The solo and trio sonatas of Italian violinist and composer Arcangelo Corelli (1653–1713) were something of a creative irritant in 18th century Paris. In London, however, where the English ear had tuned itself to the Italian sonata and concerto, Corelli’s concerti were accepted as the unquestioned standard for fine instrumental composition. Indeed, his Opus 5 and 6 offered the very definition of good taste. Thus, it was on the Italian concerti that such English composers as William Boyce (1711−1779) and Thomas Arne (1710−1778), more reverent than the French — or the Germans, for that matter — modelled their works. And so it followed that any foreign composer who wanted to make a mark on the English ear did so with Corellian sounds. How wise, then, that Italian violinist, composer and music theorist Francesco Geminiani (1687–1762), once he was established in London and looking to entice local audiences, took the solo violin sonatas of Corelli’s Op. No.5 and retooled them as concerti.

The English amateur of the day, wealthy and prepared to spend liberally on the paintings of Giovanni Antonio Canal (Canaletto) and the voice of famed castrato Carlo Broschi (Farinelli), wanted Italian instrumentalists and composers to occupy the stages, pits and music rooms of London. A student of Corelli, Geminiani should have had a brilliant career. Yet somehow he didn’t.

For a contemporary view, we usually look to Charles Burney (1726−1814), the English organist, composer and preeminent music historian of his time. Had he been of a generous spirit, Burney might have told us that Francesco Geminiani marched, or composed, to a different drummer. And there is evidence, quite literally, to support such an understanding: Geminiani seems to have lost a post as concertmaster in Naples because he could not set a pace to guide the rest of the ensemble. Burney’s A General History of Music notes:

“…And having finished his studies (in Rome), he went to Naples, where from the reputation of his performance at Rome, he was placed at the head of the orchestra but according to the elder Barbella he was soon discovered to be so wild and unsteady a timest, that instead of regulating and conducting the band, he threw it into confusion; as none of the performers were able to follow him in his tempo rubato, and other unsuspected accelerations and relaxations of measure.”

Later, when Geminiani had achieved some degree of fame, it seems that other musicians, too, found it difficult to accompany him. His rubato was still felt to be excessively fluid and irregular. Finally, and most importantly, try reading through almost any allegro movement in Geminiani’s Op.5 sonatas, and you, too, may find yourself puzzled. Again, in Burney’s words (Ibid.):

His second set of solos, commonly called his French Solos, either from their style or their having been composed and engraved in France, was published in 1739. These were admired more than played…his third set of concertos…was so laboured, difficult and fantastical as never to be played, to my knowledge, in either public place or private concert.

Perhaps, then, Burney was right to fault Geminiani’s musicianship. Certainly he did not enjoy an easy career and did not gain the fame and high market esteem that other Italians in England seemed to have garnered. He was not, however, insulted by every critic and historian. Sir John Hawkins (1719–1789), in his History of the Science and Practice of Music, assesses Geminiani rather differently:

“In the year 1714 [Geminiani] came to England, where in a short time he so recommended himself by his exquisite performance, that all who professed to understand or love music, were captivated at the hearing of him….”

And again, from the same work:

“In the year 1716 he published….twelve sonatas, a violin violone e cembalo…The publication of this work had such an effect that men were at a loss to determine which was the greatest excellence of Geminiani, his performance or his skill and fine style in composition.”

Finally, Hawkins arrives at the major issue (Ibid.):

“It is observable upon the works of Geminiani, that his modulations are not only original, but that his harmonies consist of such combinations as were never introduced into music till his time: the rules of transition from one key to another which are laid down by those who have written on the composition of music, he not only disregarded, but objected to as an unnecessary restraint on the powers of invention. He has been frequently heard to say, that the cadences in the fifth, the third and the sixth of the key which occur in the works of Corelli, were rendered too familiar to the ear by the frequent repetition of them; And it seems to have been the study of his life, by a liberal use of the semitonic intervals, to increase the number of harmonic accompaniment…

Geminiani’s rejection of this harmonic language, a language that gives clear direction to Corelli and boundless energy to Vivaldi, gives his allegros an entirely different character, a quality of search and experimentation. For the modern listener, now well accustomed to the vitality and clarity of the Italianate sonata and concerto of the 18th century, this can be confusing. Burney found it weak; Hawkins found it fascinating. Today, three centuries later, we are in a position to embrace the rich repertory of these 18th century masters, and to happily enjoy the varied approaches they took to creating musical experience, as well as the challenges and satisfactions we discover we have inherited from them.”

© Andrew Appel 2015

A NOTE FROM LORETTA O’SULLIVAN

In preparing to record these sonatas, I kept a few essential ideas in mind. Geminiani encouraged the performer to be moved by the music and to be generous in expression. In his violin tutor, The Art of Playing the Violin (1751), he speaks of creating a tone that rivals the voice, and offers examples of varied bowings and vibrato to support the expression of affect. The way we play an ornament, he tells us, can express any emotion—from “mirth to horror.”

Geminiani opposed routine stress on downbeats, encouraging the performer to seek out the musical line before exerting an accent. In fact, his composition often seems to lead us away from such habits. As we worked on these movements, it seemed best to avoid regularity where the music went on imaginative tangents. We could then embrace evident accents and cadences.

I put myself in the shoes of a dreamer, one who enjoys excursions, oddities and surprises. Without imposed weight, one can stroll through a subtly changing terrain. Sometimes, as in the Allegro Assai of Sonata VI, the motives tumble on top of each other in a quirky and frantic way. Then the bass line suddenly disappears, leaving the cello in momentary free-fall, caught up an instant later. The final Allegro of this sonata puts all in balance with a pair of colourful minuets.

Perhaps the most inventive of all is Geminiani’s through-composed Sonata IV. In the Allegro Moderato, flourishes of dotted rhythms and bass-line snippets comically interrupt the cello’s efforts to extend a complete thought. Geminiani gives the cello some relief in a virtuosic section that ends in a grand cadence. He then invites the soloist to take free creative rein in a fantasy ad lib. A short Grave using extreme dynamics and rolling arpeggios is followed by a beautiful French dance.

His slow movements, such as that of Sonata III, combine sung Italian and ornamented French styles. In each repetition of his wistful melody, Geminiani suggests a slight variation of embellishment, showing how delicate one can be in expressing an affect. Other andantes cover a range of colour and expression from painful darkness to welcoming warmth.

Suite in E major by G.F. Handel

Handel performed with Geminiani in London. With that in mind, and inspired by the magnificent Kirckman harpsichord of 1754 that you hear in this recording, we offer the popular Suite in E Major from the Eight Great Suites of Handel. Unlike Geminiani, Handel was comfortable, satisfied and brilliant in the harmonic language of Corelli. Here, he combines the energy and lyricism that are his trademark, giving us a suite that moves consistently, gracefully and masterfully from the contemplative to the songful to the ebullient. This work benefits from the tonal possibilities of the mid-18th century English instrument, too often overlooked today in favour of models from other schools and countries.
Andrew Appel
This recording is dedicated to the memory of our friend and patron, Ellie Warburg, who missed no opportunity for joy and was responsible for much of the joy in the preparation and recording of these sonatas.

Harpsichord: Jacob Kirckman 1754, generously lent from a private collection
Recorded August 13-16, 2013, Hamden Connecticut, USA
Produced by Karen McLaughlin and David Walters
Recorded by David Walters
Artist photo David Rodgers
French translation Laurent Rapin
Cover painting Gainsborough, from the National Gallery of Art, Washington DC