The following short address was given as a part of the symposium "The Legacy of French Baroque Music", Institut Français Tel-Aviv, Saison France-Israël 2018, 17/8/2018 (With William Christie and Ruth Hacohen-Pinczower)

Good afternoon. Today I wish to do what I usually do—talk about Henry Purcell. However, this time, I will approach him from a somewhat different angle: not only a French one, but also one that speaks to our own time. I aim to address the question of influence—particularly foreign influence—through the lens of Purcell’s compositional choices.

How contemporary is this angle? Let us begin with television. French television has now completed seven seasons of the reality show The Voice: la plus belle voix. Foreign influence is embedded even in the title: unlike its French Canadian counterpart La Voix, the French version retains the English title The Voice, with only the subtitle rendered in French. This is not a criticism—after all, the original format is Dutch. Similarly, the Israeli version is also called The Voice – Israel, or more accurately, [said in Israeli accent:] דה וויס ישראל.

I mention this contemporary example in order to recount a scene from the Israeli version that aired a few seasons ago. Possibly due to contractual obligations, judges Aviv Geffen and Yuval Banai—two undisputed stars of Israeli popular music—frequently engaged in performative arguments. The producers, understandably, knew that such exchanges would draw viewers. However, one particular scene was especially absurd. After one of the judges (I believe it was Geffen) criticized a young contestant for not being aligned with current pop production trends, Banai interrupted, asserting that Geffen did not know what he was talking about. Geffen countered by citing his time spent in Los Angeles, claiming that “what is happening now in LA is this and that.” Banai responded by saying, “Do not teach me about LA—I have been there and I know it better than you.” This petty exchange quickly devolved into a bout of name-dropping, followed by a cathartic commercial break.

I could hardly believe my eyes. This was probably around 2016, and here were two provincial pop stars having a very serious argument over who knew more about LA—as if, in 2016, one still needed to physically be in Los Angeles to understand what was happening musically at the cutting edge.

And yet, despite my disdain for that scene, all available evidence suggests that Purcell and his contemporaries were deeply preoccupied with similarly urgent questions about musical fashion and influence—perhaps the 17th-century equivalent of “sounding like LA.”

So what was the 17th-century equivalent of “sounding like LA”? For roughly 150 years, that meant sounding like Vienna—or, to some extent, like Berlin and Leipzig. There was a single, dominant mainstream, and aligning oneself with that mainstream was virtually essential for any aspiring composer. To depart from it risked marginalization.

But in the Baroque period, there was more than one stylistic center to emulate. There were at least two viable models: the Italian and the French. Of course, we must always be cautious not to overstate historical binarisms on the basis of limited evidence. Still, let us allow the composer himself to speak.

In 1683, the 24-year-old Purcell published his first major set of works: Twelve Sonatas of Three Parts, clearly Italian in character. In the preface, he wrote (about himself, in the third person):

“He has faithfully endeavour’d a just imitation of the most fam’d Italian Masters; principally, to bring the seriousness and gravity of that sort of Musick into vogue and reputation among our Country-men, whose humor, 'tis time now, should begin to loath the levity and balladry of our neighbours.”

“Our neighbours”? These are certainly the French. But to “loathe the levity and balladry” of the French?

There is no doubt that these sonatas were received as Italian in style by knowledgeable amateur musicians. But what could Purcell have been thinking, writing such scathing words about French music—while dedicating the work to none other than King Charles II? The first cousin of Louis XIV? The one who spent years in exile at the French court? The one who, upon his return to England, established a band of twenty-four violins, modeled on Louis’s own ensemble? The one who sent the best promising English musicians to France to learn the art of opera? (not to mention the secret Treaty of Dover).

Was Purcell truly hostile to French music, or was this simply a calculated publicity maneuver? Evidence suggests the latter. Just seven years later, Purcell is signed on to a much more balanced statement—very likely penned by Dryden, though we cannot be certain:

“[Music in England] is now learning Italian, which is its best Master, and studying a little of the French Air, to give it somewhat more of Gayety and Fashion.”

That presents quite a different attitude, does it not?

While it is true that Purcell’s sonatas are thoroughly Italianate, his French-influenced works are numerous and significant. They include the Chacony in G minor, his keyboard suites, all four of his semi-operas, and many others.

What makes Purcell so intriguing to me is the extent to which his music is preoccupied with compositional technique. His music is, in a sense, ars poetica: a reflection on the act of composing itself. He often incorporates technical devices that would likely go unnoticed by most listeners. Consider: an air structured as a double canon; a canon in two bars over a six-bar ground; a hornpipe on a ground; a chaconne featuring inversion and stretto; even a chaconne whose ground is played in retrograde. There are whole movements built on palindromic structures. Purcell seems to care deeply for compositional ingenuity, even if only a few of his listeners could appreciate it.

If “seriousness and gravity” refer to the rigorous counterpoint associated with Italian models, then what do “Gayety and Fashion” suggest?

This brief talk can offer only the opening of what should be a much longer inquiry. According to the Oxford English Dictionary, the terms gayety and levity—which Purcell uses respectively to praise and critique the French—were largely synonymous around 1700. Both referred to lightness, or even thoughtlessness. If Purcell employed the same word for both commendation and condemnation, then perhaps he was identifying a core quality of French music.

My hypothesis is this: the “thoughtlessness” Purcell perceived in French music pertains to its harmony, which speaks not to the intellect, but to the senses. It is a sensual harmony. One can best hear this by comparing mid-seventeenth-century harpsichord music from Italy and France. Contrast the harmonic language of Michelangelo Rossi with that of Jacques Champion de Chambonnières. To my ears, French harpsichord music thrives on the subversion of harmonic expectations. Devices like the deceptive cadence—among others—are employed to surprise, to delight, and to seduce the ear.

Do not misunderstand me. Italian music is certainly sensual, and French music is undoubtedly sophisticated. Au contraire! Frescobaldi is as sensual as any French composer. And it takes great skill to manipulate one’s audience as Chambonnières and Purcell do. But the French harpsichordists were onto something. They were beginning to crack the code of tonality in a way that would later bear theoretical fruit. It is hardly surprising that it was a Frenchman—Rameau—who first articulated a systematic theory of harmony. It is likewise unsurprising that French operatic recitative was measured. As in French garden design, there was a sense of control, of deliberate artifice. They discovered how to manipulate harmony.

To conclude, I would suggest that the quality Purcell most clearly recognized in French music was precisely the quality missing from the Italian repertoire he was studying at the time. This is not often discussed in the scholarship, which tends to focus on surface-level features such as ornamentation or the music’s connection to dance. But it is high time we add this to the list of important contributions that seventeenth-century French music has made to our musical culture.