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1000 Years of Classical Music: Handel Music for the Royal Fireworks and Water Music

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Illustration of the royal fireworks in 1749.
“A VIEW of the FIRE-WORKES and ILLUMINATIONS at his GRACE the Duke of RICHMOND’S at WHITEHALL and on the River Thames on Monday 15 May 1749. Performed by the direction of Charles Fredrick Esq.”

Splendid music for a joyous occasion: Handel’s Music for the Royal Fireworks premiered to an audience of more than 12,000 people celebrating the end of the war with France  —  and caused London’s first recorded traffic jam!

From the album Handel: Music for the Royal Fireworks and Water Music (1000 Years of Classical Music). Listen on iTunes, CD, or Spotify:

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The Bookends of a Brilliant Career

The two works on this recording represent almost the beginning and the end of Handel’s nearly fifty years in England. Most unusually for a composer whose life’s work was based so consistently on composing for the human voice, they are purely instrumental works. Yet they are probably, along with Messiah, his best-known compositions, by title if not by content.

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Both the Water Music and the Music for the Royal Fireworks have politics as their point of origin. George I, formerly Prince-Elector Georg of Hanover, came to the British throne in 1714, and the establishment of the House of Hanover by the accession of a German-born king was controversial to many. George was 52nd in line to the throne, but the first Protestant, and in accordance with the 1701 Act of Settlement (which prohibited Catholics from acceding to the throne) was proclaimed the new monarch on the death of Queen Anne.

The groundwork had been laid for the establishment of a new German court in London some years before the Queen’s death, and a number of the new king’s former employees found their way to England. One was the career diplomat Baron Johann Adolf Kielmansegge. As Hanover’s ambassador to Venice he had encountered the young Handel in 1709; Handel’s opera Agrippina had been a sensational success in Venice that year. Kielmansegge made it possible for Handel to become Kapellmeister in Hanover in 1710 after his Italian sojourn, and it was Prince-Elector Georg who gave Handel permission to spend an extended period in London almost as soon as he was appointed. When it was clear that Handel had no intention of returning to Hanover, Kielmansegge had the task of informing Handel that he was dismissed from his post.

Kielmansegge came to London to become George I’s Master of the Horse. Handel had been resident there since 1712, and had rapidly made a name for himself as a brilliant composer of opera. The new king had already shown himself to be a supporter of his former Kapellmeister. He had renewed Handel’s royal pension (originally granted by Queen Anne) and had employed him as music master to the royal princesses. He also supported Handel’s operatic ventures consistently; he went to see Handel’s Admeto no fewer than 19 times in seven weeks! Thus, the notion that Handel was commissioned to write music for the royal water party on the Thames to effect a reconciliation with the king after his delinquent absences from Hanover (as proposed by Mainwaring in his 1760 biography of Handel) seems to be a myth.

Kielmansegge again is the link here, as it was he who arranged for Handel to compose music for the 1717 water party. Such aquatic processions were not uncommon – there were at least six in 1715 alone – but the event on 17 July 1717 was reported in a number of sources, both public and private, and is the only such event with which Handel’s name is directly associated.

These sources tell us that Handel’s music lasted for about an hour when played complete; that it was played three times that evening (twice on the way from Whitehall to Chelsea – where the King had supper between 11pm and 2am – and once on the return journey); and that about 50 musicians were involved. Furthermore, the description of instruments used that night exactly accords with the requirements of the music now called Handel’s Water Music.

Most frustratingly, though, the composer’s manuscript for the Water Music has not survived. The order of movements has thus long been open to question, as during the 18th century various publications of the music included different selections in different arrangements. There are in all 22 movements which seem to fall into three suites with three instrumental groupings, and for many years it has been the practice to arrange the music into these suites: F major with horns, D major with horns and trumpets, and G major with flutes.

However, the discovery in 2004 of the earliest known manuscript score for the Water Music, not in the composer’s hand but dating from 1719, has shed light on the probable intended order of movements. It seems the music was almost certainly intended to be a single, hour-long suite which passed through different keys, something which was most unusual for the period. The 1719 score presents the F major movements first and then the movements in D major and G major conflated, ending with the D major "Trumpet Minuet." This makes a completely satisfying sequence and it was published in this order in Friedrich Chrysander’s edition in 1886.

Still, there is historical precedent for performing selections from the whole, and the present recording presents the F major and D major "suites" only. Following the lead of the 1719 score, we have changed the order of movements from that presented in the Bärenreiter performance material, to end with the D major minuet.

The king’s water parties were without doubt meant to be seen and heard by the public. In the few years George had been on the throne, disquiet over the succession had not dissipated, and deep tensions with the Prince of Wales meant an ongoing PR battle between two rival courts. The 32-year-old Handel’s connection with the king meant that he was a trusted ally, able to supply music in 1717 which would not only bring glory to the king but also help cement the Hanoverian succession in the public’s mind. References to the "celebrated Water Music" in subsequent publications prove that, artistically at least, the king had backed a winner.

By the time he came to compose the Music for the Royal Fireworks in 1749, Handel was a very different composer. The 32 years between the Water Music and this commission had seen him complete a total of more than 40 operas (the last, Deidamia, was premiered in 1741) and embark on a career as a composer of English oratorio. He became a naturalised British subject in 1727, the year of George II’s accession to the throne, and had gone from being a German import to an English institution.

By 1749, with almost all the oratorios written, Handel had mastered the grand statement and the public gesture. It’s interesting, though, that in accepting the commission to compose music for a fireworks display designed to celebrate the signing of the Treaty of Aix-La-Chapelle, he resisted falling into tried and true formulas. Far from tossing off some predictable bombast, the 64-year-old master created something completely unique.

The Treaty of Aix-la-Chapelle was designed to conclude the messy War of Austrian Succession, which had largely been fought between England and France. The fact of the matter was that the Treaty was unfavourable to British colonial interests and widely unpopular. In Christopher Hogwood’s words, "Frankly, there was little to celebrate…and some dramatic spin-doctoring was called for to stimulate (or simulate) public approval." Handel’s music was commissioned as part of a public relations campaign designed to dazzle the public with trumped-up celebration.

Fascinating correspondence and Court records exist regarding the organisation of the music to be written for the fireworks display in London’s Green Park. There was some dispute with the composer about whether or not strings were to be involved (Handel would have known from the start that strings outdoors would have been unworkable), but most likely this was part of Handel’s negotiating strategy with the organisers, who really had no idea when it came to musical matters. The music for the outdoor event was written in twelve real parts, for three oboes, two bassoons, three trumpets, three horns and timpani. At the first performance these were played by massed forces; some 24 oboes, 16 bassoons, nine horns, nine trumpets and three sets of timpani were involved, in addition to side drums, contrabassoon and possibly even a serpent.

Handel held a run-through of the music in his house in Brook Street on 17 April 1749. This clearly could not have involved the whole ensemble; most likely it was for the principal players only. Even so, it would have been a squeeze and the neighbours wouldn’t have missed a thing.

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The organisers of the event pressured Handel into holding a public rehearsal of the music in Vauxhall Gardens a few days before the actual fireworks display. Handel initially resisted this too; he had planned to present the music in a fundraising concert for the Foundling Hospital four weeks later and was clearly not keen to do anything which would make the music less of a crowd puller. He was persuaded, though, and the public rehearsal eventually took place on 21 April at 11am. Contemporary reports say 12,000 people were present and that they were charged 2/6 for the privilege. Given the size of Vauxhall Gardens, such an attendance figure is almost certainly a vast exaggeration. Still, the audience numbers at the rehearsal were large enough to cause London’s first recorded traffic jam. The recently-completed Westminster Bridge was closed for subsidence repairs, and London Bridge was at virtual gridlock for hours.

The actual event in Green Park, attended by tens of thousands of people, took place on 27 April. An enormous ‘machine’ was built, a gigantic theatrical set made of wood and canvas in the form of a temple which was decorated with allegorical figures and representations of George II. It was nearly 35 metres high at the centre and 125 metres long. The evening started about 6pm, with the king and his entourage touring the edifice, and it was during this that Handel’s music was played. The fireworks started about 8.30, and went off successfully until one end of the wood and canvas structure caught fire. Once this was under control the fireworks continued and the whole event lasted some nine hours, finishing around 3am.

Considering Handel’s popularity it is very strange that none of the contemporary reports of either the public rehearsal or the actual performance say anything about his music. Maybe then, as now, the distraction of the eyes can lead to a disconnection of the ears…

Still, Handel had the last laugh and eventually got the strings he’d planned for all along. His desire to keep the music alive by way of a concert performance after the Green Park fireworks made it possible for him to present the music indoors with more usual forces. For the Foundling Hospital performance on 27 May, reduced numbers were used for the winds, brass and timpani, and strings were added by doubling the oboe and bassoon parts. (This explains the high-lying viola part, which mostly doubles the third oboe.) It is this ‘concert scoring’ which has been used in this recording

The massively imposing Ouverture has to be one of Handel’s most thrilling instrumental creations; it is certainly one of the most exhausting to perform. The only dance forms represented are the Bourrée and the Menuet, in the midst of which come two programmatic movements peculiarly appropriate to the occasion. Representing peace and rejoicing, these movements display the mastery of Europe’s leading theatrical composer. Certainly in his final years Handel understood that politics is as much about theatre as it is about anything else. And vice versa.

Graham Abbott

Source: Christopher Hogwood, Handel: Water Music & Music for the Royal Fireworks (Cambridge Music Handbooks, 2005).

Handel on Modern Instruments

The development of the Early Music movement over much of the 20th century has changed forever the way we expect music written before 1800 to sound. Saint-Saëns, assuming the superiority of the modern piano, may have told Wanda Landowska that she was wasting her time playing Bach on the harpsichord, but fortunately she ignored him. Pioneers like Landowska, along with Arnold Dolmetsch and Nadia Boulanger, paved the way for the major names in early music we know well today from their recordings, such as Nikolaus Harnoncourt, Gustav Leonhardt and Frans Brüggen. In more recent times this stream has grown into a major tributary of the music industry, both in recording and in live performance.

Ensembles using period instruments – that is, instruments made according to the specifications of earlier times and played in ways appropriate to those times – have done much to enable all musicians and the public to appreciate afresh the glories of early music. Musicians in mainstream, modern-instrument orchestras have over the past twenty or thirty years completely altered the ways in which they approach music from the 18th century, largely due to the exciting influence of the Early Music movement.

The downside to these developments has been one I am certain the Early Music movement never intended. Surely the primary aim of early music research has been to make music of earlier times accessible. Unfortunately, many musicians have been reticent to perform early music on modern instruments because of the very success of period-instrument ensembles. In other words, we are so used to hearing 18th-century music performed on period instruments that some have regarded it as out of bounds to modern-instrument performers.

My opinion is exactly the opposite. Period-instrument performance is wonderful, but this should not discourage modern-instrument ensembles such as symphony orchestras from playing early music in a historically appropriate manner. Modern-instrument ensembles have learned a great deal from the early music specialists, and the adoption of the spirit of early music performance practice can open up an entire new world of musical experience to symphony orchestras and – most importantly – their audiences. It would be a tragedy if early music were put off limits by a too-narrow application of so-called "authenticity," a term no longer used even by the period-instrument ensembles themselves. The line is drawn in different places. No-one seems to mind a chamber organ with an electric blower, or the use of an electronic tuner by the oboe, or the addition of tuning holes in allegedly "natural" trumpets. Countertenors in Handel operas are regarded as authentic whereas Handel never used them in this way, and performing spaces are very different from those Bach or Handel would have known. All these practices are common in early music groups and accepted by audiences. While no-one would argue that Handel’s orchestra sounded anything like a modern symphony orchestra, it remains my firm belief that Handel’s music should be open to all, and that it’s the art of the music itself which matters.

Shakespeare’s plays are nowadays almost never given in productions which the bard himself would recognise; ditto the operas of most composers from any period. Yet the art of the creator is still evident, and capable of moving an audience to its core, provided the words or the notes on the page are treated with respect. (And yes, I love Bach on the piano as well as the harpsichord!)

In recording these Handel works with the Tasmanian Symphony Orchestra, the players and I have applied many lessons learned from our period-instrument colleagues. Most orchestral players today are very well informed with regard to issues of phrasing, articulation, tempo relationships and style in 18th-century music, and it has been a journey of discovery and delight for all of us in looking again at this wonderful music.

Graham Abbott

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