Johann Sebastian Bach (1685-1750)
Brandenburg Concerto No. 6 in B-flat Major, BWV 1051
By the time we arrive at the sixth and final concerto of Bach’s Brandenburg collection, we might think we’ve seen all the tricks he has up his sleeve. We’ve heard dazzling horns, a trumpet soaring to impossible heights, and a harpsichord staging a full-blown revolution. But for his final act, Bach does something perhaps even more radical: he fires the violins.
Imagine a vocal group without its soprano and alto lead singers, and you have some idea of the audacious sound world of the Sixth Brandenburg Concerto.
...
Johann Sebastian Bach (1685-1750)
Brandenburg Concerto No. 6 in B-flat Major, BWV 1051
By the time we arrive at the sixth and final concerto of Bach’s Brandenburg collection, we might think we’ve seen all the tricks he has up his sleeve. We’ve heard dazzling horns, a trumpet soaring to impossible heights, and a harpsichord staging a full-blown revolution. But for his final act, Bach does something perhaps even more radical: he fires the violins.
Imagine a vocal group without its soprano and alto lead singers, and you have some idea of the audacious sound world of the Sixth Brandenburg Concerto. The entire upper register of the string family is absent. Instead, Bach creates a dark, velvety, and wonderfully rich texture using only lower strings: two violas, two older-style violas da gamba (fretted instruments held between the knees), a cello, and the continuo. This was a bold, almost defiant choice, turning the conventional orchestral hierarchy completely on its head.
This concerto is often called the “viola’s revenge.” In the Baroque orchestra, the viola was typically relegated to filling out the harmony, the overlooked middle child of the string section. But Bach, an accomplished violist himself who reportedly preferred playing the inner harmonies, elevates the instrument to star status. The two violas take the lead, their voices intertwining in a display of contrapuntal genius. There’s even a charming bit of historical speculation that Bach was having a private joke here. His employer at the time, Prince Leopold, was an enthusiastic amateur who played the viola da gamba. In this concerto, Bach (who would have played first viola) gives himself the virtuosic, leading role, while the Prince would have been tasked with the much simpler, supportive gamba part—a gentle musical reminder of who the true master was.
The opening movement is a breathtaking feat of canonic writing. The two lead violas chase each other in a tight, breathless pursuit, their melodic lines separated by the slimmest of margins. The effect is one of continuous, pulsating energy, a dense and intricate conversation between equals.
For the second movement, an Adagio ma non tanto, the two violas da gamba fall silent, leaving an even more intimate trio of the two violas and the cello. The music becomes a sublime, sorrowful aria, a moment of profound and contemplative beauty. It ends on an unresolved chord, a musical question mark that hangs in the air before plunging directly into the finale.
The last movement is a joyous Gigue, a rustic, rollicking dance that feels like a celebration. The dark, somber colors of the ensemble are now used to create a mood of pure, unbuttoned fun. It’s a brilliant conclusion to a concerto that is both an intellectual marvel and a deeply personal statement—a tribute to the rich, soulful voice of an instrument that, for one glorious moment, finally gets to be the hero of the story.
