Dunstable, Contanance Angloise, Humanitatis

The English Channel separates the British Isles from
continental Europe. 

Despite his celebrity status in Western Music History, little is known about the life of the Englishman John Dunstable (c.1390-1453). What we do know is found in a handful of documents dating from the early 15th century. Perhaps the most telling of these is an epitaph found in the London church of St. Stephen, describing Dunstable as a man "who enclosed Heaven in his breast" and was "the confederate of the stars". The epitaph writer continues to describe the deceased saying, "This man was thy glory, thy light , thy chief, O Music. One who scattered thy sweet arts throughout the world". It goes without further explanation that Dunstable was VIP status in his day. For his music to be spread "throughout the world" in a time of limited transportation is quite an achievement. While many epitaphs can be misleading with embellished descriptions of the dead, we know that this writer is reliably matter-of-fact. The majority of manuscripts bearing Dunstable's music have not been found in England, but in countries throughout western continental Europe, particularly France.

It is widely accepted that Dunstable served as a secretary/musician for the Duke of Bedford, who resided in Paris during the Hundred Years War. It is believed that Dunstable accompanied Bedford on his travels across the channel. With him, he brought the English style of writing, or what the poet Le Franc dubbed as Contenance Angloise. This "English Guise" is defined by its use of thirds and sixths -harmonies that, at the time, were considered dissonant- as well as simple rhythms that followed the natural rise and fall of speech. This simplicity was attractive to the French musicians. 

Quam pulchra es is an excellent example of the appealing style of Contenance Angloise. 

Immediately, the listener hears a major third sung by the top voice in the first measure. The downbeat of the second measure establishes a first inversion major triad; a sonority that remains constant through the piece. These sweet sounds offer an obvious contrast to the more angular sound of Machaut, who sparingly used the harmonies of thirds and sixths in his works. While today's standards find thirds and sixths as basic building blocks of harmony, it is likely that fifteenth century French artists were shocked,   perhaps offended by the consistent use of these harmonies. If there were any naysayers among those first hearing Dunstable's work, they were quickly hushed by the others who were drawn to his distinct English sound. It is hard to protest such beauty. Thus, Dunstable marked his place in music history.

Dunstable uses other original techniques in addition to his harmonies. Unlike prior motets that used chant and isorhythms, Quam pulchra es simply looks to the text to define it's form. The evocative text comes from the Song of Solomon 7:4-12, which places the piece under the umbrella of the established motet genre. This shift from constructing music around ratios and chant sections to constructing it based on the text is an important bookmark in the saga of music history. Dunstable leads the parade away from the mathematical quadrivium to the demonstrative humanitatis.

Early Polyphony, Architecture and Minimalism

I had two recurring thoughts while listening to the two, three and four part organum from this past week's listening:

1. The influence of architecture on the music being made

2. Steve Reich

Allow me to explain.

The music of early polyphony is most frequently tied to two composers, Leonin (c. 1169-1201) and Perotin (c. 1198-1236). These musicians produced a substantial amount of music during their time at the Cathedral of Notre Dame in Paris. Using the existing chant as a foundation, Leonin produced a collection of organum, known as the Magnus liber organi (Great book of organum). These works were substituted  for portions of the chant during major events throughout the liturgical year. This substitution allowed musical diversity; for me, a welcomed step away from the ubiquitous plainchant. Although it is hard to notice without looking at the score, the original chant remained in tact during these new polyphonic sections. Sections of the chant were simply augmented to add the additional voice (duplum). Augmenting the chant and placing a florid line above it created an atmospheric, entrancing sound. While the unison chant promotes a certain mindset, it (in my opinion) does not create the sense of wonder found in polyphony. Listening to the recording of Viderunt Omnes provoked ethereal, unearthly feelings. Although the music is simple, employing only two vocal lines, it is complex in the emotions it evokes. For me, the augmented chant sections that serve as the foundation keep the listener grounded, while the florid duplum awakens the imagination. It is no wonder that Leonin was creating music of this spirit. He likely spent most of his time composing at Notre Dame, a place that still today, despite our advancements in technology and architecture continues to draw people from around the world to witness it's awesome beauty. If we today are still astounded by this architecture, imagine how inspiring it must have been to someone 900 years ago.

Continuing on the idea of atmospheric sounds and awakening the imagination, as well as chronologically, it is natural to now consider the music of Perotin. Perotin expanded the work of Leonin by adding a third (triplum) and fourth (quadruplum) voice to the texture.
Doing so added weight and color to the sound. This addition of voices is similar to the concurrent additions being added to the Cathedral. As the structure extended upward, adding more mass and detail, so did the music that was being produced within it's walls. The auditory effect of adding these new colors to the music creates a similar consciousness I experience when listening to minimalism; particularly the music of Steve Reich. Structurally, the music of Leonin and Reich are surprisingly similar. They employ the use of repetitive rhythms built on top of a slow moving harmonic foundation. The music also shares audial similarities. I use words and phrases such as "meditative" or "a cloud of sound" to describe what I hear when listening to this music. I find it very interesting that identical emotions are awakened when listening to music that spans such a vast amount of time. Because of the striking similarities, I did a bit of reading to see if Reich draws on the music of Perotin for ideas in his own compositions. Here is a quote I found in an interview between Reich and Anne Teresa de Keersmaeker. Reich says:

Machaut's  isorhythms are of real interest to me, but my heart belongs to earlier music by Perotin at Notre Dame in Paris in the late 12th century... for Perotin it is the idea of taking a line of Gregorian Chant and augmenting its duration enormously so that instead of a melody it becomes a series of long drones. He (and Leonin) originate what we would call today very slow harmonic rhythm. 


So the similar experiences I have when listening to these two composers is rooted in the foundation, or harmonic rhythm of their music. For Leonin and Perotin, the foundation was built on the original chant that  served as a reminder of the generations of church musicians who had sung the same repertoire. By building on the ideas of their predecessors, they expanded the genre to create an ethereal experience. Reich does the same. By looking back to the days of early polyphony, on which Western music is built, he is able to produce an identical mindset. We may not be able to travel back in time, but music will always serve as a vehicle to channel the same emotions experienced by those who have come before us.


Suggested listening:  

Listening to Early Music

Listening to music from its earliest stages in Western thought using a modern ear, one might say "it all sounds the same". The music usually involves only one vocal line, stays in a conservative range, and is typically in a language that most people don't speak anymore. Sacred music employs only voices, and the instrumentation used in secular music is thin. For the average 21st century listener, music from the tenth-twelfth centuries might seem rather dull. This makes sense considering we are used to hearing the symphonies of Beethoven, Tchaikovsky and Shostakovich as well as dozens of popular genres played in public places. But all of these characteristics deal strictly with the sound. To understand music from ancient eras, I think we must look beyond the aesthetics. We have to use our imagination, continually ask "why?", and strongly consider the text being sung.

The recordings of chant from week one all have a similar sound and communicate sacred texts. I particularly liked the recording of Viderunt Omnes. The singers do a great job giving life to the chant by shaping the phrases and giving contour to the melody. I also enjoyed the echo effect, inviting the listener to imagine the cavernous sanctuaries in which these chants were originally sung. The text is clear- something clergy expected from the music. For me, it does not evoke any particular emotions, but offers a calm, peaceful atmosphere. I understand why this music is still used today. The effect it gives offers listeners an opportunity to step into a mindset ideal for worship. 

It is no surprise that church leaders strongly protested the sounds of secular music making its way into worship services. To modern ears, troubadour songs of courtly love don't sound evocative, especially when put up against modern "romance" music. For many, troubadour songs likely sound similar to sacred chant. Taking a closer look at the text and concentrating on the performer's voice will allow one to see the stark contrast. I particularly enjoyed the recording of Comtessa de Dia's A chantar m'er. The singer does a nice job of immediately evoking emotion in her initial unaccompanied line. By using untraditional vocal technique she effectively communicates the pain in her heart singing:

I am obliged to sing of that which I would not

So bitter am I over the one whose love I am

Troubadours were wealthy, well trained members of the French upper class and nobility. The courtly love they sing about in their chansons often involves love for a married man or woman. The music is sensual and alluring and often invites a character to abandon their spouse. It is no wonder that the church had strong opposition to this music. Not only does it challenge the sacred concept of marriage, but it uses seductive musical features to do so.

Below are two recordings of the pieces mentioned above. Listen for yourself to the contrast in emotion that each piece evokes.

A Fresh Start

It's been a while since I've studied music from the twelfth century.

If you were to ask me before last week to tell you something that what was going on in music during that time, my thoughts would have been limited. I'm sure it would have included something about plainchant, organum and a list of two or three other vocabulary terms I faintly remember from my lackluster undergrad music history course. During my first study of the music from this era, I had a hard time connecting with the content. One can't blame me for the lack of understanding. I was a sophomore in college being taught musical concepts from another millennium in a basement classroom during my lunch, by an adjunct professor who found more enjoyment in researching music history than teaching it.  However, after reading the first four chapters of Douglass Seaton's Ideas and Styles in the Western Musical Tradition and doing a little extra reading of my own, I've found a new interest in this music. What was nothing more than boring monophony in a dead language has suddenly come to life.

Most music history courses start their narrative with plainchant. While this makes logical sense, I think many students are left under the impression that music was nothing more than simple monophony during this time because that was the extent of the western world's musical knowledge. As an undergrad, this was a dilemma for me. It didn't seem to make sense that hundreds of years before the chant repertory was transcribed, societies existed with brilliant artists and thinkers who were surely capable of dreaming up melodies more complex than chant. While this idea is likely true, music history courses (at least from my experience) do little to address this dilemma. So I rested on the thought that music started in the eighth or ninth century and began to expand from there. It wasn't until reading chapter three of the Seaton that I began to consider other possibilities. Seaton writes:

The chant's monophonic texture and the suitability of the music for singers of modest technical qualifications bear special significance. The unity of the "community of believers" finds expression in the uniting of voices in a single statement, especially within the religious cloister, where all the members of the monastery or convent participate in singing the Divine Office. Thus the chant's unification of worshipers' voices into a single line both embodies this idea and facilitates it in practice; its simplicity should not by any means be regarded as evidence of primitiveness (p. 30)

Things suddenly began to make more sense. What I had thought of as 'primitive' was actually a conscious decision by composers of chant. The music went from being a genre I felt obligated to know as a "real musician" to a lively, meaningful chapter in our musical story.