Bach composed three sets of clavier suites, each containing six suites. Of these, the English Suites are the earliest. They were probably compiled during Bach’s Weimar years (1708-1717), the French Suites during the Cöthen years (1717-23), and the Partitas in the first few years of the Leipzig period (1723-1750). The title English Suites is totally misleading. Just as the descriptive first term is clearly unjustified by the structure of his subsequent French Suites, there is nothing at all “English” in what Bach had written earlier. Nevertheless, there is a noticeable contrast between the English and French Suites: an Allemande begins each of the French Suites yet is preceded by a Prelude in all the English Suites. With the exception of that in No. 1 in A Major, these Preludes are pieces of tremendous scope and intensity and demand the virtuosity that made Bach famous as keyboard player in his own lifetime.

The Third Suite in G Minor is a masterpiece. The Prelude is a concerto grosso opening movement with a real ritornello structure similar to the Italian models of Vivaldi and Corelli: passages imitating the full orchestra alternate with solo episodes that are lighter and more transparent. From the moment the Prelude opens with a crescendo coming in the first six measures because of the way Bach piles the parts together, we know we are listening to a work geared for excitement. The Allemande is among the most ingenious in any Bach suite: the theme is announced, rather unusually, in the bass. Taken up by the right hand, it is then swapped back and forth between the hands and is later inverted before returning to its original form before the end. The Courante is rather complex and rhythmically sophisticated. The Sarabande is a marvel: revelatory, mysterious and with feeling of a free improvisation that is happening before our eyes; its repetition, in an elaborated second version, makes it seem even more wondrous and expressive. The two Gavottes are in minor and major keys. The first, with its insistent, drum-like repetitions in the bass, makes one think of Rameau’s celebrated Tambourin; the second imitates a bagpipe. The concluding Gigue is a three-part fugue, whose difficulties cannot be overcome without clarity, precision, and a powerful sense of line.

Bach’s Sixth English Suite in D Minor is the largest and perhaps the most ambitious of the set. The great Bach interpreter and Shriver Hall Concert Series favorite, pianist Angela Hewitt, calls it “one of those works by Bach that give the interpreter the greatest scope for emotional involvement.”

It is hard to disagree with her. The powerful, imposing Prelude is among Bach’s greatest openings. It is in two parts—an actual prelude followed by a fugue—and may remind listeners of the composer’s famous organ toccatas. The Prelude opens and proceeds majestically. It gives no hint of the turbulence to come until the arrival of 16th notes in measures 27 and 28. It is at this point that the Fugue bursts forth. This fugue, the longest in the English Suites, unfolds in irresistible perpetual motion and with dramatic intensity and urgency. The Allemande, which sounds almost understated compared to what has just preceded it, brings a sense of calm and its lyricism carries-over into the Courante. Then come the elegiac eloquence of the Sarabande and the inspired perfection of the two Gavottes. Finally, Bach pulls us back to the mood of the opening in a fugal Gigue that is as gruffly angular and unstoppably intense as anything in late Beethoven—a masterpiece of ingenuity and virtuosity that brings the Sixth English Suite to a magnificent conclusion.

Notes by Stephen Wigler copyright 2012

Schumann originally intended the Fantasie as his contribution toward the cost of erecting a memorial to Beethoven in Bonn, for which a subscription had been set up in 1835. But by the time he finished the work in 1838, the plans for the memorial had fallen apart. The music was published in 1839 with a dedication to Liszt and a motto which had nothing to do with Beethoven.

Beethoven’s influence remains, however. There are echoes of the adagios of the “Emperor” concerto and the “Moonlight” sonata in the Fantasie’s slow finale; the Fantasie’s second-movement march vividly recollects the similarly placed march in Beethoven’s Opus 101 sonata; and the Fantasie’s first movement makes overt reference to Beethoven’s song cycle “An die ferne geliebte.”

The particular Beethoven song in the cycle is the crux of the matter: “Nimm sie bin denn, diese Lieder” (“Take them, beloved, these songs I sang you”) is obviously directed to the teenaged Clara Wieck, the composer’s future wife, as is the motto, a quotation from Schlegel: “Through all the tones that sound in earth’s fitful dream, one gentle note is there for the secret listener.”

In several letters written to Clara later in their lives, the composer explained that the work was created in the midst of the despair he experienced after her father had convinced him that he would never see her again. He told her that the first movement was “a deep lament” for her and that it was “the most passionate thing I have ever written.”

The movement unleashes a torrent of desperation and introspection so intense that the music occasionally dissolves into silence. Organizing such extremes would put a severe strain on any composer, but Schumann marshals the gasping yearning of his obsessive first theme into a structure that makes aural sense. As the movement proceeds, the listener eventually discovers that the opening theme is actually a transformation of the Beethoven song that gradually becomes more and more like the original until, in the coda, it emerges undisguised.

After the vicissitudes of the opening movement, the central march–bold and triumphant in character and clear in outline–comes as a stabilizing influence. Nevertheless, this essay in relentless forward motion confronts pianists with a cruel endurance test. And its celebrated coda, which calls for simultaneous skips in contrary motion at warp speed, is one of the most treacherous in the repertoire.

The slow, sustained, quiet finale enters a realm that transcends the world of the opening movement. Conflicts have ended; the painful immediacy of loss has been replaced—at least in part—by the tranquility of memory; and passion has been transformed into tenderness.

-Notes by Stephen Wigler, 2010