The Books of the Dolphin of Music

It was in my youth that I met a vihuela musician in Valladolid by the name

of Narváez. He had such uncanny musical ability that over a four-part
organ book he could suddenly throw in another four on the vihuela. This
appeared miraculous to those without musical understanding, but even
more miraculous to those who did understand music.

Thus described the sixteenth-century prelate Luis Zapata de Cárdenas in his

Miscellanea an event where Luys de Narváez marvelled his audience with
the magic of his vihuela playing. And it was probably no exaggeration—if
the art of counterpoint on the vihuela is in itself an admirable undertaking,
improvising four parts in addition to the pre-existing ones would have
astounded any courtly listener.

It was sometime during the 1980s that I first heard a vihuela, played by
someone who a decade or so later was to become my teacher at the Schola
Cantorum Basiliensis: Hopkinson Smith. I remember being mesmerized by
the flow of polyphony, the discernment of parts, the counterpoint, his
messa di voce and the vocality of his phrasing—everything I could not
believe doable on my instrument was there. And so, a whole new world
opened up before me, urging me to return (first through transcriptions, then
through tablatures whenever I was able to procure them) to the vihuela
books I had known through my classical guitar. I found the fantasías by
Narváez, Mudarra and Milán particularly captivating, and they would shape
some of the goals I later strove to meet professionally, such as the one
reflected by this CD: the complete solo vihuela works by Luys de Narváez.

Six books of music in tablature for vihuela titled ‘of the Dolphin’. And
justly so, for it is a very aficionado fish with great affinity for music and
about which great things are written

Narváez’s bequest is unique in many respects, but probably the first thing
that catches anybody’s attention is its title, ‘Dolphin of Music’. He was
undoubtedly inspired by the Herodotus fable which relates how Arion,
having earned a great sum of money with his singing and playing, was
happily on his way back to his homeland, Corinth. The sailors in the vessel,
however, after stripping him from all his possessions decided to have him
thrown overboard. Arion then asked that his last wish be respected, that is,
to sing accompanied by his instrument. Such harmony drew the attention of
the dolphins, and one of them even let him ride safely on its back all the
way to Corinth’s port.
On the frontispiece of each of the six books we can admire an etching
where Narváez invokes this legend. In it we see Arion at sea, riding away
from the vessel on the dolphin while playing his vihuela.

The Six Books of the Dolphin of Music for Vihuela (Valladolid, 1538) is the
second collection published in the Iberian Peninsula dedicated in its
entirety to music for vihuela, or vihuela and voice. It was preceded by El
Maestro, by another of the great vihuelistas, Luys Milán (Valencia, 1536).

The rosemary pilgrim / tired from walking / later began to sing / to

soothe the way

What has always piqued my curiosity about the vihuela repertoire, and
which is less often found in compositions for the guitar, is its great
vocality. Plucked instruments have always partaken of fashionable styles of
their times in many kinds of ensembles, as demonstrated by the many
paintings and reliefs from the Middle Ages where we find lutes or
guiternes combined with psalteries or other stringed instruments. In the
Iberian Renaissance the vihuela was considered an ideal instrument to
accompany the voice—as was the guitar in later times, as attested by a
great number of collections of music for guitar (or lute, or theorbo) and
voice.

A common way to learn music during the Renaissance was through the
church and the vocal polyphony therein performed. In addition to its
inherent artistic beauty this music provided students with a solid training in
counterpoint, a pedagogy tradition which gradually lost hold during
subsequent centuries. There are references to vocal polyphony from the
very first fantasía of Narváez’s books, whose subject is based in the
famous song Adieu mes amours used for example by Josquin in his
memorable version for four voices. In fact, the entire third book consists of
transcriptions of religious and secular polyphony by Franco-Flemish
composers, and the fourth of diferencias [variations] on Gregorian hymns.
The fifth is composed of songs for voice and vihuela, and the sixth of
romances with diferencias on romances such as Conde Claros or songs
such as Guárdame las vacas.

. . . as it is necessary to play well, one must know which perfection each

tone [mode] needs and must have

The terminology Narváez uses for the modes differs from that Luys de
Milán had used just a couple of years prior. While Milán informs us, for
example, that such and such fantasía fits the first and second, or the third
and fourth tones [modes], Narváez already hints at an evolution towards
what would become the major/minor tonal system about one and a half
centuries later. If we observe the modes from the viewpoint of Gregorian
chant, we see that each chant or hymn is associated to one, and only one,
mode, due to the fact that in monody the range rarely goes much beyond
the octave. Writing a fantasía in several parts, however, requires the use of
both the authentic and the plagal modes to allow enough range for
counterpoint. Narváez presciently thought of the modes not in terms of
pairs, as Milán did, but of each as having its own identity and character.
And so there took place in the seventeenth century a gradual but eventually
complete conceptual distortion of the modes, as composers increasingly
wrote with tonal functions in mind; although they still used the same
terminology as Narváez, it eventually came to refer to the beginning note of
each piece rather than the original mode. Thus, for example the passacalle
by Guerau from the end of the seventeenth century, written in what would
later be called E minor, is labelled ‘in the third mode’ even though we
don’t see the characteristic turn of that mode (E F D E) but rather E F♯ E.
Narváez already used E F♯ E in his fantasía in the third tone, which
denotes a distancing from the medieval conception of the ecclesiastical
modes even though he sometimes still includes melodic turns reminiscent
of the original mode (E F D E).

Narváez’s dissonance treatment is also noteworthy: if we look at the

precepts on which the composers of Renaissance polyphony based their
compositions (e.g. Palestrina’s compositions or Zarlino’s treatise), we can
see that Narváez takes some licences in terms of the resolution of
dissonances. For example, he often resolves suspensions only by way of
suggestion, which actually lends them an aura of perfection. Although
Vincenzo Galilei had indeed already described such cases in his Discorso
intorno all’uso delle dissonanze [Discourse on the Use of Dissonances], in
Narváez’s music they are nearly always part of a rather improvisatory style.

To raise propriety / higher than any bird / results in majesty / and this
accordance / is sweet music. / That it raises understanding/ so high in
contemplation / that it instantly places it / in the divine bedchamber /
therein lies its perfection

As Emilio Pujol wisely observed in his edition of Narváez’s music (1),

‘sacred music, primordial source of all music, differs from the secular in
that the closer the moment in time is when we compare them, the more
pronounced their difference’.
In order to listen to music so distant from our own time it is essential to
strive to understand a composer’s ways of thinking and his day-to-day life.
Narváez certainly was a man of his times, and so in view of the importance
religious music has in his works in this recording I decided to organise
these works on the basis of the canonical hours with which he surely was
familiar.

... for virtuous pastime and honest enjoyment

Although there are many inspiring writings on music from the Siglo de Oro
[Spanish Golden Age], it was Fray Tomás de Sancta Maria’s Arte de tañer
fantasía [Art of Playing Fantasy] which singlehandedly paved the way for
me towards a more improvisatory and spontaneous phrasing style. And
although most seventeenth-century books for the guitar, lute, and theorbo
are quite informative on ornamentation matters, such indications are
scarcer in books for the vihuela; Sancta Maria’s book is one of the few
which shed light on this aspect of performance, which helps give it its
proper relevance in Narváez’s music.

Besides, it is more perfect because of the similarity and accordance

which string sounds have with human sense, as the vihuela’s are made of
gut

For this recording I have used two vihuelas, a tenor made by Carlos
González in 2017 and a bass made by Patrick Hoopmans in 1997, both
wholly gut-strung.

Acknowledgments

There are always many people in our lives whose inquisitiveness and
sharing of ideas help bring our projects to fruition.

Thanks to

Ariel Abramovich, with whom I have shared doubts, opinions and

certitudes over music that holds our passion

Emilio Pujol for opening the doors to so much music that would otherwise
surely collect dust in the archives of some library

Hopi for being one of the constant sources of inspiration of so many

vihuela players of my generation and subsequent ones
Juan Carlos Asensio for his invaluable complicity

Kees Koudstaal and Constantin Laurentiu for their interest in music

Manuel Mohino for knowing how to capture the sound of this beautiful
instrument with his microphones

Tanja for being there

Instruments

Tenor vihuela (Carlos González 2017), La Aldonza

Bass vihuela (Patrick Hoopmans 1997), l’Hollandaise

Edition

(1) Pujol, Emilio, Los Seys libros del Delphin (Barcelona: CSIC, 1945)