Sonata in G minor BWV 1029 (before 1741)

Considering that he must have known at least one extraordinarily accomplished cellist – he surely wouldn’t have written the six solo suites in the hope that one would just turn up – it is surprising that, as far as we know, Bach wrote no sonatas for cello and harpsichord. The nearest equivalent is the three sonatas for viola da gamba, an instrument much in favour at Cöthen during Bach’s time there since it had distinguished exponents both in the composer’s friend and colleague Christian Ferdinand Abel and in Prince Leopold himself. The consolation for cellists is that, with little adaptation, the sonatas for viola da gamba and harpsichord make attractive sonatas for cello and piano. Obviously, the sound is different in this case but the basic trio-sonata texture – the pianist’s left and right hands taking the bass and top lines respectively, the cello taking the middle line – remains the same.

It has been suggested that the Sonata in G minor originated as a concerto of some kind, presumably because of its virtuoso scoring, its three-movement structure, and the similarity between its opening theme and that of Brandenburg Concerto No.3 in G. However that may be, after the briefly delayed first entry of the right hand of the keyboard part, the three-part texture prevails throughout. It is true that the left hand, whose function is occasionally limited to providing basic harmonic support, is less animated than the other two parts in the elaborate contrapuntal exchanges of the first movement. It is by no means deprived of melodic interest, however, and there are two passages where (in this version) the cello takes over the bass-line duties in its place.

The Adagio begins as though it were to be an aria for cello, which carries an expressively detailed line over a melodically elusive right-hand part and a six-note figure in the left. But then, after the repeat of the first half of the binary structure, the cello renounces the initiative to follow the suggestions first of the right hand and then the left. Given the three-part fugal texture of much of the closing Allegro, equality is the general rule – except, that is, in two extended non-fugal episodes in the major where the left hand never gets to play the new melody initially presented by the cello under undulating arpeggios in the right. In the second episode, however, it does at least succeed in liberating itself from the repeated quavers awarded to it in the first.

Considering that he must have known at least one extraordinarily accomplished cellist – he surely wouldn’t have written the six solo suites in the hope that one would just turn up – it is surprising that, as far as we know, Bach wrote no sonatas for cello and harpsichord. There are six sonatas for violin and harpsichord, written in Cöthen at much the same time perhaps as the solo sonatas and partitas, but nothing of the kind for cello. The nearest equivalent is the three sonatas for viola da gamba, an instrument much in favour at Cöthen during Bach’s time there since it had distinguished exponents both in the composer’s friend and colleague Christian Ferdinand Abel and in Prince Leopold himself. While it is most likely that the sonatas were intended for one or the other of them, it is not impossible that they were written in Leipzig for Abel’s son Carl Friedrich, whose first instrument was the viola da gamba and who moved to that city for a few years after the death of his father in 1737.

The consolation for cellists is that, with little adaptation, the sonatas for viola da gamba and harpsichord make attractive sonatas for cello and piano – rather than cello and harpsichord, that is, since the combination doesn’t really work with these precariously balanced scores. Obviously, the sound is different with cello and piano but the basic trio-sonata texture – the pianist’s left and right hands taking the bass and top lines respectively, the cello taking the middle line – remains the same.

It has been suggested that the Sonata in G minor originated as a concerto of some kind, presumably because of its virtuoso scoring, its three-movement structure, and the similarity between its opening theme and that of Brandenburg Concerto No.3 in G. However that may be, after the briefly delayed first entry of the right hand of the keyboard part, the three-part texture prevails throughout. It is true that the left hand, whose function is occasionally limited to providing basic harmonic support, is less animated than the other two parts in the elaborate contrapuntal exchanges of the first movement. It is by no means deprived of melodic interest, however, and there are two passages where (in this version) the cello takes over the bass-line duties in its place.

The Adagio begins as though it were to be an aria for cello, which carries an expressively detailed line over a melodically elusive right-hand part and a six-note figure in the left. But then, after the repeat of the first half of the binary structure, the cello renounces the initiative to follow the suggestions first of the right hand and then the left. Given the three-part fugal texture of much of the closing Allegro, equality is the general rule – except, that is, in two extended non-fugal episodes in the major where the left hand never gets to play the new melody initially presented by the cello under undulating arpeggios in the right. In the second episode, however, it does at least succeed in liberating itself from the repeated quavers awarded to it in the first.