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10/29/2014 6 Comments

g-sharp minor

In early tuning systems, such as just intonation and mean-tone temperaments, certain keys had expressive qualities or colors that were unique to them, due to the irregular tempering of certain intervals. An eighteenth-century composer’s choice of key was often determined by the key’s Affekt, that is, its emotional character, as well as by its practicality on a certain instrument. Equal temperament, in which all intervals are treated identically, put an end to this tradition, although the psychology of key color persevered well into the nineteenth century. For example, C and D major continued to be associated with triumph and festivity, while F and G major tended to remain the favored keys for pastorals. In the twentieth century, Donald Francis Tovey postulated that keys have characteristics in reference to their relation to C major, the fundamental key in Western music since it is the first key musicians learn as children. Thus, keys that are close to C major, such as F, G and D major, portray expressive qualities that differ from more remote keys, such as F-sharp and D-flat major.
G-sharp minor is a strange key. Its five sharps and the notorious acoustic squeal from G-sharp to D-sharp, dubbed the “Wolf fifth,” have precluded its use in just intonation and mean-tone temperaments. It was only with the general acceptance of equal temperament in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, or some form of equal partitioning of the chromatic scale, that it could even be considered. Moreover, the need for a double sharp to notate the leading tone and the crucial dominant chord has made it into something of an eyesore from an orthographic standpoint, which is not the case with its enharmonic A-flat minor (despite the fact that it has a key signature of seven flats) or its relative major, B.
As a result of its relatively late appearance in music history and a scarcity of examples, the key has a somewhat undistinguished character and color. For example, there is nothing in the music of Bach’s Prelude and Fugue in G-sharp minor from either book of The Well-tempered Keyboard that would stipulate that these pieces should be in G-sharp minor; which is to say, these pieces could work in another key (G or A minor, for example) without any detriment to their musical characters. Perhaps it is for this reason, as well as an unavoidable awkwardness that the key poses for many instruments, that it was sidestepped during the Classical era. No piece or movement of a piece by Haydn, Mozart or Beethoven is in G-sharp minor. Beethoven, in fact, avoided the key on the one occasion in which its use might have been justified. The third movement (“Marcia funebre”) of the Sonata for Piano in A-flat major, Op. 26 dips into the parallel minor of the sonata’s key, A-flat minor (shrewdly introduced in the third variation of the first movement), rather than the more easily legible (in terms of key signature) G-sharp minor.
The nineteenth century and the expansion of chromatic harmony during this time proved more welcoming to G-sharp minor, although works in this key were generally restricted to the piano. To my knowledge, Chopin was one of the first to compose works of significance in G-sharp minor following Bach’s examples from The Well-tempered Keyboard. The fiercely difficult and fiercely original Etude Op. 25, No. 6 (c. 1833) subjects the right-hand fingers to demanding passages in thirds in the key of G-sharp minor, with a startling modulation in the middle section to C major. The Prelude in G-sharp minor, Op. 28, No. 12 of c. 1837, a collection influenced by Bach’s The Well-tempered Keyboard, shows a tempestuous, Sturm und Drang treatment of the key:

Hans von Bülow appropriately nicknamed this piece “The Duel.” Chopin followed this once more (and only once more) with the Mazurka in G-sharp minor, Op. 33, No. 1, also of 1837, which adopts far different temperaments of melancholy and introspection:

Liszt, perhaps following Chopin’s lead, set his virtuosic La Campanella in G-sharp minor (although the first version of the piece was in A-flat minor), as well as the tamer “Andante lagrimoso” from Harmonie poétiques e religieuses (whose central section also modulates to C major). Even Brahms explored the key on one occasion, in his brief two-piano Waltz Op. 39, No. 3 of 1865.
After the mid-nineteenth century, the key became somewhat more prevalent, in fact being a particular favorite with Russian composers. Mussorgsky might have provided the impetus in this instance with two well-known pieces from Pictures at an Exhibition set in G-sharp minor. The second piece in the collection, “The Old Castle,” explores a melancholy G-sharp-minor setting, while the fourth piece, “Bydlo,” contrasts with a bolder, lugubrious setting. Mussorgsky’s choice of key in these instances may have been influenced by piano technique, rather than by any special traits of the key itself. For example, the opening measures of “The Old Castle” comprise two voices in the left hand, accompanied by a variety of articulations to specify their execution (fingerings are my own):

With its predominance of black keys G-sharp minor forces the left hand to be elevated somewhat above the keys and to be positioned further into the keyboard. This “forced” elevation allows for a suppleness of the wrist and for a clean articulation of the two voices. Consider the difficulties the pianist might encounter if this piece had been set in G minor:

The hand, now withdrawn from the black keys, is no longer naturally elevated, and the fingers will thus experience some awkwardness (and tension) as they twist around D and E-flat in the third and fourth measures. In this instance, Mussorgsky’s choice of key seems to have been determined by considerations of ease of performance.
Mussorgsky’s strategy may have had a historical precedent in Beethoven’s unusual choice (for its time) of C-sharp minor for his Sonata Op. 27, No. 2 (“Moonlight”). In the famous first movement, the repetition of the G-sharp in the right-hand melody can be more easily executed if the hand is elevated above the keys. The key of C-sharp minor, like G-sharp minor, forces the hand into an elevated position and allows suppleness of the wrist, which is less the case if the piece had been notated in C minor:

Note also the drastic difference in sound of the left-hand chords in the third measure of these examples, separated merely by a semitone. Regrettably, this transposition of key is often found in “easy” piano arrangements of this movement.
Other Russians, such as Scriabin and Rachmaninoff, explored the qualities of G-sharp minor, although continuing to restrict their explorations to piano music. Scriabin, in particular, seems to have had an early fascination with the key (perhaps following Chopin’s influence), for the key appears in his Sonata No. 2 (probably the first complete sonata in this key), the Mazurka Op. 3, No. 9, the Etude Op. 8, No. 9, the Prelude Op. 16, No. 2, and the Prelude Op. 22, No. 1. Curiously, however, the key does not appear in any instance after Op. 22, perhaps coinciding with his break from the Chopin tradition. Like Chopin, Scriabin’s use of the key could be tempestuous, docile, tragic and heroic. His Prelude Op. 16, No. 2 shows an original treatment of the key and a piano sonority that can be found in no other instance; which is to say, the key finally seems to be finding a character:

Both Ravel and Debussy used the key in at least one instance, the former in the mercurial “Scarbo” from Gaspard de la nuit, and the latter in the poignant “Hommage à Rameau” from Images I (ironically, a key that probably would have meant little to Rameau). Nikolai Myaskovsky had the audacity to compose his Symphony No. 17 of 1937 in G-sharp minor, which surely must have met with some displeasure by the orchestral musicians. Perhaps not, for this was prefigured by Jean Sibelius, who composed the second movement of his 1907 Symphony No. 3 in G-sharp minor, making for a striking, yet deeply expressive contrast with the C-major tonality of the symphony as a whole (perhaps influenced by the previously cited examples of Chopin and Liszt).
There are surely other examples of pieces in G-sharp minor. What pieces can you think of?

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10/24/2014 1 Comment

Bach’s Surround-Sound: “Kommt, ihr Töchter, helft mir klagen” from the St. Matthew Passion

Composers have long been attracted to the spatial element in music, in which divisions in physical space are created through varied placements of the musicians in the performance area. The technique seems to have originated in response to an architectural format, as with the cori spezzati that were popular in St. Mark’s cathedral in sixteenth-century Venice. The vogue, once started, continued for some time, though eventually waned by the eighteenth century, at which point spatial divisions were employed largely for dramatic effects (as in the conclusion of Act 1 of Mozart’s Don Giovanni) or for atypically large sonorities (as in Berlioz’s Te Deum and Requiem).
Musical space provides an exhilarating sense of drama in numerous instances in Johann Sebastian Bach’s St. Matthew Passion, BWV 244 of 1727. Its opening chorus “Kommt, ihr Töchter, helft mir klagen” (Come, you daughters, help me mourn), in particular, uses spatial divisions to create a wondrous sense of drama in response to Matthew’s account of Jesus’ suffering and death. This movement is not a part of the passion narrative—that must wait for the second movement—but rather is an introductory lament that sets the tone for what is to follow. Moreover, it is an eighteenth-century meditation on the significance of Christ’s death for humankind.
The sublime musical drama in this movement is founded on a division of the performers into two equal-sized groups, each featuring an SATB choir and an orchestra of winds, strings and continuo (brass and percussion would be reserved for the following Easter Sunday). At the premiere performance, all musicians were assembled in the rear choir loft of the St. Thomaskirche in Leipzig, concealed from the view of the majority of the congregation, one group placed to the left of the central organ, the other to the right. Additionally, a group of boy sopranos was placed to the east of the choir loft, to be used only in the opening and closing movements of Part 1.
Its first performance on Good Friday, April 11, 1727, with thousands in attendance, must have been miraculous. We can presume that the idea for this striking arrangement was Bach’s own, but some input may have been provided by the passion librettist, commonly identified by his pseudonym Picander. Picander was certainly responsible for composing individual characteristics for each choir that are preserved for the duration of the work. In his published libretto he designated Choir 1 as “The Daughters of Zion” (a Biblical reference to the city of Jerusalem and the reference to the title of the opening movement) and Choir 2 as “The Faithful.” Choir 1 thus represents those who lamented Jesus’ death, and Choir 2 the community of believers in his mission.
Though Bach curiously chose not to incorporate Picander’s designations in his score, he composed for each choir in such a way that their identities are readily audible. In the opening movement, Choir 1 is given the bulk of the text, while Choir 2 poses single-word questions (What? Who? How?) in response to Choir 1. This plan is preserved until the concluding section (mm. 73–87), at which point both choirs sing in unison, creating a breathtaking mass of choral sound. One can almost picture the two choral groups on each side of the road to Golgotha (the site of the crucifixion), witnessing Jesus bear the cross. This was a concept proposed by Albert Schweitzer in the early twentieth century, and one that is strikingly credible on the basis of the repeated, insistent iambic rhythm in the bass, which could be likened to a slow, laborious walk. In effect, the choirs are engaged in a dialogue, and Choir 1 is calling the listener to witness the horror of Christ’s crucifixion.
Amazingly, there is more. Picander incorporated allegorical elements in the opening movement, two of which were well known in the Christian doctrine. Jesus is likened both to a bridegroom (“See him! Who? The bridegroom there,” the reference being to the Church as the bride betrothed to Christ) and a lamb (“See him! How? Just like a lamb,” a comparison with the sacrificial lamb as an offering for sin). At the point at which Choir 1 sings the word “lamb,” Bach brings in the boy soprano group, which sings the Lutheran hymn O Lamm Gottes, unschuldig (“Oh, Lamb of God, Unspotted”). This is a jarring moment in the passion as a whole, not so much because of the appearance of this third choral group, but because of the way in which the hymn is set. “Set” is perhaps not the appropriate term, because, in effect, the G-major hymn is “pasted” on top of the E-minor music, sounding almost as if it were an intrusion. Here, Bach is offering us two differing viewpoints on Christ’s passion: Picander’s words comment on Christ’s suffering, while those of the Lutheran hymn comment on Christ’s innocence. The two work together, but the listener cannot help but experiencing a few moments of unease. They are dissimilar, yet they are compatible. They clash and grind, yet never resolve, and surely this was Bach’s exact intent.
The elegiac tone of the text and the minor key of the music would inevitably entail a chromatically rich harmonic palette, featuring a wealth of dissonances, secondary dominants, diminished-seventh chords and Neapolitan-sixth chords, with momentary suspensions of tonal centers. The tone is set from the opening measure, in which a chromatically sinuous theme in the oboe begins clearly in E minor and wanders almost immediately into another tonal area (the subdominant), though quickly returns to E minor. Curiously, this theme is given to the bass voices with the first entry of Choir 1 in m. 17. One might expect that the opening melody would be given to the more readily audible sopranos, yet they sing a countermelody that balances harmonically with the basses:

Expectedly, the two melodies work in invertible counterpoint, which happens with the words “Sehet ihn aus Lieb und Huld” (See how he with love and grace) in m. 75 (note that the tenor line sounds an octave lower).

The following example illustrates the first appearance of the boy soprano group singing the hymn O Lamm Gottes, unschuldig in m. 30. We can see that the hymn agrees harmonically with Bach’s music, yet defiantly preserves its G-major tonality in an E-minor context:

The extended melismas that highlight the critical word “klagen” (mourn) are found in numerous instances in this movement.
Imagine being seated on a hard wooden pew in an unheated church on Good Friday, April 11, 1727 in Leipzig. Imagine the service starting, following an extended absence of music in the worship schedule, with the opening movement of the Cantor’s musical account of The Gospel of Matthew. Imagine the first entry of Choir 1 in m. 17 positioned to one side of the church, followed by the entry of Choir 2 in m. 27 positioned to the other side. Imagine then the entry of the third choral group, positioned to another side of the church, moments later in m. 30. This early form of surround-sound must have made for an utterly magical experience.

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10/15/2014 1 Comment

Contrast and Drama in Bach’s “Friede sei mit euch”

Contrast is such an unusual feature in a Baroque piece or movement that when it does occur it can have an especially dramatic and exhilarating effect. Such is the case with the sixth movement (“Friede sei mit euch”) of Johann Sebastian Bach’s cantata Halt im Gedächtnis Jesum Christ, BWV 67 (“Hold in Remembrance, Jesus Christ”). Composed for the Sunday after Easter, April 16, 1724 (“Quasimodogeniti”) and part of the first cantata cycle that Bach planned for Leipzig in 1723–24, Halt im Gedächtnis follows close on the heels of the St. John Passion, BWV 245, composed for the Good Friday service just nine days prior on April 7, 1724. Logically, the theological message of Halt im Gedächtnis is influenced by the Gospel of John, with segments of the cantata’s text taken from John 20:19, 21 and 26.
The fundamental theme of Halt im Gedächtnis, one that remains critical in the Christian doctrine during the period following Easter, is a reassurance of Christ’s ministry after his crucifixion; essentially, an affirmation that his death was a beneficial, even necessary occurrence. Halt im Gedächtnis explores the anxieties, the doubts and the loss of hope that Jesus’ disciples experienced in the week after the crucifixion. Each of its seven movements urges the listener to keep Jesus in their memories, as the opening chorus triumphantly exclaims. Reassurance continues in the fourth movement with a harmonization of the familiar Easter chorale Erschienen is der herrlich Tag and in the closing chorale Du Friedefürst, Herr Jesu Christ, which acknowledges Jesus as the Prince of Peace.
The sixth movement of the cantata, an aria for solo bass with choral accompaniment (in effect, a dialogue), is a masterful representation of the disciples’ anxieties during this period. In this climactic movement, Bach composes a highly charged dramatic scene that could have been taken from a contemporary opera, in which the disciples’ anxieties are quelled through the miraculous appearance of Christ, who repeatedly offers them four words of reassurance (“Peace be unto you”). The Gospel of John records that Christ’s reassurances were understandably met with disbelief and doubt, which eventually passed with the repeated beatific utterances of “Peace be unto you.” By the aria’s conclusion, the disciples’ faith is firmly restored.
To depict anxiety that is tempered through reassurance, Bach subdivides the aria into eight episodes, each episode alternating the heightened emotion of the disciples with the peacefulness of Christ’s utterances. Contrast is brought into play to produce a marvelous dramatic effect, achieved through contrast of timbre, texture, meter and dynamics, a rarely encountered scheme for music of this period. The disciples’ episodes feature strings, continuo and SAT voices (the choral bass voices are silent in this movement), are polyphonic, set in 4/4 time and predominantly forte. By contrast, Jesus’ episodes feature winds (a flute and two oboes d’amore, reminiscent of the “Pastoral” from the later Christmas Oratorio), continuo and a solo bass voice (the voice of Christ), are homophonic, set in 3/4 time and exclusively piano (all dynamic markings are Bach’s own). This design can be represented as follows:

1) Introduction (A major, strings, polyphonic, 4/4, forte, 9 measures)
2) Friede sei mit euch no. 1 (A major to E major, winds and bass voice, homophonic, 3/4 piano, 16 measures)
3) Wohl uns! (A major, strings and SAT voices, polyphonic, 4/4, forte, 11 measures)
4) Friede sei mit euch no. 2 (A major to F# minor, winds and bass voice, homophonic, 3/4, piano, 16 measures)
5) Jesus holet uns zu Friede (F# minor to D major, strings and SAT voices, polyphonic, 4/4, forte, 13 measures)
6) Friede sei mit euch no. 3 (D major to F# minor, winds and bass voice, homophonic, 3/4, piano, 16 measures)
7) O Herr! (F# minor to A major, strings, SAT and bass voices, 4/4, polyphonic, forte, 13 measures)
8) Friede sei mit euch no. 4 (A major, winds, strings and bass voice, homophonic, 3/4, piano, 17 measures)

All voices are used only in episode no. 7, a climactic moment in which Jesus’ words are briefly pitted against the cries of the disciples. Episode no. 8 is the only instance in which all instruments play together, the strings blending with the pastoral tones of the winds. It might also be relevant to note that each of the four episodes of “Friede sei mit euch” feature three repetitions of these words, giving a total of twelve statements in the aria. In effect, the statement is being made to each disciple in turn.
The following example shows the opening of the aria, the bustling, virtuosic passage in the strings depicting the disciples’ anxiety (tempo is approximately quarter note equals 88):

The second episode shows how contrast establishes the pastoral character for the setting of Jesus’ words “Friede sei mit euch”:

In the third episode, the disciples, their faith being gradually restored, affirm that Jesus will help them battle hell and Satan (“Jesus hilft uns kämpfen”).

Notice how the vocal lines, mirroring the strings in the movement’s opening, match the temperament of the word “kämpfen” (fight). The choir singers of 1724 Leipzig must have experienced their own anxieties when first reading through this passage.
This aria must have meant something special to Bach, and it is tempting to think he personally viewed it as an achievement in his work. This would explain why the movement is parodied in full in the Gloria movement of the Mass in A Major, BWV 234 from c. 1738. The musical contrast is preserved, yet it becomes a means for underscoring varied interpretations of the Latin text, one jubilant and festive, the other introspective and meditative.
Lastly, Bach’s choice of key for this cantata, A major, is not a tonality frequently found in his works. The key may have been chosen to accommodate the two oboes d’amore, which are pitched in A, and to accommodate the virtuosic string writing. Yet this key might signify something unique and remarkable in Bach’s interpretation of John’s theology, following closely after the composition of the St. John Passion. According to John Eliot Gardiner, “In the St. John Passion, Jesus’ sufferings are associated with flat keys, their benefits for humankind with sharp keys.” (John Eliot Gardiner, Bach: Music in the Castle of Heaven, p. 372). For example, the numbers for Peter’s denial and fall, and Jesus’ death are set in sharp keys; those for the burial and crucifixion in flat keys. If we accept Gardiner’s reasoning, then Halt im Gedächtnis continues concepts introduced in the St. John Passion, likewise continuing the inexorable musical drama that earmarks both works.

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10/8/2014 1 Comment

Erich Korngold’s Die tote Stadt

History can be a cruel, unforgiving judge of the arts. The music of the Austrian composer Erich Korngold (1897–1957) is but one example of history’s cruelness. Distinguished as a prodigy from his childhood, Korngold received high accolades from Mahler and Strauss before reaching adolescence. At this time his music was performed by leading ensembles in Austria and even won the attention of so a discriminating pianist as Artur Schnabel, who toured Europe with Korngold’s 1910 Piano Sonata. His early fame was marked by two operas, Der Ring des Polykrates and Violanta, both of 1916, the latter of which earned the praise of Puccini. These were followed in 1920 by the opera Die tote Stadt, which was acclaimed internationally with dual premiere performances in Hamburg and Cologne, the former under the direction of Otto Klemperer. By 1928, he was ranked as one of the two greatest living composers in Europe, the other being Arnold Schönberg.
Things changed dramatically for Korngold in the 1930s, at which time he was forced to flee Austria because of his Jewish faith. He immigrated to the United States, settling in Hollywood and quickly making a reputation as a composer of film scores. Two of his scores, The Adventures of Robin Hood and Anthony Adverse, received Oscars. Despite the success of his work in film, he soon tired of the Hollywood industry and abandoned it altogether in 1946. He eagerly returned to concert music, although his post-Hollywood scores were greeted with far less enthusiasm; the erstwhile Wunderkind had become a middle-aged man.
In the decades after the war and after his death, Korngold’s music suffered neglect and harsh criticism, largely because of the Hollywood association and because of his obstinacy to abandon a musical style that was regarded as passé. To this day, his legacy is associated primarily with his Hollywood work. One wonders what he might have achieved had the war not interfered with his musical activities.
Korngold’s third opera, Die tote Stadt (“The Dead City,” the city being Bruges), is a remarkable score, completed when the composer was twenty. The libretto, written jointly by Korngold and his father, tells the story of the obsessive refusal of a man (Paul) to accept the death of his wife (Marie) and to abandon her memory. So intense does his obsession become that he imagines meeting a woman named Marietta, a dancer in an opera troupe touring through Bruges, whom Paul believes to be his wife reborn. Paul suffers extreme anxiety and hallucinations from this meeting, and his increasingly erratic behavior ostracizes him from his friends. In the third and final act, his behavior reaches such a level of hysteria that he imagines murdering Marietta, which becomes the turning point in his realization that this has all existed in his imagination. The shock of this realization snaps him out of his stupor and cures him of his obsession with his dead wife.
It is tempting to draw comparisons with Alban Berg’s opera Wozzeck, composed at approximately the same time, though first performed in 1925. Both operas feature an antagonist named Marie, who is brutally murdered by the protagonist. Both feature strongly Expressionist music that mirrors the deteriorating mental states of the characters. Hysteria, anxiety and obsession are important themes in both. Additionally, both operas feature extended musical interludes between scenes, transitory music that concludes one scene and anticipates the next. This might suggest some sort of mutual influence between the two composers—Berg surely would have been aware of the then-more-famous Korngold—or perhaps the psychological elements of the stories were a powerful Zeitgeist after World War I.
One aspect that even the uninitiated listener of Die tote Stadt will perceive (this being another point of comparison between the two operas) is its stylistic plurality. The score features lush Romantic music typical of Brahms, Wolf or Mahler in their happiest moments alternating suddenly with fiercely Expressionist music that could be mistaken for Schönberg’s or Berg’s music from the same time. Stylistic plurality was certainly not an isolated phenomenon in the early twentieth century; for example, Strauss’ 1916 version of Ariadne auf Naxos exploits it unashamedly. These composers and various others might have seen this as a means to preserve listener accessibility in a hectically changing musical climate. However, the stylistic changes in Die tote Stadt are most likely a means to depict Paul’s varied mental states, one moment happy and rapturous, the next moment bewildered and confused. The shifts in style that become increasingly haphazard as the opera progresses draw us more deeply into Paul’s bipolar condition leading up to the imagined murder.
The score features a virtuosic handling of a massive Straussian orchestra, including a wind machine, church bells, organ, harmonium and a variety of behind-the-scene instruments. All of these resources are called upon in Scene 3 of Act 2, a fantastic musical depiction of a hallucination in which Paul imagines Marietta rehearsing the resurrection scene from Meyerbeer’s opera Robert le diable (Meyerbeer, like Korngold, was a Jewish composer, whose operas deeply impressed Korngold). However, the rehearsal degenerates into a decadent burlesque, which horrifies the already unhinged Paul. The surreal bizarreness of the scene, something akin to the Prologue of Berg’s second opera Lulu, is matched by an original and imaginative harmonic vocabulary and a kaleidoscopic whirlwind of orchestral color. The scene is introduced by a massive build-up in the orchestra, with music that is as harmonically advanced as anything of its time:

The music of this passage fills a massively wide pitch spectrum, with virtually all orchestral instruments participating. Jarring, unresolved dissonances are created through a crushing bitonality of Eb major and D major, with hints of Ab major and G major. In fact, this assembly of differing harmonies is somewhat reminiscent of an Ives symphonic score. Just imagine how effectively this passage illustrates Paul’s tortured mental condition, as he witnesses the abominations of this rehearsal. The listener is left as bewildered and overwhelmed as Paul similarly is.
Yes, history has been cruel to Korngold’s music, but Die tote Stadt, rightly so, is enjoying something of a revival in the twenty-first century, nearly one hundred years after its completion. According to operabase.com, there are 132 performances of 23 productions in 22 cities of this neglected masterpiece between 2012 and 2015. Perhaps history can be kind after all.

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10/1/2014 3 Comments

What is Andantino?

The Italian tempo markings that are part of our musical vocabulary have been notoriously ambiguous for centuries. Part of this may be attributed to their inexactness (contrary to the precision of metronome markings), to their double use as terms of expression and of speed (as with adagio), to their changes in meaning over time, and to the occasional incorrect use of the Italian language, which is often a foreign tongue to many musicians. Andantino is one such instance of incorrect Italian. Meaning “a little andante,” the term is, strictly speaking, not a part of the Italian vocabulary, being found only in musical contexts. Despite its use since the eighteenth century, it is a term that is fraught with misinterpretation.
The problem most likely stems from the root andante itself; specifically, is andante a fast or a slow tempo? If fast, then the addition of the diminutive suffix “ino” entails a faster speed; if the converse, then it entails a slower one. There is generally no such misunderstanding when diminutive suffixes are added to other markings, such as the commonly encountered prestissimo and allegrissimo (faster than presto and allegro, respectively), allegretto (slower than allegro), or larghetto and adagietto (faster than largo and adagio, respectively). Presto, allegro, largo and adagio are unambiguous indications of speed; as a result, diminutive suffixes added to these terms are generally unequivocal.
One wonders who the first musician was to introduce the term andantino—probably not an Italian—and how the term gained currency in eighteenth-century Europe. Its time of origin seems to be the mid-eighteenth century, at some point in the course of Wolfgang Mozart’s lifetime. Of the important eighteenth-century treatises that addressed the meanings of Italian tempo indications, andantino was not mentioned in Sébastien de Brosard’s Dictionaire de musique of 1703, Alexander Malcom’s Treatise of Musick of 1721, James Grassineau’s Musical Dictionary of 1740, Johann Joachim Quantz’s Versuch einer Anweisung die Flöte zu spielen of 1752, or Leopold Mozart’s Violinschule of 1756. Jean-Jacques Rousseau was one of the first theorists to mention it in his Dictionaire de musique of 1768, in which he described it as “an andante with less gaiety in the beat” (thus, slower than andante). Subsequent treatises by Türk (1789), Clementi (1801) and Hummel (1828) agreed with Rousseau, although J. B. Cartier’s L’art du violin of 1798 ranked it faster than andante and slower than allegro. (Cartier also listed allegretto as faster than allegro, which would imply that his interpretation of Italian diminutive suffixes was incorrect.) Of these theorists, only Clementi was a native Italian speaker.
The first musical usage of andantino, to my knowledge, was the second movement of Friedrich Wilhelm Marpurg’s Partita in G Major of 1756, the year of Leopold Mozart’s Violinschule and Wolfgang Mozart’s birth. Wilhelm Friedemann Bach, Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach (though not Johann Sebastian Bach), Wolfgang Mozart and (less so) Joseph Haydn used the term on occasion, and evidence supports the claim that these composers understood the term to be slower than andante (meaning, for them, andante was a slow tempo). Consider, for example, the Andantino section from Mozart’s Fantasia in C Minor, K. 475 of 1785:

Following a turbulent allegro section, this andantino passage demands a slow tempo (though certainly not as slow as the opening Adagio) for the thirty-second notes to be articulated properly. For example, the performer must execute the thirty-second note following the double-dotted eighth-note rest at the end of the first measure in such a way that it is not perceived as a sixteenth note. A fairly slow tempo is thus necessary for this to be accomplished, perhaps slow enough for the eighth note to be the main beat.
However, at some point thereafter, the term entered a checkered period of convolution and confusion. Beethoven, a composer always concerned for indicating the proper tempo markings, was deeply troubled by the term and used it sparingly. His concern with it is seen in the frustration he expressed in an 1813 letter to his Edinburgh publisher, in which he requested that folk melodies sent to him for harmonization that carried the term andantino be accompanied by clarification as to whether they were faster or slower than andante. Through the nineteenth century, andantino somehow transformed from a slower andante to a faster andante (meaning, for nineteenth-century musicians, andante was a fast tempo), yet instances of confusion and misinterpretation persisted. Merely one example is the way in which nineteenth-century composers, following Beethoven’s lead, combined common tempo markings as a means for specifying more precise indications. We find frequent instances of the indication Allegretto quasi andantino in such nineteenth-century scores as Schubert’s Rondo in A Major for piano, D. 951 and the third movement of Brahms’ Symphony No. 2, Op. 73. Confusion deepens when the reverse is found (Andantino quasi allegretto), as in the second movement of Saint-Saëns’ Violin Concerto No. 3, Op. 61 and Rimsky-Korsakov’s Scheherazade. Which of the two is a faster tempo? Or are they two ways of expressing the same thing?
For better or worse, there is no English, French or German equivalent for andantino, which might explain why Claude Debussy used the term over the course of his career, even once French became his chosen language for musical indications. Andantino is the tempo specified in his “Menuet” from Suite bergamasque, and the more explicit Andantino con moto in Arabesque No. 1 and Ballade. The exquisite “Reflets dans l’eau” from Images I opens with the rather troubling term Andantino molto; does the qualifier molto imply a faster or a slower speed? Debussy was prone to using macaronic forms—which would suggest that the term conveyed a meaning that no French word could—as with the indications Andantino sans lenteur in the famous Rêverie and Andantino, doucement expressif in the third movement of the String Quartet, Op. 10. The latter, however, is accompanied by a metronome marking of eighth note equals 80, which in this instance demonstrates that andantino was a request for slowness and tranquility.
Surprisingly, the term, despite its ambiguity, has survived into the twentieth century, appearing in the scores of Sibelius, Stravinsky, Villa-Lobos and Hindemith. Despite the numerous examples that may be found of the its usage, andantino remains something of an enigma even to this day. It is a term whose very appearance on the page may imply something psychological to the experienced musician, yet whose true meaning defies a precise definition.

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