Richard Jones: Suits or Setts of Lessons, London 1732

Description

The fate, or doom, of English music is both bizarre and slightly unfair. The British audience has been among the most coveted, most open-minded, and most appreciated by musicians of all provenances. London debuts and tours of the British Islands were fundamental for establishing the fame of a virtuoso and/or a composer; and British listeners were normally very receptive to some novelties in the musical language or style which the Continent could be more reticent to embrace.
In spite of this, the standard concert repertoire comprises just a handful of composers born in the British Islands. In particular, between Henry Purcell and the late/post-Romantic composers (such as Edward Elgar or Ralph Vaughan Williams) there is a wide gap, filled by mainland musicians who sought (and found) fortune by braving the Channel’s furious storms.
Musicians such as George Frideric Handel, Carl Maria von Weber, or Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy – to name but three of the greatest – could be almost considered as “British”, such were the glory and the affectionate admiration bestowed on them. Yet, they were very much German, and this was very clear to both their listeners and to themselves. With a touch of irony, one could argue that these composers were as “British” as were the British monarchs.
A superficial observer, therefore, could conclude that the good star of musical talent did not shine over Albion’s Land for a couple of centuries, and that, therefore, Britain had to import genius musicians from mainland Europe, just as she had to import tea from Ceylon or other colonies.
But this would be both unfair and untrue. If, perhaps, no genius of the standing of Bach or Handel was born in 1685 in England, there were exceedingly good British musicians whose activity and output needs to be rediscovered, reconsidered, and appreciated today. It is yet another irony of history that some of the most important musicologists in today’s scene come from the Anglosphere, and yet the large audience is still very much unfamiliar with important figures of the British tradition.
Richard Jones is certainly one of them. His music is fully worth studying, performing, and listening, and the set of six keyboard suites recorded here splendidly epitomizes the value of this nearly forgotten composer. Alas, his all-too-common name and family name do not help either the listener, who prefers a more memorable combination, or the musicologist, who despairs over a plethora of people by the same name. If this is added to the equally despairing attitude of many old documents (such as theatre bills or reviews) to mention people only by their family names (and Jones is obviously one of the most frequently found) it is very difficult to retrace the story of this composer.
As a matter of fact, what counts as established in his biography is discouragingly scanty. His birth date is not only unknown, but far from being established with any degree of probability. Even the most recent studies limit themselves to indications such as “late 17th century”, “last two decades of the 17th century” or, perhaps in the effort to assimilate him to this mainland confreres Bach, Handel, and Scarlatti, “1680s”. Thus we have no idea about his family, his whereabouts as a young man, his education, his personality.
The first (possible, but by no means certain) trace of his existence is a performance, in 1723, of a “masque”, by the title of Apollo and Daphne. It was represented at the Drury Lane Theatre, which, as we will shortly see, would be associated with Jones in the following years. In spite of this, we cannot be certain that Apollo and Daphne was actually by our Richard Jones, since its composer was indicated merely as “Jones”. And this, as has been said above, is no great evidence. This masque would later be transformed into a pantomime (by adding songs by Henry Carey) and performed again in 1725; but, once more, we cannot be fully certain that it was written by Richard Jones.
We are not helped by stylistic considerations, which could have been employed either for or against (Richard) Jones’ paternity of Apollo and Daphne: unfortunately, in fact, the music for that masque/pantomime has been lost. The same fate, sadly, applies to most of his other works for the theatre.
On March 13th, 1728, instead, we do know that he played as a violinist at York Buildings. Three years later, he left one more trace, participating as a performer in a benefit concert held on November 30th, 1731, at the Sun Tavern; among his fellow performers (with whom the “benefits” had to be split) was actor-singer James Excell.
The 1730s were certainly a momentous time for Jones, since several important events happened in his life. Around the turn of the decade, he was appointed principal violinist (and therefore concert master) of the Drury Lane Theatre orchestra; it is likely that he had been playing in that orchestra, possibly for years, before being allotted that prestigious post.
The Theatre, for those who might be unfamiliar with it, is the oldest surviving theatre in London, although it has been rebuilt on three occasions, on the same grounds of the first one, which opened in 1663. Throughout the 18th and 19th century, it was unanimously acknowledged to be the foremost theatre of the English capital. It was graced by a Royal Patent, which authorized it to stage plays after Charles II’s reform in 1660.
At Jones’ times, the Drury Lane Theatre was at its first reincarnation: the first house had been burnt in 1672, just twelve years after its opening, and the second opened in 1674, to last until 1794.
To be the concert master of the Royal Theatre’s orchestra, therefore, was a certain mark of musical genius and proficiency. Jones, referred to as “Dicky” by John Hawkins (1719-1789), a music historian and violinist in turn, succeeded the Italian Stefano Carbonelli in that role. This information is provided by Hawkins himself, to whom we owe this valuable evidence of an all-too-obscure life.
However, in his capacity as a concert master, Jones certainly penned numerous theatrical works, whose scores, as has been mentioned earlier, have unfortunately been lost. What we do have is a keyboard transcription of an overture by Jones, from the opera The Miser, or Wagner and Abericock; there are also some 18 tunes, which probably belonged in the same work, and which have also been preserved in an arrangement for harpsichord.
Indeed, it is both significant and odd that the most important surviving collection by Jones is a series of Suites (or Suits, or Setts of Lessons as he called them) for the keyboard; it is odd because Jones was a violinist and his main field of activity was an operatic theatre. (It should be mentioned, however, that he was also very appreciated as a violin teacher, whose students included Michael Christian Festing).
Many such collections of keyboard suites were printed in Britain in the first half of the eighteenth century. However, most of the English composers who ventured in the publication of similar works were virtuoso keyboard players and teachers – among them Boyce, Greene, Roseingrave and Stanley. An important stimulus for the publication of keyboard collections had come in 1720, when Handel’s Great Suites were issued. In that same year, Jones ha his first known publication printed, i.e. that of a solo cantata called While in a Lovely Rurall Seat.
Thus, for unknown reasons, shortly after having been appointed his important job at Drury Lane Theatre, Jones decided to try his hand again in the publishing market, with his own set of six Suites. (Ten years later, in 1741, he would repeat his experiment; this time, however, he would explore his own ground, with a set of six more suites for violin and continuo).
Indeed, even though there is nothing to criticize in Jones’ expert keyboard writing, the overall flavour of his compositions is distinctly “violinistic”. Furthermore, the Suites reveal Jones’ openness to the styles and characters of national music: of his own Nation, with echoes from traditional and folk dances of Britain, but also of Italy, the queen of Baroque instrumental music. These include influences from the likes of both Corelli, the highest representative of the Italian violin school, and Domenico Scarlatti, whose Essercizi (as his Sonatas were originally called) may have been known to Jones and may have partly inspired his Lessons.
The curious listener might then wonder whether Handel’s Suites have also had a role in the creation and development of Jones’ Suits. A Handelian inspiration is undeniable, but this can be said of virtually all that was written in mid-eighteenth-century England. However, Jones’ Suites also display a noteworthy degree of originality. One of their most remarkable and unusual aspects is their very structure. Whilst, for instance, Bach’s Suites and Partitas follow a rather traditional scheme, with the four “main” dances (Allemande, Courante, Sarabande, and Gigue) virtually always present, and a handful of Galanterien interspersed here and there, Jones is much freer in his approach. He seems to juxtapose the dances for the pure and sheer delight of “playing” with them. He is not bothered by the fact of putting two Gigues or two Sarabandes in a same Suite, or to conclude one with a Courante. There is plenty of melodic inventiveness, with “angular” musical profiles which seem to purposefully challenge the listener, as if provoking a reaction with their seeming unpolishedness and impoliteness. There are also harmonic inventions, with some very interesting surprises scattered here and there (for instance in some Preludes and in the Fifth Suite’s Courante). There are reminiscences of Italian concertos (and also, possibly, of Bach’s keyboard transcriptions of some of them, as happens with the second Toccata from the First Suite). The Fifth Suite is remarkable also for the quantity of its movements (twelve!) and their tonal wanderings.
Together, these splendid works bear witness to their creator’s genius, skill, sensitivity, and artistry, and fully deserve to be better known, more frequently played, recorded, and enjoyed.
Chiara Bertoglio © 2024