Welcome back to The Deep Dive, where we take
the vast, intimidating ocean of knowledge and
distill it into the crucial, fascinating droplets
you need to know. Today, we are wading into some
very deep waters. We're exploring a figure whose
name is, well, basically synonymous with genius.
But whose professional life was, you know, constantly
marked by conflict. He was even called old -fashioned,
and his work was, for a long time, nearly lost.
We're talking about Johann Sebastian Bach, born
March 31st, 1685. And if you only know him as
like the quintessential classical music guy,
you should prepare to have that image completely
transformed. Right. The central paradox here
is really the starting point for our deep dive,
isn't it? It is. He is now, and I don't think
this is an exaggeration, arguably the most recognized
and influential composer in all of Western music.
Yet toward the end of his own life, his style,
this incredibly intricate, complex style, was
being viewed as, well. Difficult. Difficult,
dense, and distinctly passé. Old -fashioned.
The musical world was already moving on to the
lighter, gallant style, which was the precursor
to the whole classical era. Okay, so let's unpack
this unexpected giant. The sources we've looked
at all highlight the sheer scale of his output.
And the breathtaking diversity. I mean, we are
talking about a composer who touched nearly every
single genre available to him in the Baroque
period. Leaving behind hundreds and hundreds
of cantatas, both sacred and secular. It's just
staggering to even consider the volume of it
all. It is. And that diversity, it... really
speaks to his absolute mastery his catalog forms
the fundamental architecture of the high baroque
era and it covers every possible instrumental
and vocal combination you can think of exactly
think about the foundational works for orchestral
music you've got the six brandenburg concertos
and those incredibly intimate but technically
demanding cello suites. And then for the keyboard,
we have cornerstones like the Goldberg Variations,
which are just this profound exploration of architecture
and emotion, and of course the well -tempered
clavier. And that's before we even get to the
sacred music. The towering choral monuments like
the St. Matthew Passion and the complete Mass
in B minor. And that list, as you said, is just
a tiny sliver of his repertoire. It also includes
Latin church music, oratorios, motets and just
so many complex organ works. He wrote music that
somehow appeals equally to like a mathematician,
a theologian and a pure emotional listener all
at the same time. Precisely. And that synthesis,
that ability to connect intellectual rigor with
such profound emotion is what makes this deep
dive so compelling. So what's our mission today
as we play? into these sources and into his life.
Our mission is to understand the core engine
of his genius, the mechanism by which he became
the learned musician. Okay. Specifically, we
want to know how Bach, who was so deeply rooted
in German tradition and who never even traveled
to the major cultural hubs like Italy or France.
How did he manage to so profoundly enrich that
German style? Yes. We'll trace how he achieved
this through his rigorous mastery of counterpoint,
that weaving of independent melodies. And his
meticulous, almost scholarly adaptation of those
foreign Italian and French rhythms and forms.
And crucially, we're going to trace his often
turbulent career, which was just. by fights with
his employers. And then detail that dramatic
19th century revival that ultimately enshrined
him as this global, timeless icon overcoming
decades and decades of obscurity. The story starts
not just with one individual talent, but with
an entire musical lineage. A dynasty, really.
That's the perfect word for it. Bach was born
in the town of Eisenach as the youngest of eight
children. His father, Johann Ambrosius Bach,
was the director of the town musicians. So this
wasn't a family that just, you know, happened
upon music. No, not at all. This was a dynasty
woven into the very fabric of the regional culture.
That's a crucial distinction to make right from
the start. It is. The Bach family tradition,
which you can trace all the way back to a patriarch
named Wiedes Weitbach, produced three to four
generations of professional musicians. And this
network was intensely localized, right? Concentrated
heavily in that central German region of Thuringia.
Exactly. If you were a Bach in this region, chances
are you were a musician. It was the family business.
So he was born into what you'd call a highly
conservative musical environment. I imagine that
provided stability. But maybe it also restricted
the flow of radically new ideas. It provided
extraordinary stability and foundational training.
I mean, musical instruction was practically a
birthright for him, and it was a guaranteed profession.
His father, Johann Ambrosius, must have taught
him the basics. For sure. He certainly taught
him the basics of violin and music theory. But
just as important were his uncles. They were
church organists and court chamber musicians,
and they exposed him to the professional circuit.
So it was a rigorous familial apprenticeship.
It was, and it instilled this deep respect for
tradition, a tradition he would later systematically
master. completely transcend. But this early
stability was just shattered by this immense
personal tragedy. It transforms him into what
the sources call an orphaned learner. Yes, the
period between his ninth and tenth birthdays
was just devastating. His mother, Elizabeth Lemaher,
died in 1694. And then his father passed away
not long after. Just eight months later, in February
1695, Johann Sebastian was only 10 years old.
He was suddenly stripped of both his parents
and his home. That must have been an incredible
shock. It forces you to grow up very, very fast.
Absolutely. Yeah. And the trauma seems to have
just galvanized his intellectual drive. He moved
in with his eldest brother, Johann Christoph
Bach, who was the organist at St. Michael's Church
in Ordruf. And his brother became his primary
musical mentor. He did. And this move catalyzed
Bach's intense, almost legendary hunger for musical
knowledge. And this is where we get that famous
anecdote about his learning process, the dedication
that really defined his whole self -education.
Tell us about the secret copying. This is one
of the most revealing biographical details we
have. While living with his brother, Bach studied,
he performed, and he meticulously copied music.
But his brother, Johann Christoph, had a locked
cabinet with a collection of valuable contemporary
scores. Right. And he forbade Sebastian from
accessing them. And you have to ask why. Well,
in the late 17th century, music paper ledger
paper was incredibly expensive. Incredibly expensive.
And original scores were highly valuable intellectual
property. They were considered private, almost
secret. So the scores were locked away. But the
young Bach found a way around it. He did. He
was driven by this almost desperate need to absorb
this knowledge. And he found a way to retrieve
the scores from the cabinet. And the legend,
recounted by his own son, C .P .E. Bach, is that
he would copy them out meticulously by moonlight.
For six months. Six months of difficult nocturnal
labor. Because he didn't dare light a candle
for fear of being discovered. Wow. Six months
copying by moonlight. That's not just copying.
That's actively performing the music in your
head. You're absorbing every note, every harmony,
every structural choice through the physical
labor of your own hand. Exactly. This act of,
you know, intellectual espionage was Bach's equivalent
of a world tour. It was. It allowed him this
early exposure to a comprehensive range of national
styles that defined the late Baroque. You had
the South Germans like Pachelbel and Carell,
who were masters of keyboard fugues. Then the
rigorous North Germans like Buxtehude and Johann
Adam Rankin. And the rhythmic French influence
of Lully, and the melodic and structural Italian
mastery of Frescobaldi. He didn't just passively
receive a musical education. He absorbed the
entire contemporary European musical landscape
through the sheer dedication of his own effort.
And that experience really sets him up as a true
learned musician from the very start, synthesizing
everything he could get his hands on. Then, at
age 15, he makes this massive physical move north.
Yes, in April 1700, Bach moves north to Lüneburg
with his school friend Georg Erdmann. The distance
was immense, over 300 kilometers. And the sources
indicate the journey itself was undertaken mostly
on foot. Essentially, a two -week walk for a
15 -year -old boy. He went to Lunenburg to enroll
at the prestigious St. Michael's School Choir.
So why Lunenburg? What did that environment offer
that Ordruff could not? Lunenburg offered exposure
far beyond those conservative Thuringian circles.
He continued his studies, he sang in the choir,
and he received crucial organ lessons. But maybe
most significantly, he came into contact with
the sons of aristocrats who attended the nearby
Ritter Academy. And that broadened his intellectual
and social horizons dramatically. He was able
to study the latest music from foreign courts.
And crucially, he was close enough to Hamburg
to make trips to hear Reichen, one of the greatest
living organists. So that begins the sort of
pilgrimage tradition that would define his early
career. After Lüneburg, his official professional
career began. He was 18. Right. In 1703, he started
at the court of Duke Johann Ernst III in Weimar.
The title sounds prestigious, court musician,
but the sources imply his initial duties were
pretty menial. Oh, definitely. Possibly just
a violinist. They certainly weren't senior roles.
But his reputation as a keyboard virtuoso was
already spreading like wildfire. It was, likely
because of his deep study in those trips to Hamburg,
and this led almost immediately to a significant
upgrade later that same year. He transitioned
to Arnstadt, about 30 kilometers away, to become
the organist at the new church. Which is now,
very appropriately, called the Back Church. So
what made Arnstadt such a good starting point
for a young, ambitious composer? It was almost
ideal for him structurally, if not socially.
First, the duties were relatively light, and
the salary was surprisingly generous for an 18
-year -old. Which meant he had time to compose
and practice. And second, and this is crucial,
the church featured a new organ that was tuned
in a well -tempered temperament. Let's pause
on that term, well -tempered. For someone listening,
why is that technical detail so important? Okay,
think of it this way. Traditional tuning systems,
like mean tone, made music in certain keys sound
absolutely beautiful, pure, and resonant. But
if you tried to modulate, to change keys too
far away from that starting key, the intervals
became violently dissonant, unbearable. Some
keys were essentially unusable. So the well -tempered
system was a compromise. A brilliant compromise.
It made every key slightly impure, but critically
equally acceptable. So this organ was basically
inviting radical harmonic exploration across
all 24 major and minor keys. And? Bach, with
his intense curiosity, was the ideal person to
accept that invitation. So he has the time, the
talent, and the instrument. This brings us to
that famous anecdote, the ultimate example of
a musician prioritizing education over employment,
the illegal sabbatical to Lubeck. It is the defining
moment of his professional apprenticeship. In
1705, Bach requested four weeks of leave from
Arnstadt. But he ended up being absent for around
four months. Yes. And the purpose was a 450 kilometer
journey, which is about 280 miles, reportedly
undertaken entirely on foot each way. Just to
hear and study with the great master of the North
German Baroque, Diederik Buxtehude in Lubeck.
That's 900 kilometers round trip on foot in winter
conditions just to sit and listen and learn.
That is dedication bordering on obsession. It
really speaks volumes about his character, doesn't
it? It does. He wasn't just attending concerts.
He was likely absorbing Buck's masterful improvisational
skills and his famous ebb and music in these
evening concerts that were cultural phenomena.
And he also wanted to study with Johann Adam
Rankin. Whose monumental work and Vosserfluss
in Babylon, Bach had copied years earlier by
Moonlight. These four months were a foundational
masterclass for him. So he returns after this
epic pilgrimage filled with inspiration and new
ideas only to face a formal indictment from the
Arnstadt church authorities. Well, the four month
unauthorized absence was certainly the primary
administrative violation. Sure. But formally,
the indictment that followed gave a subtle and
truly fascinating insight into his compositional
trajectory. He was accused of playing chorale
accompaniments that were too elaborate and, crucially,
of adding strange tones in his playing, which
confused the already weak church singers. Strange
tones. That sounds less like a failure and more
like a sign of, I don't know, revolutionary genius.
What were those strange tones? They were the
first tangible evidence of Bach pushing the boundaries
of harmonic convention. The strange tones were
Bach exploring those radical modulations we just
discussed. Changing key more quickly, more unexpectedly.
And pushing the music into distant, challenging,
but ultimately beautiful places. He was leveraging
the capabilities of that new, well -tempered
organ to shatter the conservative musical expectations
of Arnstadt. It was the young, brilliant mind
clashing directly with tradition. He was literally
too far ahead of his choir. That's a wonderful
metaphor for his entire late career. He didn't
stay long after that conflict. He moved on to
Mühlhausen in 1707. Correct. The conflict in
Arnstadt just made his position untenable. So
he sought and received the post at Blasius Church
in Mühlhausen for better pay, better conditions,
and specifically, a better choir. He needed musicians
who were capable of keeping up with his demands.
And this year, 1707, was a huge year of personal
and professional milestones. It was. Just four
months after arriving in Mühlhausen, he married
his second cousin, Maria Barbara Bach. It was
the first of two critical marriages that would
anchor his life. And professionally. In 1708,
he wrote Gott ist mein König, BWV 71. It was
a festive cantata composed for the inauguration
of the new town council. And because it was an
official civic celebration, the council published
the work at their own expense. Right. And the
historical footnote attached to Gott ist mein
König is that it was the only extant cantata
published during his entire lifetime. Wow. Think
about that. A composer who wrote hundreds of
foundational pieces of the Western canon was
known to the world through a single commissioned
festive piece. It just underscores how much of
his work circulated only privately among musicians
until well after he died. So after that brief
but formative stop in Mühlhausen, Bach returned
to Weimar in 1708. This marks the beginning of
a sustained period of composing these large -scale
instrumental works. He began as an organist and
was promoted to concertmeister, the director
of music, by 1714. So he was overseeing a large
body of professional musicians in the court chapel.
And this second Weimar period, from 1708 to 1717,
was critical for his self -imposed education.
He understood his musical foundation was German
and rigorous, but it lacked the rhythmic vitality
and formal structure being developed abroad.
So he actively sought to master the Italian style.
Not by travel, but by intense transcription.
Precisely. Instead of undertaking that expensive,
dangerous trip across the Alps to Venice. He
sat at his desk and essentially reverse engineered
Vivaldi, Corelli, and Torelli. This is one of
the greatest examples of intellectual absorption
in music history. It is. He took string and wind
concertos by Vivaldi works like Lestro Armonico
and transcribed them note for note for the harpsichord
and organ. He wasn't just making piano reductions.
He was figuring out how to make a single keyboard
instrument sound like an entire orchestra. That's
the genius of Bach. He internalized Vivaldi's
dynamic rhythms, the bright, clear Italian melodic
style, and most importantly, the ritornello form.
And for those unfamiliar, what exactly is ritornello
form? Think of it like a recurring architectural
feature in a building. Ritornello means return
in Italian. The orchestra plays a large, robust
theme at the beginning. And then the soloist
comes in with brilliant, virtuosic material.
Right. Then the orchestra returns briefly to
the ritornello, maybe in a different key. It
creates this powerful, dramatic... alternation
soloist versus group, which was the engine of
the Italian concerto. And Bach took that structure,
which was so clear and outwardly focused, and
combined it with the internal dense logic of
the German fugue. The result was not imitation,
but synthesis. It was something entirely new
and stronger. And it was during this time that
he started composing the pieces that would eventually
form the two volumes of the well -tempered clavier.
His time in Weimar concluded, predictably, with
another dramatic confrontation. This time it
actually led to him being jailed. Indeed. By
1717, Bach felt stifled. He believed the court
environment was limiting his potential. So he
sought dismissal to take a new post as Kapellmeister
for Prince Leopold in Kothen. But his employer,
Duke Wilhelm Ernst, disagreed violently. The
court records are hilariously blunt about it.
They state that Bach was jailed for nearly a
month before receiving his unfavorable discharge.
Because he was too stubbornly forcing the issue
of his dismissal. Stubbornly forcing the issue.
The sources certainly portray him as a man who
was determined to control his artistic environment.
It was a fight for artistic autonomy in a system
defined by patronage. Bach viewed his talents
not as a service to be chained down, but as a
resource to be maximized. So if a patron couldn't
match his ambition? He was ruthless in seeking
the next opportunity. That month in jail shows
you how fiercely he advocated for himself. I
mean, he literally went to prison to ensure he
could move on to a better job. So he leaves Weimar
and enters what is known as his secular period
in Kothen, serving as kapellmeister for the court
of Prince Leopold from 1717 to 1723. And this
change of scenery profoundly affected his output.
Prince Leopold was a Calvinist. And Calvinist
worship traditionally did not use elaborate,
complex music, unlike the Lutheran tradition
Bach grew up in. Which meant Bach wasn't required
to produce a weekly cantata. So if he wasn't
writing sacred music, what was he writing? He
focused overwhelmingly on secular instrumental
music. And this period gave us some of his most
cherished works. This is the era of the six cello
suites, the sonatas and partitas for solo violin.
And of course, the full set of the six Brandenburg
concertos. These concertos are just this incredible
showcase of instrumental virtuosity and variety.
He gives these unusual solo roles to instruments
like the trumpet, the oboe, and the recorder.
It's a demonstration of his total command over
orchestration. And speaking of contemporaries,
this period also features that great historical
footnote about Bach and Handel. It's so hard
to believe they never met. It is genuinely astonishing.
It's almost tragic that these two titans, born
in the same year, living relatively close by,
only about 130 kilometers apart, never intersected.
The sources confirm Bach made the journey from
Kofen to Halle in 1719, hoping to meet Handel.
He did. Handel was visiting his family. but he
had already departed. And there was a second
attempt later on. Yes, a formalized attempt failed
in 1730. Bach's son, Wilhelm Friedemann, traveled
to Halle with an invitation, but Handel was unable
to accept. They were parallel geniuses who shared
the same aesthetic language and formative influences,
yet they just ran on separate tracks forever.
It makes you wonder what a collaboration might
have sounded like. Yeah. We're left only with
the comparison of their independent masterpieces.
Professionally, Bach was soaring in Cothen, but
personally, this period brought significant loss
before he found stability again. Yes, the sudden
loss of his first wife. In 1720, while Bach was
away in Carlsbad accompanying Prince Leopold,
his first wife, Maria Barbara, died suddenly.
He returned to find her already buried. It was
a shattering tragedy. They had seven children
together. though only four survived into adulthood,
including the composers Wilhelm Friedman and
Carl Philip Emanuel. It left him a widower with
four young children to raise while managing this
busy court career. But the sources show he found
stability pretty quickly after this personal
turmoil. Thankfully, yes. A year later, in 1721,
he met and married Anna Magdalena Wilke, a talented
soprano 16 years his junior, who was also employed
at the Kothen Court. And they had 13 children
together. a truly staggering number six, of whom
survived to adulthood. Including the later composers
Johann Christoph Friedrich and Johann Christian.
So this vast family, spanning two marriages,
ensured the continuation of the Bach musical
dynasty, which is a critical element of his long
-term legacy. In 1723, Bach made the definitive
move of his career to Leipzig, taking up the
prestigious but ultimately immensely frustrating
position of Thomas Cantor. Director of Church
Music. Leipzig was the bustling intellectual
and commercial center of Protestant Germany.
This was considered the leading canteret in Protestant
Germany. This is a remarkable chapter, and the
context of his appointment is vital for understanding
his mindset. It is, because Bach was actually
the third choice for the job. No way. The post
had first been offered to George Philip Tellemann
and then Christoph Graupner. Right. And crucially,
both of them used the Leipzig offer as leverage
to negotiate better terms where they were currently
employed. They ultimately turned Leipzig down.
So Bach wasn't the first or even second choice
for the most prestigious post. That seems astonishing
given his current status. It is, but it tells
us his reputation was high, but maybe not as
modern or fashionable as Telemann's or Graupner's.
But the job he accepted was monumentally demanding.
The mandate was essentially impossible. He had
to direct St. Thomas School. meaning he was responsible
for the moral, academic, and musical education
of about 50 boarding students. He had to provide
music for four major churches every Sunday and
feast day. And he had to compose a new cantata
for every single one of those Sundays and feast
days in the liturgical calendar. He was even
assigned to teach Latin, although he quickly
delegated that duty to four deputies, or prefects.
That is an administrative and creative burden
that few modern professionals could even imagine.
He effectively had to become a cantata machine.
He embraced it, though, with relentless energy.
He assumed the office on May 30, 1723. And within
three years, he had composed most of his hundreds
of cantatas, organized into five annual cycles,
three of which are still extant. We estimate
that over 100 cantatas composed during his Leipzig
tenure have tragically been lost to time. Which
suggests the true depth of his output is even
greater than we currently realize. And that output
wasn't just volume, it was systematic exploration.
The sources note his commitment to the chorale
cantata cycle. Yes. Starting in 1724, he dedicated
his second annual cycle exclusively to chorale
cantatas. This means each cantata was based entirely
on a single, well -known Lutheran hymn or chorale.
Something like, watch it off, Rifton's The Shipper's
Awake. Exactly. This systematic method allowed
him to integrate theology and music at the deepest
level, transforming these simple congregational
tunes into monumental, complex, dramatic statements.
He used the established musical language of the
church as his raw material. These years also
saw the creation of his monumental passion settings,
the cornerstones of sacred music, the ultimate
expressions of Lutheran piety. Absolutely. The
St. John Passion, which is so intense and dramatic,
was followed by the monumental, profoundly contemplative
St. Matthew Passion, which was first performed
on Good Friday, April 11, 1727. These works are
vast, complex, utilizing multiple choirs and
orchestras. They represent the absolute apex
of Baroque expression. But despite this incredible
creative productivity, Bach was constantly embroiled
in conflict with his employers. What was the
root of the conflict with the Leipzig City Council?
It essentially boiled down to resources, artistic
freedom, and status. Bach felt the council was
penny -pinching in their funding of his music
programs. Particularly regarding the salaries
and skill level of his choir students and instrumentalists.
And the council in turn felt Bach was too demanding,
too stubborn, and spent too much time on secular
music. music, prioritizing complex compositions
that exceeded the simple requirements of the
church service. So it was just a continuous,
often petty turf war. It was. So he had to get
politically shrewd to gain leverage against his
stingy employers. And his strategy for consolidating
power was brilliant. Diversify his musical portfolio.
Exactly. In 1729, he made a very strategic political
move by taking over the directorship of the Collegium
Musicum. This was a prominent secular performance
ensemble started by Telemann, composed mostly
of talented university students and some professional
musicians. And by controlling a student orchestra
he expanded his domain. Suddenly, he wasn't just
the church's servant. He was the head of Leipzig's
secular musical life, independent of the church
authorities. He used the Collegium Musicum to
perform his instrumental works, his Brandenburg
concertos, his new keyboard concertos, in public,
non -religious settings. Often holding weekly,
free concerts in venues like Café Zimmermann
and its outdoor coffee garden during the summer
months. This created a public power base for
him. And his ultimate political victory involved
a mass and the King of Poland. He literally used
the most ambitious musical project of his life
as a bargaining chip. That's the climax of his
Leipzig political maneuvering. In 1733, Bach
composed the Cary Gloria Mass in B minor and
dedicated the manuscript to Augustus III of Poland,
who was also the Catholic elector of Saxony,
a Lutheran cantor dedicating a Catholic mass
setting to a Catholic king. That's a huge political
calculation. It was a necessary one. He was making
a strategic, successful bid to persuade the prince
to grant him the title of royal court composer.
And receiving that prestigious official title
in 1736 gave him crucial bargaining power and
prestige that the Leipzig Council could not touch.
He was now answerable, in theory, to the king,
not just the local administrators. And he later
expanded this setting into the complete towering
mass in B minor. A work of immense scale, complexity,
and synthesis, uniting German and Italian styles.
It was never performed in its entirety during
his lifetime, but it stands as his ultimate theological
and musical summation. Justly considered among
the greatest choral works in history. And these
later Leipzig years also gave us the sprawling
Christmas oratorio. So we've traced the humble
beginnings, the obsession with learning, the
career battles, and the political maneuvering.
Now let's dissect the genius. All of those struggles
culminated in a specific, rigorous musical language.
What makes Bach's music sound like Bach? What
was the DNA of the high Baroque architect? It
all boils down to two things. Counterpoint and
organization. Bach didn't just utilize counterpoint.
He perfected it to an almost mathematical degree.
And counterpoint is, simply put, the art of weaving
multiple independent melodic lines simultaneously.
Right. Instead of a single tune with accompaniment,
you have two, three, or four equally important
melodies happening all at once. So if you're
listening to a Bach piece, you shouldn't just
be listening to the highest voice, the soprano.
You should be listening to how the bass voice
is arguing with the tenor while the alto is reflecting
on the soprano. Exactly. His first major biographer,
Johann Nicholas Forkel, captured this perfectly
when describing Bach's harmony. He said it was
an interweaving of independent melodies, so perfect
in their union that each part seems to constitute
the true melody. Think of it like a complex,
tightly woven tapestry, where every thread has
its own beautiful curving path, but together
they form one unified, strong image. It's musical
engineering combined with emotional depth. And
the ultimate, most rigorous expression of that
technique is the fugue. The fugue is central
to his style, the way the sonata form is central
to the classical era. If counterpoint is the
language, the fugue is the literary form. And
a fugue is a contrapuntal compositional technique
built on a central musical theme, which we call
the subject. Yeah, a good analogy for the fugue
structure for the listener might be a carefully
orchestrated argument. or maybe a relay race.
A relay race. I like that. The first runner,
the first voice, starts with the main musical
idea, the subject. As soon as that runner completes
their statement, the second runner enters immediately,
repeating that subject, often a perfect fifth
higher or lower. We call that the answer. So
now you have two independent melodic lines running
simultaneously. Right. The composition moves
through an exposition where all voices state
the subject, followed by episodes, which are
connecting passages where the material is developed.
And then you get further entries of the subject
in related keys, and it often returns triumphantly
to the home key. That takes incredible intellectual
control. It's highly mathematical. And Bach studied
this form relentlessly through predecessors like
Sweeling and Buxtehude. He didn't invent the
fugue. But he exhausted its possibilities, mapping
out every potential permutation and emotional
capacity of the form. Moving beyond the structural
forms, the second key element we identified earlier,
the one that got him into trouble in Arnstadt,
was his innovative approach to harmony. those
strange tones they didn't disappear they became
deliberate calculated innovation. They absolutely
did. They became modulation. Bach constantly
pushed the boundaries of changing keys, venturing
into harmonic regions that other composers of
his time considered unplayable or too dissonant.
And his ultimate proof of concept for this, the
statement that permanently changed music history,
was the well -tempered clavier. Two books of
preludes and fugues. And it was so revolutionary
because it was a systematic test of the possibilities
opened up by that well -tempered tuning system
we discussed earlier. Each book contains Prior
to this, using keys like F sharp major or C sharp
minor was rare to impossible because the tuning
would just sound awful. Bach essentially unlocked
the entire harmonic spectrum for every future
composer. He expanded the expressive harmonic
universe of his time permanently. It's not just
a beautiful work. It's a technical declaration
of independence for harmony. Precisely. And he
also revolutionized the way instruments interacted,
particularly the keyboard instruments. Yes. In
Baroque concerted playing, the keyboard was typically
restricted to a background role. The basso continuo.
Just simple harmonic and rhythmic accompaniment,
filling in the chords. Bach shattered this limitation.
He pioneered the keyboard concerto genre, treating
the harpsichord or organ as a true virtuosic
soloist. A soloist that could enter into a dramatic
dialogue, a concertante relationship with the
orchestra. He began doing this systematically
in instrumental cantata movements starting in
the 1720s. And it's difficult to overstate how
major this was. He was pioneering the keyboard
concerto a full decade before his contemporary
Handel published his first organ concertos. By
elevating the keyboard from background filler
to foreground hero, he paved the way for the
keyboard concertos of Mozart and Beethoven. Finally,
we can't talk about Bach's compositional DNA
without discussing his artistic intent, which
was so profoundly tied to his faith. He wasn't
just writing music. He was performing an act
of worship. His hundreds of sacred works are
universally seen as manifesting his deep personal
faith and commitment to Orthodox Lutheranism.
This wasn't just a job for him. It was a calling.
The Lutheran chorale, the hymn tune familiar
to the congregation, was the fundamental basis
for so much of his output. He took these simple
melodies and elaborated them into complex chorale
preludes and cantata movements, making the familiar
profound. And he didn't leave anything to chance.
There's a meticulousness to his planning that
borders on the obsessive. He gave meticulous
attention to structure and lyrics, which often
leads to complex numerological analyses by later
scholars. People who find patterns in the number
of notes or bars corresponding to words like
B -A -C -H, which translates to numbers 2 -1
-3 -8. Whether that was intentional or accidental,
it speaks to his deeply structured thinking.
He was also highly engaged with the text authors,
most famously collaborating with Picander for
the St. Matthew Passion libretto. Ensuring that
the religious and musical expression in his large
-scale vocal architecture were perfectly unified.
And he would often sign his scores. Soli Deo
Gloria, SDG, for God alone be the glory, it just
underscores his intent. As we enter the 1740s,
the musical world around Bach was shifting rapidly
towards the lighter, simpler, gallant style.
Yet, Bach entered his final decade by deliberately
doubling down on the density and complexity of
his established style, creating what are often
called his learned masterpieces. That decision
to dig deeper into his own complex language rather
than chasing the new trend -yielded extraordinary
results. his final period. The first key late
work is the musical offering from 1747, and this
arose from a fascinating scenario. Bach visited
the court of King Frederick II of Prussia. Frederick
the Great, who was a talented flutist and composer
in his own right. Yes, and Frederick challenged
Bach to improvise a six -part fugue on a musical
theme of the king's own creation. This theme,
the thema regium, or king's theme, was notoriously
tricky and difficult to use contrapuntally. Bach
obliged, improvising a magnificent three -part
fugue. on the King's new forte piano, an early
version of the modern piano. But he promised
Frederick something more. And he delivered that
something more back in Leipzig. He composed and
published an entire set of complex fugues, canons,
and a trio sonata based systematically on that
thema regium, dedicating the published work,
the musical offering, to Frederick. It was a
dazzling display of intellectual and musical
firepower, showing the young king precisely what
an old master could do with his theme. And the
final monument he left behind, the magnum opus
that was sadly incomplete, was a purely intellectual
exploration of the fugal form. That was the Art
of Fugue, which he began around 1742. final monumental
work, a profound exploration of polyphonic structures
and canons, which he was preparing for publication
until shortly before his death. What makes it
so radical is that it's pure form. He chose not
to specify the instrumentation. It is written
almost abstractly, reducing complex counterpoint
to its bare essentials of melodic logic. It's
a testament to the fact that the ideas themselves,
the structural integrity, were what mattered
most to him. The sources mention a deeply tragic
detail regarding the end of his life, his failing
eyesight, and the disastrous medical intervention
he received. It is a dark, unnecessary coda to
a brilliant life, and it highlights the crude
state of 18th century medicine. His failing eyesight
led to two surgeries in 1750. Performed by the
visiting British surgeon John Taylor. A man who
is now widely understood today as a charlatan,
a quack who traveled Europe. promising cures
for cataracts. And Taylor is linked to another
monumental tragedy of the Baroque era, isn't
he? He is. Taylor is believed to have blinded
hundreds of people, and famously, Bach's celebrated
contemporary, George Friedrich Handel, suffered
a similar loss of sight after Taylor operated
on him. The irony of these two musical giants
who never met in life sharing the same fate at
the hands of the same charlatan is just deeply
poignant. Bach never recovered from the trauma.
He died on July 28, 1750. due to complications
following these unsuccessful surgeries after
suffering a sudden stroke a few days prior. And
the lack of immediate recognition after his death
seems compounded by the initial disposal of his
remains. It's almost unbelievable given his later
status. He was the Thomas Cantor of Leipzig.
Yet Bach was originally buried at Old St. John's
Cemetery in Leipzig, and his grave went completely
unmarked for nearly 150 years. His work and his
physical remains were largely forgotten by the
public. His remains were only identified during
construction work in 1894 and moved to St. John's
Church. And then finally to their current deserved
resting place in St. Thomas Church in 1950, marking
the bicentennial of his death. It took two centuries
for his body to find its final proper resting
place. Despite the lack of official state recognition,
his immediate intellectual legacy was protected,
thankfully, by his most diligent son. Yes, his
son Carl Philip Emanuel Bach C .P. Bach played
a crucial, tireless role in safeguarding his
father's memory. C .P .E. Bach was a highly successful
composer in his own right, working at the court
of Frederick the Great. He saw to it that the
unfinished Art of Fugue was published in 1751,
a vital act of preservation. And he diligently
safeguarded many of his father's crucial manuscripts,
including copies of the well -tempered Clavier
and the Passions. He prevented the wholesale
loss of many works. He also co -authored the
1754 obituary, The Necrologue, which helped to
establish the initial, definitive... biographical
record. The 18th century, the decades immediately
following his death, often treated Bach as an
old master whose time had passed. This is the
18th century slumber. What was happening in music
that made his intricate style seem so out of
step? Well, the prevailing taste was moving towards
the gallant style. Essentially, the emerging
pop music of the day. Simple, elegant, melodic,
and clear. Think of it as musical Rococo. Music
was meant to be instantly digestible, appealing,
and light, often built around a single, easily
traceable melody with simple accompaniment. Bach's
dense, contrapuntal tapestries were the antithesis
of this. Exactly. He was primarily known to the
public as an organ virtuoso and a teacher, not
a composer of note. Critics like Johann Edel
Scheib openly suggested Bach should write less
complex music. The younger generation was actively
moving away from complexity toward clarity, and
this attitude of dismissiveness meant that many
manuscripts were lost. A considerable, permanent
loss. Much of his work, including parts of acid
B minor and many cantatas, simply sat in dusty
archives or was distributed only among a very
small circle of admirers. But the seeds of the
revival were already being planted secretly among
a very discerning group of collectors and connoisseurs.
Absolutely. Bach had influential secret fans
who acted as a bridge between the Baroque and
classical eras. We have to highlight musicians
and collectors like Sarah Itzig -Levy in Berlin.
And Baron Gottfried van Swieten in Vienna. Van
Swieten was a high -ranking Austrian official
and music enthusiast who collected, copied, and
hosted private performances of Bach's most complex
works. And why was he so important to the long
-term legacy? He was instrumental in passing
Bach's legacy on directly to the next generation
of composers, the Viennese school. He hosted
regular salons where he introduced these composers
to Bach's manuscripts, demanding that they study
them. And what did figures like Mozart and Beethoven
think of him once they encountered these scores?
They were instantly converted. They studied him
rigorously. Mozart encountered Bach's work in
Van Sweeten's library. It was just overwhelmed
by the contrapuntal density. He owned a copy
of one of his motets and transcribed some of
his instrumental works. He immediately started
incorporating more counterpoint into his own
music. And even more famously, Ludwig von Beethoven
learned the well -tempered clavier entirely by
the time he was just 11 years old. Beethoven
called him the Erwatter der Harmonie. The progenitor
of harmony. That quote shows that these masters
recognized what the general public had overlooked.
Bach was not just the end of the Baroque. He
was the foundation upon which their classical
and romantic structures were built. He provided
the deep grammatical understanding of harmony
they needed to innovate. And here is where the
19th century explosion happens. If the Rediscovery
was a fire, who was the match that lit it? That
match was Felix Mendelssohn. Mendelssohn himself,
a young Jewish -German composer, organized and
conducted the 1829 performance of the St. Matthew
Passion in Berlin. This was not only the first
performance since Bach's death nearly 80 years
earlier, but it was done with a massive chorus
and orchestra, introducing the sheer scale of
Bach's sacred output to the German public. It
was a cultural and musical watershed. Mendelssohn's
performance precipitated the full Bach revival.
It demonstrated that this old, forgotten music
was not merely academic. It was profoundly moving,
dramatic, and emotionally relevant. The audience
reaction was ecstatic, sparking a nationwide
interest. And once that fire was lit, organizations
sprang up to ensure his works were permanently
recorded and accessible. Which led directly to
the founding of the Bach Gesellschaft, the Bach
Society, in 1850, a century after his death.
Yes, initiated by influential figures like Robert
Schumann. The completion of this massive, comprehensive
edition by the end of the century was a monumental
scholarly undertaking. It finally provided musicians
and scholars with reliable access to Bach's entire
known oeuvre. And the 19th and 20th centuries
didn't just play his music. They adapted it,
sometimes controversially, to suit contemporary
tastes. Oh, the Romantics couldn't resist putting
their own spin on him. We see this trend of romantic
adaptations. Composers transcribe Bach to make
him sound bigger, more lush, more appropriate
for massive concert halls. Like Robert Schumann's
six fugues on the name BACH, which uses the musical
motif derived from the German spelling of his
name B -flat -A -C. be natural. And of course,
the incredibly popular example of Charles Gounod
taking a simple, elegant Bach prelude and overlaying
his Ave Maria melody on top of it. Creating a
new standard that often eclipses the original
work in public memory. And this adaptation continued
into the 20th century, bringing him into pop
culture. Absolutely. Arrangements like the air
on the G string became pop culture fixtures and
Leopold Stokowski's dramatic, often criticized,
but undeniably powerful orchestra. of the Toccata
and Fugue in D minor was used to open Disney's
1940 masterpiece, Fantasia. These adaptations
ensured Bach's sound, if not always his pure
form, reached millions of non -classical listeners.
But perhaps the most enduring modern legacy,
one that brought his music back to its precise
original structure, belongs to a very specific
set of variations and a singular pianist. That
would be Glenn Gould and the Goldberg Variations.
Gould's 1955 debut recording fundamentally transformed
the work. Prior to Gould, the Goldberg variations
were considered an obscure, esoteric piece of
highly technical music for scholars and specialized
harpsichordists. Gould played them on the piano
with a startling clarity, rhythm, and speed.
And what was the Gould effect? It was galvanic.
His unique performance technique and interpretation
galvanized a new generation of listeners, proving
that Bach could be both mathematically rigorous
and profoundly rhythmic and modern. That debut
recording achieved astonishing sales figures
for a classical record. Moving the Goldberg variations
decisively into the standard repertoire. And
finally, for the ultimate, most cosmic honor,
Bach represents Earth to the universe. It's the
ultimate stamp of universal genius. When NASA
was curating the contents of the Voyager Golden
Record, the disc sent into interstellar space
in 1977 as a representation of Earth's culture.
Three of his compositions were selected. More
than any other single composer, what were the
three chosen pieces? They were the first movement
of Brandenburg Concerto No. 2, the Gavotte en
Rondeau from the Partita for Violin No. 3, and
the Prelude and Fugue No. 1 in C Major from the
Well -Tempered Clavier. His music is literally
our planetary ambassador. A universal language
of complexity, synthesis, and order. So what
does this all mean for us? Bach's legacy is a
profound testament to the power of synthesis
and mastery. He didn't just exist within the
Baroque era. He perfected its language. He internalized
global influences without traveling, mastered
the dense architecture of counterpoint, and simultaneously
laid the complex necessary groundwork for future
harmonic exploration. He was the composer who
synthesized centuries of musical history and
pushed it forward, achieving a matchless combination
of musical engineering and profound expressivity
that somehow remains timeless. He truly earned
the title of the learned musician. And if you
are a learner or someone dealing with information
overload and the pressure of endless new trends
today, Bach offers a fascinating and potent lesson.
Think about him late in his life when the gallant
style, the pop music of its day was emerging
and his own work was deemed old fashioned and
too complicated. He faced a clear choice. conform
and try to write the new, simpler music, or dig
deeper into his own established rigor. And he
deliberately chose to dig deeper. He didn't chase
the trend. He didn't simplify his message. Instead,
he committed his final years to creating the
art of fugue, reducing complex counterpoint to
its foundational, most rigorous intellectual
form. It was a final, unwavering commitment to
enduring mastery. regardless of contemporary
fashion. This raises an important question for
you, the listener. In our 21st century world
of constant pressure to adopt the next big thing,
what can we learn about enduring mastery from
the composer who reacted to new trends by deliberately
digging deeper into his own already established
complex style? Is the pursuit of deep comprehensive
skill, even when it feels out of step, ultimately
the path to truly timeless universal recognition?
That's something worth mulling over long after
the music stops.