when he learned from Giovanni Gabrieli; the passionate and precise text-setting, however, hints greater musical maturity. Schütz’s inclusion of this text in this collection, which is littered with similarly expressive and evocative Old Testament texts, comes as no surprise; composers in the past century often chose to set David’s lamentation precisely because of the rich emotional material it offered.
Now, our crucial analytical lens: rhetoric. The Renaissance had reopened interest in this ancient art, and scholars like Erasmus wrote treatises expanding the writings of ancient rhetoricians like Cicero. Renaissance scholars were keenly interested in reviving new methods of expression. These rhetorical principles were not restricted to oratory. Composers could arouse passion and emotion in their audiences by effectively harnessing rhetorical tools such as repetition, imitation, and contrasting tones in music. The composer Joachim Burmeister published a treatise in 1606 which classifies and labels different musical-rhetorical figures. Schütz would have undoubtedly been familiar with rhetoric: he had trained to be a lawyer, and Erasmus’ treatise was commonly used in course materials. This, combined with the exposure he gained in Italy, provided ample knowledge about harnessing rhetoric in music.
Finally, let us turn to Fili mi, Absalon. Listening to the music, while reading through my analysis below, and following along simultaneously might prove helpful in navigating. Here is a recording you can follow:
Divided into different sections, Schütz builds each section up by repeating motifs. The opening instrumental section is in triple time. The trombones enter sequentially, repeating a note pattern of rising third notes. After this has been developed fully, the bass vocalist enters, supported only by continuo; his vocal line imitates the rising third note motif on the words “Fili mi, Absalon” (Absalon, my son). The bass then falls, again in third notes, but hitting many accidentals along the way, adding color to the music. Finally, bass and trombones enter together, in duple time now, offset from each other, with the soloist crying out “Absalon!” in desperation. As in the entry, these cries on “Absalon” first ascend, and then after a cadence on “Fili mi”, descend again, with subdued repetitions of the same word drawing attention to David’s despair. These cries are all the more powerful since Schütz sets them on offbeats; David’s grief punctuates the listener’s rhythmic ear.
This is followed by another instrumental section, marked with another motif. Next, the bass enters, supported only by continuo, on the words “Quis mihi tribuat, ut ego moriar pro te” (Would to God, I might die for thee). This section is much more chromatic; Schütz colors in David’s heightened emotions through more accidentals, especially on the word “moriar” (die). As a result, the tonal-hexachordal centers (in an echo of last week’s theory) also shift around; the destabilization indicates David’s desolation. The real rhetorical spice here is again rhythmical: while this section is in duple meter, with four beats to a bar, Schütz rhythmically offsets the descending repetitions of “moriar” and structures them to give the illusion of triple meter: three beats to a bar. This phenomenon is a hemiola; Schütz extends it over multiple bars. The accompaniment, meanwhile, overlaps to emphasize this rhythmic illusion.
Finally, the trombones come in again, offset from the voice crying out “Absalon!” again, in a modified refrain of the first section’s conclusion. This spins into its own ending, as the soloist, along with imitative trombones, splits into a descending cycle of “Fili mi, Absalon”: combining the descent of notes, each time by a third, from the first cycle, and the rhythmic illusion of triple time, hemiola, from the second section, now sped up as the piece approaches climax. It finally concludes with despondent utterings of “Absalon”, each time starting on the same note, rhythmically offset from the trombones, but in each repetition ending on a lower note, until it drops a full octave down to low G– burying David’s grief in the lowest note of the piece.
Therefore, Schütz's setting differs from the earlier Absalon motet in many ways apart from just orchestration and choice of text. The composer of Absalon abstracts from David’s personal grief by saving its musical spice, a series of hexachordal mutations into a “foreign” note system, at a text not directly associated with David. Schütz, meanwhile, uses musical rhetoric to keep the listener transfixed on David’s shock, sorrow, and clamor by repeating important words, imitating specific motifs, and altering rhythms to create instability and resolution.
Composers are influenced immensely by the theology, economy, politics, philosophy, and culture of the environment they are in. Musical magic happens when these are in flux. My favorite period of music history and theory to study is the turn of the 17th century for the reasons described herein. David’s lamentation is just one example of biblical texts set by many composers across the ages, each shaped by a unique set of circumstances and a unique microcosmic or macrocosmic view. In this series, I have offered my views on two settings a hundred years apart, straddling this musical divide. I hope to have provided you with key metrics for comparing how the same text is set during different periods.
Music
References
Arnold, Denis. “The Second Venetian Visit of Heinrich Schütz.” The Musical Quarterly 71, no. 3 (1985): 359–74.
Benthem, Jaap van. “Lazarus versus Absalon. About Fiction and Fact in the Netherlands Motet. For Willem Elders.” Tijdschrift van de Vereniging Voor Nederlandse Muziekgeschiedenis 39 (1989): 54–82.
Macey, Patrick, Jeremy Noble, Jeffrey Dean, and Gustave Reese. "Josquin (Lebloitte dit) des Prez." Grove Music Online. (2001).
Somerville, Thomas Charles. “A Study of the Symphoniae Sacrae of Heinrich Schütz: Musical and Textual Content, Instrumental Usage, Performance Practice.” Master's thesis, University of Southern California, 1960.
Spilker, John D. “‘Oh My Son!’: The Musical Origins and Function of King David’s Lamentation.” College Music Symposium 49/50 (2009): 427–50.
Toft, Robert. “Pitch Content and Modal Procedure in Josquin’s ‘Absalon, Fili Mi.’” Tijdschrift van de Vereniging Voor Nederlandse Muziekgeschiedenis 33, no. 1/2 (1983): 3–27.
Varwig, Bettina. “‘Mutato Semper Habitu’: Heinrich Schütz and the Culture of Rhetoric.” Music & Letters 90, no. 2 (2009): 215–39.