Max Bruch was a German composer whose reputation persists today mostly through two perennially—and deservedly—popular works: his first violin concerto, and the present offering. (A pity, because there are many other fine achievements to his credit.) A good Christian himself, he nevertheless appreciated Jewish music—partly, it seems, due to his friendship with the cantor-in-chief in Berlin at the time, Abraham Jacob Lichtenstein. As Bruch put it: ‘Even though I am a Protestant, as an artist I deeply felt the outstanding beauty of these melodies.’ There were other, more practical reasons at work as well: ‘The success of Kol Nidrei is assured’, Bruch confided to another friend, ‘because all the Jews in the world are for it eo ipso.’ Hmm …

Kol Nidrei is a melody traditionally sung on the eve of Yom Kippur, the day of atonement. It is not actually a prayer as such, but more like a legal agreement with the Lord, in which vows made over the past year (or alternatively during the next one) are annulled. For this reason the words were treated with suspicion by many religious figures, and various attempts were made to expunge the chant from the service; however, by that point the melody, if not the words, had become so beloved by congregations everywhere that the ban was resisted. Such is the power of music! And powerful it is, its sobbing falling intervals travelling straight to the heart. Perhaps it was Lichtenstein who advised Bruch of the tradition within the service of sounding the melody three times with increasing intensity—a progression faithfully mirrored in Bruch’s version.

The melody itself has quite a complicated history. There are innumerable settings of it, all quite distinctive, perhaps owing to the improvisatory nature of synagogue chant. And as a young teenager I had quite a surprising experience: I was taken to play to the renowned elderly composer and former cellist, by then resident in Israel, Joachim Stutschewsky; the piece I chose to play was none other than Bruch’s Kol Nidrei. Stutschewsky was very gracious about my playing, but objected to my choice of repertoire. The melody, he told me, wasn’t really Jewish at all, but a Spanish one adopted by Jews for self-protection during the Inquisition. (I’m not sure he was correct; but I wasn’t about to argue the point!) When Stutschewsky returned to Israel he composed a new setting, for cello and piano, of an almost completely different Kol Nidrei, which was apparently the Eastern European version. He published it, with a dedication to me—such a lovely gesture from a composer in his eighties to a thirteen-year-old; needless to say, I was thrilled beyond measure.

Authentic or not, Bruch’s Kol Nidrei is not all about the famous theme. It is described as an ‘Adagio on Hebrew melodies’; and in fact the second half of the work has nothing whatsoever to do with Kol Nidrei. It is based on a part of the setting by the British–Jewish composer Isaac Nathan (1790-1864) of one of Byron’s famous Hebrew melodies: ‘Oh! weep for those that wept by Babel’s stream’. In this poem Byron (who seems to have alternated between deep sympathy for the Jewish diaspora, and outbursts of anti-Semitism) writes of the desolate plight of the Jewish nation, exiled from its native land. Isaac Nathan claimed that his musical settings of Byron’s poetry were based on ancient Hebraic music. Bruch appears to have believed him; he used this same song as the last of his three Hebräische Gesänge, choral works written around the same time as Kol Nidrei, without making any mention of Nathan’s name in the score. (Nathan, a pugnacious fellow who was a passionate boxing fan, would not, I surmise, have been happy about that, and might have shown his displeasure in rather alarming ways; but in fact he would have had only himself to blame.) The final twist is that this melody appears not to have been Jewish at all, but taken by Nathan from a Northumbrian folk song! Curiouser and curiouser.

Bruch’s Kol Nidrei is a true gem, anyway, whatever its provenance, and fully deserves the popularity it has enjoyed since its premiere in 1881 in Liverpool—where Bruch was then director of the Philharmonic Society—by Robert Hausmann (Brahms’s favourite cellist), under the baton of the composer. As with many shorter nineteenth-century pieces, Kol Nidrei works equally well with orchestral or piano accompaniment.

A few little footnotes about the planetary extras: Isaac Nathan was, as implied above, a difficult character, who despite the success of the Hebrew melodies and some renown as a singing teacher (his pupils included royalty, and the young Robert Browning) was obliged to emigrate to Australia in 1841. There his fortunes recovered: he composed the first Australian opera, and became known as the father of Australian music. (Among his—literal—descendants was the much-beloved Sir Charles Mackerras.) Alas, his final claim to a place in musical—and transportation—history was as the first person in the southern hemisphere (as far as we know) to be run over, fatally, by a horse-drawn tram. Here, in my (simple) arrangement, is the song of his that inspired Bruch—though, in yet another twist, it was the second phrase, not the opening, that Bruch chose to adapt for cello.

from notes by Steven Isserlis © 2022

Écrit à Berlin en 1881 et dédié au violoncelliste Robert Hausmann (1852–1909), Kol Nidrei op. 47 de Max Bruch comporte deux entités musicales totalement distinctes. La première partie repose sur un chant synagogal allemand remontant probablement au début du XVIe siècle et devenu, depuis, la mise en musique ashkénaze universellement reconnue de ce texte araméen du XIe siècle. Quand il vivait à Berlin, Bruch avait appris une des nombreuses variantes de cette mélodie auprès du chantre Abraham Lichtenstein (1806–1880), variante similaire à celle que Louis Lewandowski (1821–1894) inclut dans ses deux anthologies synagogales: Kol Rinnah U’t’fillah et Todah W’simrah. La seconde partie se fonde sur la section centrale du chant «O weep for those that wept by Babel’s stream» (une paraphrase du psaume 137) d’Isaac Nathan (1790–1864)—il fait partie de la trentaine de textes que ce compositeur juif anglais mit en musique, dont les Hebrew Melodies de Lord Byron (1788–1824), datées de 1815–1816. Le drame intense de la première partie de ce Kol Nidrei, en mineur, est balancé par le lyrisme dominant de la seconde section, en majeur. Bruch spécula qu’on le supposait juif à cause, surtout, de l’immense popularité de cette œuvre. Mais son plus ancien ancêtre connu était Thomas Bruch (né en 1560), le premier d’une longue lignée d’ecclésiastiques chrétiens. La passion du «violoncelliste-chantre» exécutant une mélodie devenue, avec les siécles, iconique suscite un climat de dévotion religieuse chez ceux qui y perçoivent une expression extrêmement liturgique. Chez ceux qu’inspire la beauté de la musique savante profane, elle fait naître une atmosphère de profonde méditation et de repos.

extrait des notes rédigées par Alexander Knapp © 2012
Français: Hypérion

Max Bruchs Werk Kol Nidrei, op. 47, entstand 1881 in Berlin und ist dem Cellisten Robert Hausmann (1852–1909) gewidmet. Es besteht aus zwei völlig eigenständigen musikalischen Einheiten. Dem ersten Teil liegt ein deutscher Synagogengesang zugrunde, der wahrscheinlich aus dem frühen 16. Jahrhundert stammt und seitdem allgemein als die aschkenasische Vertonung dieses aramäischen Texts aus dem 11. Jahrhundert anerkannt ist. Als er in Berlin lebte, war Bruch durch den Kantor Abraham Lichtenstein (1806–1880) mit einer der zahlreichen Varianten dieser Melodie in Kontakt gekommen, die deutliche Ähnlichkeit mit der Melodie hat, die Louis Lewandowski (1821–1894) in seinen beiden Synagogen-Anthologien aufgeführt hatte: Kol Rinnah U’t’fillah und Todah W’simrah. Der zweite Teil basiert auf dem Mittelteil des Lieds „O weep for those that wept by Babel’s stream“ (eine Paraphrase von Psalm 137) von dem anglo-jüdischen Komponisten Isaac Nathan (1790–1864), eine von über 30 Textvertonungen der Hebrew Melodies von Lord Byron (1788–1824) aus den Jahren 1815–16. Die intensive Dramatik des ersten Teils von Bruchs Kol Nidrei steht in Moll und wird durch die übergreifende Lyrik des zweiten Teils in Dur ausbalanciert. Der Komponist spekulierte, ob wohl die enorme Popularität dieses Werks der Grund für die verbreitete Annahme sei, dass er jüdischer Herkunft sei. Sein ältester bekannter Vorfahre war jedoch Thomas Bruch (geboren im Jahre 1560)—der erste in einer langen Reihe von christlichen Klerikern. Die Leidenschaft des „Cellisten als Kantor“, der eine Melodie spielt, die im Laufe der Jahrhunderte ikonenhaft geworden ist, erzeugt eine Stimmung religiöser Hingabe bei denjenigen, die die Musik als tief-liturgischen Ausdruck empfinden. Für diejenigen, die von der Schönheit weltlicher Kunstmusik inspiriert sind, entsteht eine Atmosphäre tiefer Meditation und Ruhe.

aus dem Begleittext von Alexander Knapp © 2012
Deutsch: Viola Scheffel