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Disaster Music: Handel’s Earthquakes and Tidal Waves

The Christian God is a meteorological, seismological God. He is at his most vivid when He shakes the land and heaps up the waters of the sea, when He burns and when He levels. Tremors, eruptions, inundations are His daily exercises. The Plagues of Egypt were His first decathlon, continual cataclysm his Olympic Games.

As a musical painter of action, especially in enormous tableaux, Handel was unmatched in his depictions of God as a creator and destroyer. Indeed, Handel was lauded by his admirer and mocked be his detractors as Man Mountain, himself geographical entity.  When he trembled and blew the musical world felt it. We continue to respond to the terrors and joys of his music.

Handel’s friend and sometimes collaborator Alexander Pope put it this way: “Giant Handel stands, / Like bold Briareus, with a hundred hands, / To stir, to rouze, to shake the Soul he comes.”  Handel was big and threatening. His music could be both these things, too.

Perhaps the most famous earthquake in music history comes near the beginning Messiah. Shaking orchestral chords introduce the motto: “Thus saith the Lord.”  Now set up for in direct speech, the bass soloist reminds listeners that earthquakes on land and beneath ocean will presage the coming of the Lord: “Yet once a little while, and I will shake the heavens and the earth, the sea and the dry land, and I will shake all nations, and the desire of the nations shall come.”  Now adopting the voice of God, the bass starts somewhat hesitantly by painting the first “shake” in upward arcing oscillations momentarily rumbling free from the foundation of the orchestral accompaniment.  By the time he gets to the second “shake,” the Lord has found a real flair for seismology. Now buoyed by a rollicking harmonic progression and quavering string backdrop, God sends his seismic announcement across the globe. Because all need to know, none will be spared.  The start of Christian time will be marked by cataclysm.

Handel gained his international fame when still a skinny young man during his sojourn in Italy from 1706 to 1710. Italy was the required destination for opera composers, but a tour of the peninsula was seismological as well as musical. Pompeii had yet not been discovered and the excavations not yet begun, but earthquakes and the emissions from Vesuvius and Mt Etna lured tourists from the less geologically active regions of Europe.  The Grand Tour was also a disaster waiting to happen.

Almost all the leading Italian composers of the period experienced earthquakes. Vivaldi was born March 4, 1678 just after an earthquake that shook Venice. He was immediately baptized in case God decided to go all the way and destroy the city completely.

Naples was the greatest European opera center, and encapsulated the tension between sensual excess and ecclesiastical decorum that governed Italy’s relationship with the genre. Earthquakes and volcanoes were God’s favorite mediums for cautioning decadent Naples from too amorous an embrace of opera; when the earth shook it was time for the lovers to disentangle themselves. Looming above the Bay of Naples, Vesuvius was a constant reminder that God’s wrathful fist was always at the ready. After the Neapolitan earthquakes of November and early December, 1732, the theatres remained closed as a sign of atonement for next Carnival opera season, one of the great tourist attractions of Europe. Pergolesi would have only one more Carnival season in Naples before tuberculosis incapacitated him and then killed him in 1736 at the age of twenty-six.

The cautionary rumbles of Vesuvius shadowed musical life in Naples from Roman times. Only Nero had the temerity to resist seismic portents with lascivious song. According to Suetonius’s Life of Nero, the Emperor’s “first stage appearance was at Neapolis where, disregarding an earthquake which shook the theater, he sang his piece through to the end.” Tacitus would link Nero’s musical obsessions with the “wildest improprieties” with Nero’s unhinged morality presaged in his early public defiance of godly displeasure with him and his music.

Handel performed in Naples in 1708 ten years after the great 1698 earthquake.  But it was in Rome that he wrote his first earthquake music, the cantata, Donna che in ciel, commissioned in commemoration of the Roman earthquake of 1703, and performed on the disaster’s five-year anniversary in February of 1708. After the ominous overture, the opening recitative makes the connection explicit: “Today is the joyful day / on which you saved use from great peril.”

The piece is for solo soprano—a part originally sung by a male castrato—and orchestra; a single chorus provides the last of the piece’s nine moments. In the cantata, Mary is cast in the role of lenient housewife, who petitions the wrathful God—her father/son and overlord in the incestuous Trinitarian home she inhabits—to take it easy on his wayward children down on earth. The Roman earthquake could have been far worse, but thanks to Mary it wasn’t. The opening recitative thanks God, because “Today you stayed the arm of your angered Son, already about to strike, and, the stern Judge restored by you to a loving Father, showed us how much weight a Mother’s wishes carry.”  With its radical shifts in harmony and tessitura, the recitative artfully traces these perilously shifting family dynamics, which could easily be transposed from the heavenly household to 1950s suburbia.

The frenetic opening rush and teetering harmonies of the cantata’s first aria evoke not only the earth’s, i.e., God’s, power but the combination of surprise and latent expectation that attend earthquakes. Before the soprano has even entered, tectonic violence threatens to destroy the movement as the orchestral introduction is suddenly toppled by brutal chords punctured by violent silences. The soprano emerges from the rubble and echoing aftershock of the cadence with a long tremulous melisma on the word “Vacillò” — the shuddering of the earth. The line gathers momentum only to be rocked again by the same reeling chords from the strings. It is an exciting ride: at twenty-two Handel had become a master of disaster music.

Still, there is something contained about these tremors, if only because they lack the sheer scope of the massive choruses of Handel’s later English oratorios, with their outsized choral effects, shattering timpani and apocalyptic trumpets. In the concluding movement of  Handel’s earthquake cantata the chorus offers ecstatic exclamations and penitential self-flagellations in dialogue with the soaring invocations and virtuosic cantillations of the soprano:  “Mary, salvation and hope / of the afflicted world and of languishing mortals, / through you, quivering anger extinguishes its torch in a sea of blood.”  There is dread and redemption here, but real and extended terror is never fully unleashed. After all, the cantata is as much about disaster averted as disaster itself.

Handel’s 1739 oratorio, Israel in Egypt, is a towering landmark in the history of musical violence, a choral blockbuster of one disaster after the next. The choruses outnumber the solo numbers ten to one. God unleashes his full wrath on the Egyptians, and there is no Mary to talk him out of it. In this age of ongoing Palestinian tragedy, I find it especially difficult to listen to the parched fugal death throes of  “They loathed to drink of the river: He turned their waters into blood” and the relentless hammer blows of “He smote all the first-born,” however musically compelling the force and ingenuity of such depictions may be.

Even more terrifying is the bellowing musical rhetoric, all choral shouts and pounding drums, that send the waters of the Red Sea crashing down over the pursuing Egyptian hosts. “But the waters overwhelmed their enemies” is a truly frightening depiction of the wave and its consequences. But it is frightening not only because of the huge forces involved, but because the chorus is so unified and frenzied in its condemnations, the massed judgment of a fascist mob.

Yet more disturbing, precisely because of its irresistible, intimate beauty, is the re-telling of this event in the second part of the oratorio from Moses’ perspective in the soprano aria “Though didst blow with the wind: the sea cover’d them, they sank as lead in the mighty waters.” Handel used the musical material from this gorgeous aria several times in the 1730s. In fact, the repeating bass-line takes up a ubiquitous harmonic progression of the Baroque also heard in Pachelbel’s overplayed Canon in D, and not coincidentally used at least twice by Bach for the evocation of severe wind conditions. In Handel’s aria this ostinato pattern proceeds gently at the restrained pace of Andante Larghetto in steady, endless currents heard in the lower strings and bassoon. A pair of oboes enters above these gathering waters in lush, parallel motion and then go on to answer each other in yearning counterpoint, as if to sanctify the ongoing act of destruction. The voice soprano emerges from this liquid texture like a poignant prayer, reaching first a long-held note that then glides effortlessly on the divine breeze skimming the sea.

It is in aestheticizing the human toll of natural disaster, that Handel reaches the heights and depths of his genius for musical manipulation. Donna che in ciel finds refuge in the compulsory, if somewhat perfunctory acknowledgment of sin. Its allusion to punishment is fleeting and exhilarating.  The bad guys are us, and we’re not so bad, and are therefore spared. In Israel in Egypt the enemy is both real and symbolic, i.e., applicable to any and all useful foes across historical time.  This epic of catastrophe begins as shock entertainment, but we are then compelled by the force of Handel’s genius to identify with its perpetrators.

The destruction of the Egyptian army by the Hebrew God in “though didst blow” becomes an exquisite benediction not an act of war and death. The tsunami of retribution is the seal on God’s covenant. Never has musical serenity been so terrifying.

Coming soon:  The 1755 Lisbon Earthquake, Sharon Stone, Telemann and the invention of modern disaster music

DAVID YEARSLEY teaches at Cornell University. A long-time contributor to the Anderson Valley Advertiser, he is author of Bach and the Meanings of Counterpoint His latest CD, “All Your Cares Beguile: Songs and Sonatas from Baroque London”, has just been released by Musica Omni. He can be reached at dgy2@cornell.edu

 

 

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DAVID YEARSLEY is a long-time contributor to CounterPunch and the Anderson Valley Advertiser. His recording of J. S. Bach’s organ trio sonatas is available from Musica Omnia. He can be reached at  dgyearsley@gmail.com

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