Poor Midas can’t catch a break!

Lackey and witless toady to the teflon-coated Pan, who manages to slip off into the wings unscathed, Midas winds up the butt of everyone’s joke in this comic masterpiece.

Twenty years separate two notable performances of BWV 201, Bach’s musical indictment of musical ignorance.  The first performance, as suggested by most authorities, came in 1729 during Bach’s first appearance as leader of the Collegium Musicum at Zimmermann’s coffeehouse.  A specific target, if one existed, for this initial  performance has not been identified.  The second performance, 20 years later, came in 1749 in the form of a scathing response to those whom Bach considered at that moment to be particularly ignorant critics — either Johann Gottlob Biedermann or the Saxon premiere Count Bruhl or both.  Clearly, unenlightened criticism was an issue which plagued Bach throughout his career and to which he was particularly sensitive.  Koopman, in the liner notes to his recorded performance, suggests that there may, in fact, have been several performances of this cantata.  But whatever the immediate motivation, no more apt vehicle could have been chosen to explore musical aesthetics than the mythical confrontation between Phoebus Apollo and the clueless Pan.

I do find it curious that Pan gets off so lightly in Bach’s reading while the scapegoat Midas, who appears to be nothing more than a dumb patsy, bears the brunt of the ridicule.

Pan carries the onus of pride as well as of ignorance and therefore deserves a more humiliating fate.  I can’t help but see him chortling to himself about his good fortune as he sneaks out the back door:  “Boy, I got away with one there, didn’t I?”  The visual image I associate with the Pan of BWV 201 is that of him returning to sylvan settings and  frolicking with nubile nymphs as depicted in William Bougereau’s  Nymphs and Satyr, a painting frequently cited as displaying the same kind of bad artistic taste being skewered here by Bach.  (I have to confess that I enjoy the painting. No visit to the Clark Art Institute in Williamstown, MA, would be complete without experiencing its lighthearted vulgarity.)             

Despite the fact that the subject matter of this cantata was indeed of great moment to Bach, its secular format allowed him to indulge the whimsical, playful side of his musical personality.  (The graphic recreation of the braying of an ass in Midas’s aria was a crudeness we normally might not expect from Bach!)  It also allowed him to narrate a story with a clearly identifiable plot line.  Based on the account provided by Ovid, Bach and his “librettist” Picander adapted the tale to meet the exigencies of a sendup of their contemporary enforcers of musical conformity.

Der Streit zwischen Phoebus und Pan (“The dispute between Phoebus and Pan”) or Geschwinde, geschwinde, ihr wirbelneden Winde (“Haste, haste, you whirling winds”), as it is also known, is, at approximately 50 minutes, one of Bach’s longest cantatas.  Consisting of 15 movements bookended by two marvelous choruses, the six principal characters alternate arias with recitatives which define the plot line and keep the action moving forward. The text is by Picander (Christian Friedrich Henrici) after Ovid’s Metamorphoses (Book 11).   Among other alterations to Ovid’s account, Picander adds two characters — Mercurius (god of merchants, probably representing the merchants of Leipzig) and Momus (god of satire) — and makes the contest vocal rather than instrumental.  Tmolus’s role changes from that of being sole judge to becoming Apollo’s second, as does the role of Midas, who becomes Pan’s second.  In its barest outlines, the boastful Pan (bass) gets his comeuppance at the hands of Phoebus Apollo (bass) who challenges him to a contest to be decided by their respective seconds, Midas (tenor) and Tmolus (tenor).  The ignorance and sycophancy of Midas betray the emptiness of Pan’s claim, and the added support given by the ostensibly more neutral Momus (soprano) and Mercurius (alto) to Tmolus’s judgment in favor of Apollo results in Midas’s ultimate disgrace.  Pan somehow manages to slink out the back door unnoticed.

The cantata opens with a choral display, “Geschwinde, geschwinde, ihr wirbelneden Winde”, a large, da capo chorus which doesn’t tell us much of anything other than that the subject of the cantata is music itself, with references to “to-and-fro” alluding to the impending contest.  Swirling instrumental flourishes represent the agitated winds, triplet figurations which are passed continuously among the instrumental voices so that they appear in every single measure of the first 106.  Could the banishing of the winds with this grand tutti opening serve a dual purpose? Could it be not only an introduction to the plot, but also a very pointed message to potentially unruly patrons of Zimmerman’s coffeehouse where this was first performed by the Collegium Musicum in 1729?  “Hey, folks, listen up!”  (What was, in fact, expected etiquette from a coffeehouse audience in early 18th-century Leipzig?  Other accounts that I’ve read of audience behavior at that time would suggest that perhaps rude and boisterous conduct might be the rule.)

Over the course of the next 13 movements, each of the 6 soloists has his opportunity to shine, 6 arias alternating with 7 recitatives, with each aria setting out a clearly defined position for each soloist.

The opening salvo belongs to Momus, who, not surprisingly, characterizes Pan as nothing more than a windbag. Her “Patron, das macht der Wind” is followed by the competition arias of Phoebus and Pan, their differences only accentuated by their proximity.  Phoebus’s tribute to youthful love and beauty as personified by the comely Hyacinth is, oddly enough, accompanied by the flute which one might associate with Pan, whose own accompaniment to his blustery aria is provided by relatively more neutral unison violins.  The competition is no contest, and designedly so.  Phoebus’s passionate utterance provides an eloquent contrast to the simplistic buffoonery of Pan’s coarse melody, 8 different examples of which can be found on the website at http://www.bach-cantatas.com/Mus/BWV201-Mus.htm .

I would like to interject here that one of the challenges of providing introductions to the cantatas during this second round is the comprehensive and often exhaustive material provided by Aryeh during the first round.  I cannot recommend strongly enough that  readers return to those discussions for an overview.  With respect to BWV 201, Aryeh suggests (at http://www.bach-cantatas.com/BWV201-D.htm ):  “Good commentaries on this cantata can be found in most liner notes to the recordings as well as elsewhere.  But after reading many of them, it seems to me that Alfred Dürr has said almost every important thing that should be said about this work.”  Aryeh offers this observation, of course, after providing us with Dürr’s complete commentary, unquestionably a tough act to follow!

The competition arias of Apollo and Pan are followed, set off by recitatives, of course, by the judgment arias of Tmolus and Midas.  Tmolus’s judicious response is followed by the misguided inanities of Midas, highlighted by the imitative donkey hee-haw that definitively puts him in his place.

The ensuing recitative gives everyone an opportunity to dump on Midas, including even Pan, who clearly enjoys the opportunity to divert attention from his own losing cause.  Mercurius’s aria follows in which he metaphorically skewers ignorant criticism, and Momus, in the penultimate movement, sends Midas on his way with a warning to him and those like him that their fate will be banishment from, and ridicule by, the company of cultured listeners. The proceedings end in a chorus that Dürr calls “an enthusiastic hymn to music.”  Both instruments and voices are given prominence in a reconciliation of art and music that stands as a rebuke to the ignorant.

BWV 201 is what I like to think of as unbuttoned Bach at his best.  I can only imagine what enjoyment he must have experienced in writing and performing such an engaging assortment of recitatives, arias, and choruses. One cannot but respond immediately to the comedic character and charms of this cantata, and I hope List members will share their reactions. Comments and observations on all aspects of the music, the drama, and/or noteworthy performances are welcome.

Highlights