Johann Sebastian Bach: Baroque Star

Zombie History Podcast

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Johann Sebastian Bach: Baroque Star

Ron Stauffer

Sep 28, 2024

Transcript

An interview with J.S. Bach: musical genius, composer extraordinaire, and unbelievably influential dude. This organ-playing wizard wrote over 1,000 musical works, fathered 20 children, once spent a month in prison, and has a legacy still holding strong 275 years after his death. You probably like Bach’s music more than you even know. Let’s talk to him and see if you end up liking Bach himself as well. I sure did.

I’m a big fan of many different artists and composers over the multiple eras of Western music, and one of the greatest figures of the past few centuries is Johann Sebastian Bach.

J.S. Bach, or just “Bach” as we tend to call him, despite what you may think, was more than a stodgy Baroque-era composer who played the organ and wrote music for uber-formal church choirs wearing choristers robes and poofy, white neck ruffs…

Actually, Mr. Bach is, in my opinion, the first rock star—or “ba(roque)” star, if you will—a superhero of the musical world, someone who laid the foundation for so much of the music we appreciate today and an innovator whose legacy is so large that we can’t even see it from our vantage point today because we live in the thick of it.

I really like Johan Sebastian Bach, and the odds are, you do, too.

I grew up singing his songs in the local children’s chorus and practiced his melodies when learning to play the piano, trumpet, and tuba. …and almost everybody in the Western world likes Bach and what he did, whether they know it or not. Want proof?

If you, at any point, have had an appreciation for:

Complex harmonies
Polyphony
Counterpoint
Improvisation
Electronica
Pop
Rock
…or even Jazz

Or, if you like relatively recent bands and musicians, including: Emerson Lake and Palmer, Deep Purple, Billy Joel, Led Zeppelin, and yes, even The Beatles… then you like Bach! You just didn’t know it.

There are a lot of works by Bach that you probably already know. How about:

The Brandenburg Concertos
Prelude in C Major (Ave Maria)
Jesu Joy of Man’s Desiring
Sheep May Safely Graze
Air on the G String
…and, of course, Toccata and Fugue in G Minor

Have I convinced you yet? I am biased, of course: I’m a fan, in part, because he reminds me of me! Like Bach, I am also a man of German heritage, a Christian, a father, a musician, and a student of music, theology, and multiple languages, including German, Italian, French, and Latin. We have a lot in common.

I think Bach was awesome, and for my money, I think he’s right up there with Wagner, Beethoven, Schubert, and Mozart. I’m telling you: You should listen to more Bach, starting now. I am certain it will enrich your life.

But, enough about his musical works and legacy, now let’s take the time to get to know Bach, the person, shall we? Let’s listen to the man himself, The German Genius, from beyond the grave and see what his life was like and what he’d say if I were interviewing him today.

Ron Stauffer: Hello, Mr. Bach. What should I call you? Can I call you Joe?

Ah, Joe! That’s quite amusing! In my day, I was more accustomed to “Herr Bach” or “ Kapellmeister.” But, seeing as we’re sharing cigars and whiskey in your modern den, Joe will do just fine, my friend. What’s your first question for me, Ron?

Ron Stauffer: You were an unbelievable composer, very famous today in the 21st century, but during your lifetime, you were kind of unknown, right? Weren't you just, like, the local organ player at your church in your own neighborhood?

Ah, yes, you’re quite right, Ron. During my lifetime, I wasn’t a famous composer like you know me today. I was really more of a church musician, primarily known for my skills as an organist. I worked in various towns, playing in churches, leading choirs, and writing music for the services. I wasn’t some grand figure in the musical world at the time—just doing my duties, keeping things running. Many of my compositions were simply for practical purposes, not for fame. I suppose you could say I was just the local organ guy!

Ron Stauffer: That sounds almost impossible to believe today. It almost seems like having Michael Jordan be your son's middle school basketball coach. What level of fame and, you know, how notorious were you during your lifetime aside from just your own hometown? Because I know that you traveled a bit, right?

Ah, what an interesting comparison! Michael Jordan coaching middle school basketball—that would be quite something! Well, in my time, I was respected, especially among fellow musicians and within the courts where I worked. My skill as an organist was fairly well known, and I was often invited to examine organs or to perform in various cities like Dresden and Hamburg. So, I wasn’t completely obscure, but I wouldn’t say I had any sort of widespread fame outside of certain circles.

I did travel a bit, yes, particularly early in my career when I sought out better positions or to learn from other musicians. But overall, my reputation was more local and regional. Nothing like the worldwide recognition you're speaking of today. Back then, I was really more of a craftsman than a celebrity.

Ron Stauffer: Well, interestingly, you had an unusually wide range of musical endeavors, didn't you? I mean, you wrote cantatas, masses, oratorio, chamber music, and more in multiple languages, and lots of works for instruments that I don't think you even played. That was pretty ambitious for a lowly organ player, wasn't it?

Ah, yes, I suppose it was a bit ambitious for a humble organist, wasn’t it? But you see, my life required versatility. In my various roles—whether in churches or courts—I was responsible for so many different kinds of music. For example, every Sunday required a new cantata for the church service, and that was just part of my job. I didn’t have the luxury of focusing on just one type of music.

As for the instruments, you’re right—I didn’t play everything I wrote for. But as a composer, it was my duty to understand how they worked and what they were capable of. I studied them, learned from other musicians, and used my imagination. Sometimes you just have to trust your ear and your mind to go beyond what your hands can do.

Writing in different forms and languages? Well, it came with the territory. When you work for the church, you write sacred masses; when you work for the courts, you compose chamber music for entertainment. My ambitions, I suppose, were just a reflection of the life I lived—meeting the needs of those I served.

Ron Stauffer: That's interesting. Well, something that you may not know, because this didn't happen in your lifetime, but after you passed away, some of your works have taken on a whole new meaning and even a new essence. For example, I grew up listening to Andres Segovia, the Spanish guitar player, and he played your cello suites on the guitar, and that's a completely different instrument altogether. Did you ever see that coming, and would you have been okay with that, or were you insistent that your quote-unquote cello suites meant cello suites?

Ah, now that is fascinating, Ron! Imagine my cello suites being played on the guitar—how extraordinary! In my time, the guitar wasn’t really an instrument I wrote for, so I certainly didn’t see that coming. But to answer your question, I think I would have been quite pleased by it.

Music, you see, is a living art. It transforms, moves through time, and adapts to new contexts. I wasn’t so rigid that I would insist my cello suites remain only for the cello.

In fact, many of my works were transcriptions themselves—my own and others'. I often rearranged pieces for different instruments depending on what was needed. The essence of the music, for me, was in the structure, the harmony, and the counterpoint. So, if someone found a new voice for my music, even on an instrument I didn’t write for, I think I would have smiled at the ingenuity.

I would have been particularly curious to hear the guitar’s tone and expressiveness with those suites. If Segovia could bring out the soul of the music in a way that spoke to people, I would have embraced it.

Ron Stauffer: Okay, here's an even crazier story. An English drug rock band called Procol Harum in the 1960s took one of your melodic lines and turned it into a song called A Whiter Shade of Pale, which became an unbelievable super smash hit, and I think it sold over 10 million records worldwide. What would you make of that? And did you ever imagine just how far your musical babies would stray from the nest?

Ach du meine Güte, Ron! Now that is something I could never have imagined! A rock band, you say? And they took one of my melodies and turned it into a hit? I must say, that’s a kind of musical evolution I could never have foreseen. Ten million records? That’s more than I could have counted in my lifetime!

I think I would have been quite intrigued by this. Music, as I said before, is alive, and it moves in directions we can’t predict. The idea that something I composed could inspire a completely different genre—that’s proof of music’s enduring power. I always believed that good melodies and harmonies could resonate deeply with people, but to see them resurface centuries later in rock music? That’s incredible.

I can’t say I envisioned my musical children straying this far from the nest, but I think I would take it as a sign that they’ve grown wings and taken on a life of their own. If people are moved by it, whether in the quiet of a church or under the electric lights of a concert hall, it’s all part of music’s journey through time. A Whiter Shade of Pale, huh? I may not know what a “rock band” sounds like, but it seems my music found its way into something timeless after all!

Ron Stauffer: Well, those musicians certainly got rich off of your music, so speaking of that, did you get rich in your lifetime? How wealthy were you, or were you poor?

Well, let me tell you, Ron, I was far from rich during my lifetime. I earned enough to support my rather large family—twenty children, mind you!—but we lived modestly. My income came from my positions at various churches, courts, and commissions. I was paid for my work as an organist, a choirmaster, and occasionally as a composer. There were no great riches from music sales, as publishing was not what it is today. I did manage to sell some of my works, but it wasn’t enough to make anyone wealthy.

As for recordings and mass sales of sheet music—ah, those came much later, long after I had left this world. In fact, after my death, many of my works were forgotten for a while. It wasn’t until about a century later, in the nineteenth century, that musicians like Felix Mendelssohn began rediscovering my music. That’s when things truly took off, and my works began to reach wider audiences. But during my life? I was just a hardworking musician. Comfortable, perhaps, but never wealthy.

So, while those rock musicians and modern performers may have made a fortune off my melodies, I, alas, was not so fortunate. My riches came in the form of music, family, and faith—not coins!

Ron Stauffer: On that note, and I mean this in the nicest way, it seems like you were almost nonchalant or even aloof when it came to your understanding of your own compositional skill. For example, I've heard that you composed music so often that people after your death found some of your original manuscripts doing all kinds of things like serving as placemats at the dinner table, or lining your cat's litter box, or I heard something about wrapping tree saplings with your sheet music to protect it from the elements. In other words, I can't imagine what an original Bach manuscript would fetch in price at auction today, but it seems like you thought so little of your music that sometimes your written songs were just like scrap paper. Is that true?

Ah, Ron, that does sound rather careless, doesn’t it? But I can assure you, it wasn’t that I thought little of my music—it’s just that my life was filled with such a constant demand for it. Week after week, new pieces were required for church services, court performances, or students to practice. I wrote so much that once the music had served its purpose, I often had to move on to the next piece without much time to reflect on what I had just created.

As for manuscripts being used for everyday purposes—placemats, lining the litter box, wrapping trees—well, that was more a matter of practicality. Paper was expensive back then, so once a piece had been performed and wasn’t needed anymore, it wasn’t uncommon for old sheets to be repurposed. To me, the music lived more in the performance than in the manuscript itself.

I wasn’t thinking about posterity or auctions! In fact, I never imagined people centuries later would want to collect my music, let alone pay astronomical sums for it. I was focused on the task at hand—completing what was required of me and moving on to the next project. It’s a strange thought now, I must admit, that people would treasure those old manuscripts so dearly today. But back then, they were just part of the daily grind.

Ron Stauffer: Are you saying that you never performed the same musical works twice or maybe only just a few times? You didn't, you know, write a piece and then perform it and then have a weekly or a monthly performance of it or, you know, like these days with operas, they'll have five nights in a row, you know, come on a Tuesday and see the same performance on a Thursday if you miss it on a Tuesday. Are you saying these were all one-time performances and then you put the music aside and then that was it?

Yes, it does seem odd by today’s standards, doesn’t it? But you’re quite right—I rarely had the luxury of performing the same piece multiple times. Much of what I composed, especially the cantatas for church services, were written for a specific occasion—say, a Sunday service or a festival. After that, the piece would often be set aside, and I’d move on to the next week’s work. There wasn’t this idea of “repeating” performances the way you described with operas today. Each Sunday demanded something new!

Now, there were exceptions. I did reuse some of my own music—occasionally reworking a piece to fit a different context or repurposing sections. And for things like instrumental music, there was a bit more flexibility. For example, my Brandenburg Concertos or my keyboard works may have been performed more than once, but not in any sort of regular “weekly” or “monthly” format.

But in my time, especially in the church, there wasn’t much of an audience for repeated performances of the same work. The focus was on the new, the fresh. And since much of my work was functional, it wasn’t designed to have a long “shelf life,” if you will. I wasn’t thinking about legacy—I was thinking about meeting the demands of the week, and that often meant the music had to serve its purpose and then step aside for the next one.

Ron Stauffer: That is so different. That's such a different way of thinking about music and composition, as opposed to today, where a musician will write some musical works and then go on tour and visit multiple cities across the world, sometimes playing the same songs over a career, maybe 500, 1,000, or even 5,000 times. That's completely crazy. And you had no understanding of recording or being able to save or store your musical performances in any way, right? If you missed the live show, that was it, right?

Exactly, Ron! In my time, if you missed the live performance, well, that was truly it. There was no way to record or preserve the sound beyond the moment it was played. The music existed only in that instant—ephemeral, almost like smoke from these cigars we’re enjoying. It was born, it breathed, and then it disappeared. That’s what made live performance so precious back then. You had to be there, or you missed the experience entirely.

And the idea of playing a piece hundreds or thousands of times, as modern musicians do, would have been quite foreign to me. As I mentioned, I was constantly under pressure to produce new works. Repetition simply wasn’t a luxury I could afford. In fact, I might have thought it strange to spend so much time playing the same pieces over and over, though I can understand the modern appeal of refining and sharing music with larger audiences.

And yes, there was no concept of recording sound. My compositions were preserved only in manuscripts, and even those didn’t always survive. It’s why so many of my works were lost after my death. The idea that music could be recorded and played back again later, for future audiences—it would have been absolutely unimaginable to me. For us, music was truly of the moment, and that moment passed as soon as the last note faded. What a difference from the way things are done today!

Ron Stauffer: That is indeed a strange difference between your generation and mine. On a separate note, let's talk about your skills once again. Would you have called yourself a composer who played the organ, or an organ player who composed music?

Yes, Ron—that’s an interesting distinction, isn’t it? I’ve always seen myself first and foremost as an organist. The organ was truly my instrument; it was where I felt most at home. I spent hours practicing, performing, and improvising on the organ, and much of my work revolved around it. You could say my compositions flowed naturally from my understanding of the instrument.

But as time went on, I became just as much a composer as I was an organist. My roles required me to write music for choirs, orchestras, solo instruments—you name it. I wouldn’t have called myself “just” an organist or “just” a composer. In many ways, they were inseparable for me. Playing the organ fed my composing, and composing fed my playing.

However, if you forced me to choose, I might lean toward calling myself an organist first. That’s where my deepest connection to music lay, and it was through the organ that I understood the grand architecture of sound. But my heart was in both.

Ron Stauffer: Let's talk about the elephant in the room. Speaking of your skills as a composer and an organist, there's a conspiracy theory going around these days where some people say Toccata and Fugue in D minor wasn't actually composed or played by you. What say you? What is the truth?

Ah, Toccata and Fugue in D minor! That piece has taken on quite a life of its own, hasn’t it? I’m aware that there are some who question its origins, claiming it may not have been written by me at all. How curious, indeed!

Let me tell you this: I never kept an official catalog of every single work I composed, nor did I foresee that people would scrutinize these pieces so closely centuries after my death. The truth is, I did compose many works in a similar style—bold, dramatic, and virtuosic, especially for the organ. Whether I specifically wrote that exact Toccata and Fugue in D minor, I cannot say with certainty after all this time.

However, it does bear many hallmarks of my style—particularly my early, more flamboyant works. The fugue structure, the counterpoint, and the dramatic opening flourish are certainly things I would have done. But if someone else took inspiration from my methods and composed it in my name, I wouldn’t be offended.

If the music moves people, if it stirs the soul, then whether it was my hand or another’s, it still carries the spirit of what I tried to achieve in my work. But as for the truth, Ron? I’ll leave that to the historians and scholars to debate. I’m just glad people are still talking about it!

Ron Stauffer: What a refreshing difference from the egomaniacs in music these days. Well, okay, so speaking of ego and, attribution and giving credit where credit's due, one of the more famous feuds, I guess you could say, over the past couple decades was the Beach Boys and the Beatles, two different bands in the same era playing different music and constantly trying to one-up the other. I wonder, were you jealous of anyone? Was there another composer you didn't like or had some sort of a musical feud with or thought, oh, wow, I just heard a new work by this composer. I can do better than that.

Ah, Ron, what an interesting comparison! The Beach Boys and the Beatles, you say? Well, in my time, I certainly admired and respected many fellow composers, but I can’t say I had the kind of feud you’re describing. Jealousy, perhaps—every musician feels a bit of that now and then. There were certainly moments when I heard someone else’s work and thought, “Hmm, I could do better,” or, “Why didn’t I think of that?”

For instance, I had great respect for composers like Georg Philipp Telemann and Antonio Vivaldi. Telemann was incredibly prolific, even more than I was, and quite famous in his day. Sometimes I wondered how he managed to compose so much and be so well-regarded! And Vivaldi, well, his Italian flair was certainly admired in Germany, and his concertos had a certain lightness that mine often didn’t.

But jealousy? Maybe a touch, though it was more admiration and a desire to challenge myself. There was also the famous Frenchman, Jean-Philippe Rameau—his harmonic innovations were quite advanced, and I certainly kept an eye on what he was doing. But I didn’t engage in feuds. My focus was always on perfecting my own craft, not tearing down others.

That said, there was one episode early in my career where I butted heads with a composer named Johann Adolph Scheibe. He criticized my music for being too complicated, too dense, and full of “unnatural” complexity. His words stung, I admit, but I didn’t dwell on it. I was always more interested in writing music that honored God and elevated the human spirit, rather than engaging in rivalries. So, while I wasn’t immune to feeling competitive, I didn’t let it consume me the way it might some musicians today.

Ron Stauffer: Well, that's very interesting and it's encouraging, and now you're talking about faith and how that plays into your works, obviously, as somebody who wrote a lot of music for the Church. You really focused on this concept of soli deo gloria, and as I understand, you wrote SDG on every piece of sheet music or almost every piece of sheet music manuscript that you had. Did you literally want all glory to go to God for everything you ever wrote? Did you see all your compositions as an expression of faith, even the instrumental ones?

Ah, yes, soli Deo gloria—to God alone be the glory. It’s true, Ron, I wrote “SDG” at the end of most of my manuscripts, because I genuinely believed that everything I did, every note I composed, was in service to something greater than myself. Music, for me, was a divine gift, and it felt only right to return that gift to its source. I wasn’t composing for personal fame or recognition, but rather as a way to honor God and express the beauty of creation through sound.

Now, you’re right to ask whether that applied to my instrumental works as well. The answer is yes—I saw all of my compositions, whether sacred or secular, vocal or instrumental, as being infused with the same spirit of devotion. Even when I was writing a concerto or a keyboard piece, I still believed that the act of creating music was an expression of my faith. Music, in its very nature, reflects order, harmony, and the divine, so in a way, every composition, whether it was meant for a church service or for a court performance, had a spiritual essence to it.

So, yes, SDG was more than just a signature or a formality. It was a reminder to myself that my talents and work were not for my own glory but for God’s. Even in the more “earthly” pieces, I believed music had the power to elevate the soul and connect us to something higher. Whether it was a sacred cantata or a fugue, the purpose remained the same.

Ron Stauffer: Well, once again, on that note of faith, you were a Lutheran, and many composers around your time, I believe including Monteverdi, Haydn, Mozart, Scarlatti, and Vivaldi, were all Roman Catholic. How did your denominational alliance affect your works, if at all?

Ah, yes, my Lutheran faith was deeply woven into the fabric of my life and my music. It certainly shaped the themes and the purpose of much of my work. Being a devout Lutheran influenced not only the sacred music I wrote but also the way I approached music as a whole.

In Lutheranism, especially in the traditions of Martin Luther himself, music was considered a powerful form of worship and a direct expression of faith. Luther once said, “Next to the Word of God, the noble art of music is the greatest treasure in the world.” That resonated with me deeply. The Lutheran service placed great emphasis on congregational singing and chorales, which is why I wrote so many chorale settings, cantatas, and large works like the St. Matthew Passion and St. John Passion. These were not just artistic endeavors; they were acts of devotion and meant to convey the theology of my faith through music.

As for my Roman Catholic contemporaries—Monteverdi, Vivaldi, Mozart, and the like—they were, of course, writing within the framework of the Catholic Church, which has its own rich traditions. The Mass was central to their sacred works, while for me, the cantata, the Passion, and the chorale were key forms. But while the denominations were different, I think we shared a common belief in the spiritual power of music.

The theological differences between Lutheranism and Catholicism certainly shaped the text and content of our sacred works, but the underlying goal—expressing faith through music—was quite similar. So, while my works were deeply Lutheran in their doctrine and spirit, I always felt a kinship with other composers in their dedication to sacred music. Ultimately, whether in a Catholic or Lutheran church, the goal was to elevate the soul and glorify God through sound.

Ron Stauffer: Yeah, although you drew a distinction between the Catholics writing masses and you mostly focused on choral—different choral works and cantatas, but you wrote a mass too, right? I mean, you're pretty famous for the B Minor Mass.

Ah, yes, you’re quite right, Ron! The Mass in B minor—perhaps one of my most well-known works today. It’s a bit curious, isn’t it, that a devout Lutheran like myself would compose a full Catholic Mass? But let me explain.

While my focus was indeed on writing cantatas, passions, and other works tied to the Lutheran tradition, I was also drawn to the Mass as a musical form. The Mass in B minor wasn’t written as a complete work at one time; rather, parts of it were composed over many years, and it was more of a culmination of my sacred choral style. In fact, some sections, like the Kyrie and Gloria, were written earlier for specific occasions and later incorporated into the full Mass.

Now, even though the Mass was a Catholic liturgical form, I saw it as a grand and beautiful structure—one that allowed for deep musical expression of faith. I didn’t write it for a specific Catholic service but rather as a more universal, timeless offering. I think, in a way, it transcended denominational boundaries. It was about exploring the depths of human expression in worship, regardless of whether it was intended for a Lutheran or Catholic audience.

The B minor Mass was also never performed in its entirety during my lifetime. It was more of a monumental artistic statement, almost like a personal testament to my craft and faith. So, yes, while my roots were firmly in the Lutheran tradition, the Mass in B minor shows that, for me, the music of faith could cross boundaries and speak to something greater, beyond any one denomination.

Ron Stauffer: That makes sense. Well, okay, switching gears a little bit, let's talk a little bit more about you personally. One, as a Lutheran, this is a criticism I've heard of Martin Luther himself, and also of you, that you were a heavy drinker. Is this true? Did you drink a lot of alcohol? And if so, what kind?

Ah, now there’s a lively topic, Ron! I’ll admit, like many of my contemporaries, I did enjoy a good drink—after all, life in those days wasn’t exactly easy, and a bit of refreshment helped lighten the load! But as for being a heavy drinker? Well, I wouldn’t say I was any more excessive than the average man of my time.

You see, in 18th-century Germany, it was quite common to drink beer or wine regularly. The water wasn’t always safe to drink, so people often turned to beer, and even children drank a weaker version. Wine, too, was quite popular, though perhaps a bit more expensive. I enjoyed both beer and wine, particularly at social gatherings or after a long day of work at the organ or desk.

Luther himself was known to enjoy a good beer, and I suppose I followed in that tradition! But, I’d like to think I kept things balanced. My mind needed to stay sharp for composing, and while I certainly partook, I was also a family man with responsibilities, including, as I mentioned before, caring for a rather large brood of children. So, yes, I drank, but it was all part of the culture—nothing scandalous by the standards of the day!

Perhaps people today look back and see my appreciation for drink through a modern lens, but in my time, it was just a way of life.

Ron Stauffer: Hmm, that's fair. All right, so you've mentioned this a few times. You had how many kids? And at one point, I know at least one of your wives died. So just give me a quick rundown on your marriage and your children, or your marriages and your children.

Ah, yes, my family! I had quite a large one, Ron—twenty children in total, though not all survived to adulthood, as was sadly common in those days. Let me give you the rundown:

I was married twice. My first wife, Maria Barbara, was actually my second cousin, and we had seven children together. Unfortunately, Maria Barbara passed away suddenly in 1720 while I was away on a trip. It was a great shock to me, and it was one of the more difficult moments of my life.

A year later, I married Anna Magdalena, a singer, and we had thirteen more children together. Anna was a great support to me, not only as a mother but also as a musician. She even helped copy out some of my music. We shared a deep love of music, and I was fortunate to have her by my side.

Of my twenty children, ten survived into adulthood, and several of them became musicians themselves, most notably Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach and Johann Christian Bach, who both went on to become successful composers in their own right.

So, yes, my family life was full—full of music, full of joy, but also full of loss, which was a reality for many families in that era. But through it all, my children and my music remained central to my life.

Ron Stauffer: Yeah, okay. So you mentioned the time. Boy, yeah, mortality rates were very different back then, but not only that. As I understand, when your first wife died, you were away on a trip with a prince, I think it was, and by the time you got back, you had been gone so long that she had already been dead and buried for like a period of months. Is that correct?

Ah, yes, that is correct, and it was one of the most painful moments of my life, Ron. In 1720, I was away on a trip with Prince Leopold of Anhalt-Köthen, where I served as his Kapellmeister.

We had traveled for several weeks, and during that time, Maria Barbara fell ill and passed away quite suddenly. The tragedy was that, due to the slow pace of communication back then, I had no idea what had happened until I returned home. By the time I arrived, she had already been buried.

It was devastating to come back to such news without even the chance to say goodbye. Losing a spouse is difficult enough, but to be absent during her final days and her burial—it’s something that weighed heavily on me. In those times, with travel and the lack of modern communication, such sad realities weren’t uncommon, but that didn’t make it any easier. It was a very dark chapter in my life, and the music I composed in the years following reflects some of that sorrow.

Ron Stauffer: Really? That's an interesting point. What are some of those musical works that reflect the sorrow? Would I recognize them?

Ah, yes, Ron, there are certainly pieces that reflect the depth of sorrow and loss I felt during that time, though some may not be as explicitly tied to my personal grief. The emotions were woven into the music itself—sometimes in subtle ways.

One work that comes to mind is my Chaconne from the Partita No. 2 in D minor for solo violin. Though I composed it a few years after Maria Barbara’s death, many have interpreted it as a reflection of profound loss. The Chaconne is dark, complex, and deeply emotional, often thought to be a meditation on grief. Its structure, constantly evolving over a repeated bass line, has been described as a musical journey through sorrow and resolution. Some even speculate it was composed in her memory, though I never explicitly stated that.

Another work, my Cantata No. 106 (Actus Tragicus), written earlier, deals directly with themes of death and preparation for the afterlife. While it predates Maria Barbara’s passing, its intense focus on mortality and the release from earthly suffering took on even more resonance for me after her death.

Finally, the St. Matthew Passion, which I composed in 1727, speaks of Christ’s suffering and death, but its emotional depth and exploration of pain, loss, and redemption likely drew from my personal experiences. It is a work filled with pathos and reflection on human suffering, which I certainly felt deeply by that point.

These works are not only recognized for their musical brilliance but also for the way they express the human condition—grief, loss, and ultimately, hope. While not all of them were directly written in response to Maria Barbara’s death, the emotions I carried into that period of my life undoubtedly influenced the music.

Ron Stauffer: Yeah, wow, that's interesting. Okay, so speaking of your kids, going back to that for a moment, you mentioned at least two of them ended up becoming professional musicians and or composers. I wonder, was that part of your plan? Did you want them to follow in your footsteps or not? Did you encourage them to do that or discourage them in any way? And were you ever concerned that they might show you up in some way? I mean, again, it sounds like you had very little ego, but at some point, would it have bothered you to know that your son, JC Bach, may have become more famous than you?

Ah, the matter of my children and their careers—yes, Ron, I was certainly involved in their musical upbringing. It wasn’t so much that I had a plan for them to follow in my footsteps, but rather that music was such a central part of our household that it was almost inevitable they would be drawn into it. I provided them with a solid musical education, not because I wanted them to live in my shadow, but because I believed that music was a valuable skill, a gift that should be cultivated.

Carl Philipp Emanuel, Johann Christian, and a few others showed great talent, and I was proud of their achievements. I didn’t discourage them at all; in fact, I gave them every opportunity to learn and grow, much as my own father had done for me. Music was in our blood, so to speak.

Now, as for the question of them surpassing me—well, it didn’t trouble me in the least. I was always more concerned with my own work and the quality of what I produced, rather than how I measured up to others, even my own sons. Johann Christian, especially, became quite famous in his own right, and he embraced a more modern, gallant style of composition, which was popular in his time. It was very different from the dense, contrapuntal style I was known for.

In truth, I saw this as part of the natural evolution of music. Each generation brings something new to the table. If anything, I would have been pleased to know that my sons found success and contributed to the art in their own way. Fame didn’t concern me much—what mattered was that they made good music and honored the craft. If they showed me up, well, that was their honor to carry!

Ron Stauffer: So, were you known as a musical family? You mentioned your father helping you in your own musical formation, and then you doing the same. So, was music a Bach family tradition? Were you known in your local town as the Bach family of musicians?

Ah, indeed, Ron! The Bach family was very much a musical dynasty, long before I came onto the scene. We were known throughout Thuringia and beyond for generations as musicians. My father, Johann Ambrosius Bach, was a town musician in Eisenach, and he played a significant role in my early musical education. And even before him, there were several Bachs involved in music—whether as town musicians, church organists, or composers. In fact, “Bach” became almost synonymous with “musician” in some parts of Germany!

It was such a family tradition that even in my time, in some regions, if you needed a musician, you’d simply say, “Get a Bach.” It was like calling for a member of the family was calling for music itself. So yes, we were very much known as a musical family, and I inherited that tradition, along with many of my relatives and sons.

Music was in the air we breathed, and it wasn’t uncommon for family gatherings to turn into impromptu musical performances or jam sessions, as you might call them today. So, the tradition ran deep, and I certainly passed it down to my own children, keeping the Bach musical legacy alive. We were a family of musicians through and through—stretching across generations.

Ron Stauffer: Wow, that's very interesting. Did you employ your children to play in the orchestras that you conducted? Or did you have a family band?

Ah, yes, a family band—you could say that we had something quite close to it! I certainly did involve my children in many of my musical activities. As they grew up and became more proficient on their instruments, they would often perform in the church ensembles or court orchestras I directed. It was very practical, really. When you’re responsible for leading choirs and orchestras, having talented musicians in the family is a great asset!

For example, my sons Wilhelm Friedemann and Carl Philipp Emanuel were exceptional musicians, and they often performed in the churches where I worked, sometimes playing continuo or accompanying choirs. My wife, Anna Magdalena, as I mentioned, was a singer, and she occasionally participated in performances as well. So, in a sense, yes, we often performed as a family unit.

There were times when I had my sons copying out parts for the orchestra, rehearsing with the ensemble, or playing alongside other musicians in performances. We weren’t a formal “family band” as such, but music was so ingrained in our daily lives that it was almost inevitable we would perform together.

The level of family collaboration was quite high, and I took pride in knowing that my children were not only capable musicians but were also helping to bring my music to life. We were very much a musical household, and that spilled over into my professional work as well. It was all very intertwined—family, faith, and music.

Ron Stauffer: Well, one thing I know sitting here in the 21st century looking back over the years is that you died in 1750, and apparently the whole Baroque period of music died along with it. Why is that?

Ah, yes, 1750—the year of my passing and, as you say, often seen as the end of the Baroque era! It’s quite something to be linked with the closing of an entire musical period, isn’t it? But I suppose it makes sense in a way.

By the time I died, musical tastes were already shifting. The younger generation—composers like my own sons, Carl Philipp Emanuel and Johann Christian, along with others like Haydn—were moving toward a simpler, more elegant style, what would become known as the Classical period. My music, with its intricate counterpoint and dense structure, was considered old-fashioned by then. People were craving something lighter, more melodic, and more immediately pleasing to the ear.

So, while my death coincided with the close of the Baroque era, I don’t think it was because I ended it myself, but rather because the musical world was naturally evolving. My works may have been the final great expression of Baroque ideals, but the new styles were already emerging and gaining popularity during my later years.

In a way, it’s fitting that my passing marks that transition. The Baroque era, with its grandeur, complexity, and deep expressiveness, gave way to something more streamlined. But I take comfort in knowing that the seeds of those musical changes were planted by the same traditions I upheld—and in some cases, by my own children! So, while the Baroque period may have ended with me, its legacy lived on, transformed, and adapted for new ears and new times.

Ron Stauffer: Well, okay, so let's talk a little bit about the Baroque period, just very briefly. What was the essence of the Baroque era, and how was it different than what came before it? And then maybe tack on a little explanation about what came after.

Ah, the Baroque era—such a rich and expressive time for music, Ron! In many ways, the essence of Baroque music was all about contrast and drama. It was characterized by ornate detail, emotional depth, and a focus on creating a grand, often majestic sound. Composers like myself, Vivaldi, Handel, and others used techniques like basso continuo to create a strong harmonic foundation, and we loved using counterpoint—interweaving multiple independent melodies to create complex, rich textures.

What set the Baroque period apart from what came before, like the Renaissance, was its emphasis on contrast and dynamic expression. Renaissance music was more balanced, often flowing in a more restrained and uniform manner. Baroque music, on the other hand, embraced extremes—shifts from loud to soft, fast to slow, and the use of ornamentation to enhance melodies. It was about heightening emotion, whether in sacred works, like my Passions, or in secular pieces, like my instrumental concertos.

Baroque music also saw the development of forms like the concerto, the suite, the sonata, and the fugue, which helped give structure to these grand ideas. Harmony became more adventurous, and composers began to explore modulation—shifting between keys in new and dramatic ways.

After the Baroque era, music transitioned into the Classical period, where composers like Haydn, Mozart, and later Beethoven took the stage. The Classical style valued clarity, simplicity, and balance. While Baroque music was dense and ornamented, Classical music aimed for elegance and clear melodies. Forms like the symphony and the string quartet became popular, and composers moved away from the elaborate counterpoint I loved so much, instead favoring simpler harmonic progressions and clearer structures.

So, if the Baroque era was about complexity, drama, and emotional depth, the Classical period that followed was about refinement, balance, and clarity. Each era had its strengths, and in their own ways, they both aimed to capture the beauty and power of music, just in very different styles.

Ron Stauffer: I'll say, talking about, my goodness, the Baroque era being crazy and complex. I almost, I almost wonder, like, why did you write some of that music? Like the Magnificat in D has such insane maniacal flourishes and melismas just through the roof. Did you enjoy torturing singers for fun?

Ha! Torturing singers, you say? Well, Ron, I must admit I never intended to make anyone suffer, but I can see why you might think that with something like the Magnificat in D! Yes, the flourishes and melismas are certainly abundant, and they do push singers to their limits.

But you see, I wasn’t out to torment anyone. I had such high regard for the human voice and its expressive capabilities, and I always aimed to write music that would reflect the glory and grandeur of the text, especially in a work like the Magnificat, which praises the divine. The complex runs and flourishes were meant to elevate the music and convey the joy and exaltation of the moment. It was my way of capturing something transcendent through music.

That being said, I did have high expectations for my performers. In Leipzig, I worked with singers who were often students or members of the church, and they were expected to rise to the occasion. I believed that challenging them with complex lines could bring out the best in their abilities and inspire them to reach new heights. Of course, I’m sure they may have grumbled a bit during rehearsals!

So, no, I didn’t set out to torture anyone, but I did write with ambition, always trying to serve the music and the message behind it. And when it all came together, well, I’d like to think the result was worth the effort—despite the challenges it presented to the singers!

Ron Stauffer: Okay, here's a question that's a little bit light-hearted. You seemed like you were a very serious person, and yet, apparently, you wrote something called the Coffee Cantata, which sounds very silly. What is that about, and did you write any other light-hearted or comedic work?

Ah, the Coffee Cantata! Yes, that one does stand out, doesn’t it? A bit of a departure from my more serious sacred works, for sure. But, Ron, even I had my lighter moments! Life isn’t all solemnity and grandeur, after all.

The Coffee Cantata (Schweigt stille, plaudert nicht) was written as a sort of miniature comic opera. It wasn’t intended for the church, of course, but rather for performance at Leipzig’s coffee houses, which were quite popular at the time. Coffee had become all the rage in Germany, and there was a bit of a humorous societal debate about it—some people thought drinking coffee was an indulgence, while others, like me, were quite fond of it!

The story of the cantata is playful: a young woman, Liesgen, is absolutely addicted to coffee, and her father, Schlendrian, tries to forbid her from drinking it, thinking it’s ruining her life. But Liesgen won’t give it up. Eventually, she outsmarts him by agreeing to stop drinking coffee only if she finds a husband, cleverly ensuring she gets both her coffee and her freedom.

It’s a humorous piece, full of lively music, and I think it gave my audience something to smile about. While I’m often remembered for my serious, sacred compositions, I did enjoy writing secular works, including this one, which pokes fun at something as everyday as a love of coffee.

As for other light-hearted works, there were occasional pieces like this one—often secular cantatas or instrumental music meant for social gatherings and courtly entertainment. While I didn’t make a habit of writing purely comedic music, I certainly wasn’t opposed to having a bit of fun when the occasion called for it! Life, after all, needs both the sacred and the silly.

Ron Stauffer: I agree. Now, okay, again, by today's definition, looking back on your life, just looking at things that you did from the beginning of your life until your final days, it sounds like you were kind of a badass, but I can't tell what's true and what isn't. For example, is it true that you once walked almost 300 miles just to see a concert and that you challenged another musician to a musical duel, but when he found out how good you were, he gave up? And to top it off, you once threatened a bassoon player with a drawn sword during music practice? You sound crazy.

Ha! Well, Ron, I must say, those stories certainly paint quite the picture, don’t they? But let me clarify things a bit—you’re not entirely wrong, but perhaps these tales have taken on a life of their own over time!

First, the long walk—that’s quite true. When I was in my late teens, I walked from Arnstadt to Lübeck, which was indeed about 250 miles, just to hear the great organist Dieterich Buxtehude perform. I admired his playing greatly and wanted to learn from him. Now, that might sound a bit extreme, but in those days, if you were passionate about something, you made the effort! So, yes, I walked those miles for the chance to experience something truly special. And it was worth every step.

As for the musical duel—ah, yes, that’s another story with some truth to it. The musician in question was Louis Marchand, a French composer and keyboard player. We were supposed to have a musical duel at the Dresden court to see who was the superior keyboardist. But, as the story goes, when Marchand realized just how skilled I was, he decided to leave town before the duel could happen! Now, did he truly flee because of my talent? We’ll never know for sure, but it’s a fun story to tell, isn’t it?

And as for the bassoon player and the sword—that tale has been exaggerated over time! It’s true that I had my fair share of frustrations with musicians who didn’t meet my standards, and there was indeed an incident where I had a heated exchange with a bassoonist in Arnstadt. His playing was less than satisfactory, and we got into an argument. As for the sword? Well, it’s true I had one, but drawing it was more of a dramatic gesture than an actual threat. I was passionate about music, and I had a temper when it came to people not taking their craft seriously!

So, yes, I had some moments of intensity, but “crazy”? I prefer to think of myself as dedicated to my art—perhaps a bit fiery when needed, but always in the name of music!

Ron Stauffer: Okay, well here's a crazy anecdote. Is it true that you were arrested once? What's the deal with that? How did a straight-laced guy like you with 20 kids end up in the slammer? Was it drunk driving or drunk horse riding or whatever they had back then?

Ha! Arrested? Oh yes, Ron, it’s true, I did spend some time behind bars, though not for any wild antics like drunk horse riding, as you might imagine! It was a more mundane, though still frustrating, situation.

Back in 1717, I was working as the Kapellmeister for Prince Leopold of Anhalt-Köthen, but before that, I had been employed in Weimar, where I served as court organist and later concertmaster. Now, the Duke of Weimar, Wilhelm Ernst, wasn’t too happy when I decided to leave his court for a better position in Köthen. When I requested my release, the Duke refused to grant it. I insisted on leaving, and, well, he didn’t take too kindly to that!

So, what happened? The Duke had me locked up for about a month. It wasn’t a grand scandal or anything like that—it was simply a matter of a powerful man not wanting to lose his employee. Eventually, he let me go, but not before I spent those four weeks in jail. While I wasn’t exactly a troublemaker, this was one of those cases where standing up for myself and my career led to some… let’s say, unintended consequences!

So, no drunken escapades—just a disagreement over employment. But it makes for a good story, doesn’t it? Even a straight-laced composer like me managed to have a little run-in with authority!

Ron Stauffer: Well, I think that just proves my point that you truly are the original rock star. I mean, you pushed music to its absolute limits, and you were a bit of a rebel, and you got in a fight over a contract dispute. I mean, what's more rock and roll than that?

Ha! You know, Ron, I never thought of myself as the “original rock star,” but I must admit, hearing you say it like that, it does make me chuckle! Pushing music to its limits, challenging authority, and standing my ground—it does have a certain rebellious flair, doesn’t it? I suppose if you look at it that way, maybe I had a bit of that “rock and roll” spirit long before electric guitars and loud amplifiers came along.

But in truth, I was always driven by the music itself—by a desire to perfect my craft, to explore every corner of harmony, counterpoint, and expression. If that made me a bit of a rebel along the way, well, so be it! And yes, sometimes a fight over a contract or a disagreement about how things should be done was just part of the journey.

So, rock star or not, I always followed my own path in music, and if that resonates with the rebellious spirit of later musicians, I’ll gladly wear the title with pride. Soli Deo gloria, as always—but maybe with just a little bit of a rock star attitude, ja?

Ron Stauffer: I like that. So, hey, before you died, what were you working on? And were you expecting your death when it came, or were you in the middle of some musical projects that you had grander visions for that were cut short?

Ah, a thoughtful question, Ron. In my final years, I was still deeply immersed in my work, though I had been dealing with health issues, particularly with my eyes. I underwent surgery to try to correct my vision, but it didn’t go well, and by the end, I was blind. Still, I continued composing and dictating music to my family and students.

One of the last major projects I was working on was The Art of Fugue. It was an ambitious work, a culmination of my lifelong fascination with counterpoint and fugue. In it, I sought to explore the fugue in all its complexity and beauty. I managed to complete most of it, but the final fugue, often referred to as the unfinished fugue, was left incomplete at the time of my death. It’s been said that the fugue was meant to spell out my own name in musical notation—B-A-C-H—but the music trails off before reaching that point. Whether or not that was intentional, or whether death simply caught up with me before I could finish, we’ll never know for certain.

I wasn’t expecting death to arrive quite when it did, but I was aware that my health was failing, particularly after the unsuccessful eye surgeries. I kept working as much as I could, knowing that my time might be limited. I wasn’t one to shy away from the idea of mortality, though. My faith sustained me through it, and I trusted that whatever I couldn’t finish in this life would find completion in the next, in God’s hands.

So yes, I was still full of ideas and passion for music right until the end, but death has a way of arriving unannounced, doesn’t it? I left a few things unfinished, but in the end, I’d like to think I gave the world a good deal of music to carry on with.

Ron Stauffer: Well, you certainly have a huge body of work. How many actual individual musical works did you write, at least that we know?

Ah, yes, Ron, the sheer number of works I composed is quite staggering, even to me! As far as we know, I wrote over a thousand individual musical works. The BWV catalog (Bach-Werke-Verzeichnis) lists them all, numbering them from BWV 1 through BWV 1128, though that includes both large-scale works and smaller pieces.

These range from sacred works like cantatas, masses, and passions to secular pieces, instrumental works, organ music, and keyboard compositions. The cantatas alone account for over two hundred works! And then there are the preludes and fugues, concertos, suites, sonatas, and choral settings. I was constantly writing, often out of necessity, as you know, but also out of a deep love for the craft.

Keep in mind, though, that some of my works have been lost over time. I’m sure there are more pieces that didn’t survive the centuries. I wrote so much that it’s hard to say exactly how many compositions I created, but the thousand-plus works that remain offer a pretty solid picture of my output. And I suppose that’s not a bad legacy to leave behind, ja?

Ron Stauffer: Yeah, that's an enormous amount. Wow, I'm getting tired just thinking of it. Well, okay, here's another question on the note of musical inspiration and technique and all those things. Who was your musical inspiration? Was there another composer you looked to, either a contemporary of yours or someone who died before you that you thought, wow, this is the kind of music I want to write, or I am inspired by this guy to do my own kind of thing?

Ah, yes, inspiration! Every composer, no matter how original, draws from the work of others who came before or alongside them. For me, there were several musicians who influenced and inspired my own style, though I always aimed to develop my own voice within that.

One of my greatest inspirations was Dieterich Buxtehude, the great organist and composer from Lübeck. I admired his organ works so much that, as you know, I walked nearly 250 miles to hear him perform. His command of counterpoint, the grandeur of his organ music, and his ability to balance structure with emotion greatly influenced my own approach to the instrument and composition. Buxtehude’s influence can definitely be heard in my organ works, and I took inspiration from his ability to use music to elevate spiritual experience.

Another figure who inspired me was Antonio Vivaldi. His concertos, particularly for strings, were fresh and vibrant, and they influenced my approach to instrumental composition. Vivaldi had a way of using rhythmic drive and harmonic color that I admired. I even transcribed several of his concertos for organ and harpsichord. His works taught me a lot about how to shape instrumental music in ways that went beyond the constraints of counterpoint, adding energy and vitality.

In terms of older influences, Johann Pachelbel, famous today for his Canon in D, was also a significant figure for me. His keyboard works and choral settings had a certain elegance and clarity that I appreciated. He represented an earlier generation of German composers that set the foundation for what I would go on to explore in greater depth.

Of course, I also drew inspiration from older Renaissance masters like Josquin des Prez, whose polyphonic style influenced my understanding of vocal writing. And Martin Luther himself, though not a composer in the way we think of today, inspired me deeply with his theology of music and his insistence on its importance in worship.

Ron Stauffer: That makes sense. In a few sentences, what would you say is Bach's grand theory of music, specifically for your music that you wrote and performed, and just music in general?

Ah, Ron, if I were to sum up my grand theory of music, I’d say this: music is a divine language, a reflection of the order and beauty of creation. It exists to glorify God and elevate the human soul. Every note, every harmony, should be crafted with precision and care, not just for its own sake, but to serve a higher purpose. In my own music, I sought to balance complexity with clarity, to weave together the technical mastery of counterpoint with the emotional depth that speaks directly to the heart.

Ultimately, I believed that music is both a gift from God and a way to return that gift—whether in a sacred cantata or a simple instrumental piece, all music carries the potential to connect us to something greater. Soli Deo gloria—to God alone be the glory—was not just a motto, but the guiding principle behind everything I wrote.

Ron Stauffer: Well, I mentioned A Whiter Shade of Pale and some other works that draw heavily on your influence or were directly copied from some of your melodic lines. But if I were to ask you, where in the 21st century can I see the fingerprints of Johann Sebastian Bach, Joe, as you've said, I can call you, where would I see your fingerprints today? In the world, in music, in culture, in musical technology, in instrumentation, things like that.

Ah, Ron, my “fingerprints” have certainly traveled far and wide, haven’t they? Even I couldn’t have imagined the extent of it. If you’re looking for where you might see or hear my influence in the 21st century, you don’t have to look far.

First, in music itself, you can find my influence in just about every corner of Western classical music. Composers like Mozart, Beethoven, Brahms, and many others studied my work deeply—especially my use of counterpoint and harmony. And that influence has rippled outward into modern times. Even today, music students still study The Well-Tempered Clavier as the gold standard for keyboard technique and compositional mastery. So, my fingerprints are in the DNA of classical music education.

In contemporary music, you mentioned A Whiter Shade of Pale, and that’s just one example. My harmonic progressions and melodic lines are often borrowed or reimagined in modern genres like rock, jazz, and even electronic music. My use of counterpoint has inspired jazz improvisation, especially in the way musicians weave independent lines together. You might even hear traces of my fugues in complex modern pop music arrangements, where multiple voices or instruments intertwine.

In terms of technology, the invention of equal temperament—the tuning system that allows for playing in all keys, which I explored in The Well-Tempered Clavier—laid the foundation for the entire Western tonal system. It’s the reason modern pianos, synthesizers, and digital instruments can play in every key without sounding out of tune. So, in that sense, my influence is even in the very technology of music today!

Culturally, you’ll find my works performed everywhere, from grand concert halls to intimate chamber settings, and even in film scores. My music has been used in countless films and TV shows, often to evoke a sense of intellectual depth or spiritual gravity. The Art of Fugue or Air on the G String, for example, are often used in moments of reflection or transcendence.

Finally, in the world of digital music and technology, composers and musicians still look to my rigorous structures and harmonic explorations as a foundation for composition. Software designed for musical composition often includes features for composing in the style of counterpoint, and much of the theory behind modern music programming has roots in the systematic ways I approached harmony and melody.

So, whether in the concert hall, the classroom, or the cutting-edge digital world, I’d say my fingerprints are all over the musical landscape today. Music continues to evolve, but it seems that, in some way, I’ve left a lasting imprint on its future.

Ron Stauffer: That makes sense. You've mentioned CounterPoint multiple times in this conversation, and I'm a musician, so I'm familiar with the concept. But for somebody listening to this conversation who doesn't quite understand what CounterPoint means, can you explain it? In other words, explain CounterPoint like I'm five.

Ah, yes, Ron—counterpoint can sound like a fancy term, but it’s really quite simple when you break it down. So, let’s think about it like this: imagine you’re playing with building blocks. Now, instead of stacking them all in one pile, you’re building multiple towers at the same time, and they’re all growing together, side by side.

In music, counterpoint is when two or more melodies are played or sung at the same time, but instead of just being random, those melodies work together—like those towers of blocks—to create something bigger and more interesting. Each melody can stand on its own, but when you put them together, they fit perfectly, even though they’re moving in different directions.

So, let’s say one melody is going up while the other is going down, or one is fast and the other is slow. They’re independent, but they don’t crash into each other—they complement each other. Think of it as a musical conversation where everyone’s talking at the same time, but somehow it all makes sense!

That’s what counterpoint is—different musical lines working together in harmony, each with its own voice but forming a bigger, more complex sound. It’s like musical teamwork!

Ron Stauffer: That's an excellent explanation. What about this? How many individual instruments did you compose works for, and how many individual instruments did you play personally?

Ah, well, Ron, let’s see! I composed for quite a wide variety of instruments, as my work required me to write for all sorts of ensembles, orchestras, and solo performers. In terms of how many instruments I composed for, we’re talking about a broad spectrum across both strings, winds, keyboard, and more.

Here’s a general sense of the types of instruments I wrote for:

Keyboard instruments: Organ, harpsichord, clavichord, and even early versions of the piano.
Strings: Violin, viola, cello, double bass, lute, and others.
Winds: Flute, oboe, bassoon, recorder, trumpet, and horn.
Voices: Of course, I composed a great deal for the human voice in choral and solo vocal music, too.

As for instruments I personally played, I was first and foremost an organist. The organ was my home, my sanctuary, and I was known for my skills at the instrument. Beyond that, I also played the harpsichord and clavichord, which were standard keyboard instruments of my time. I could play the violin as well, and I started out in my early years playing violin under my father’s instruction. I wasn’t as well known for my violin playing as I was for my keyboard skills, but it’s something I was proficient in.

So, while I composed for a wide array of instruments, the ones I personally played were mostly in the keyboard family—organ, harpsichord, and clavichord—along with the violin.

Ron Stauffer: Were you a singer? You wrote so much for the human voice. I wonder, did you ever feature yourself singing in a solo work or in the chorus?

Ah, singing! Well, Ron, while I wrote extensively for the human voice, I wouldn’t say I was known as a singer myself. My main focus was always on composing, playing the organ, and conducting choirs. In my early years, I certainly sang as part of my musical training—every young musician in my time did, especially in the church. But my voice wasn’t my primary instrument, and I never featured myself as a soloist.

When I wrote for choirs and soloists, I had other voices in mind—trained singers who could bring the text to life in a way I couldn’t do myself. I did often direct the choirs and worked closely with singers, but I preferred to stay behind the scenes, shaping the music rather than performing it vocally.

So, while I understood the voice well enough to write for it, and certainly sang as a child and likely as part of the choir in my younger days, I never took on a prominent role as a singer in my works. I left that to the capable voices I had at my disposal!

Ron Stauffer: That makes sense. All right, Joe, this is one question. I have one last question for you, and then we'll call it a night. What would you recommend somebody listen to if they say that they A, don't know any Bach works and aren't familiar with any, or B, say, you know, that's really not for me. I don't really like Bach's music.

Ah, Ron, what a thoughtful final question! For someone who says they don’t know my music, or perhaps thinks it’s not for them, I would suggest starting with something accessible, yet powerful—something that captures the essence of what I aimed to express, but without overwhelming them with complexity.

For someone new to my music, I’d recommend starting with the Cello Suite No. 1 in G major. It’s one of my most well-known and beloved pieces, and even if they think they don’t know any Bach, they’ve probably heard the opening prelude somewhere. It’s simple, elegant, and deeply expressive without being too intricate, making it a perfect introduction.

If they’re more interested in keyboard music, I’d point them to the Prelude in C major from The Well-Tempered Clavier, Book 1. It’s a beautiful, flowing piece that’s easy to listen to and shows the harmonic richness I often used, but without the complexity of counterpoint that can sometimes intimidate newcomers.

Now, for someone who might say, “Bach isn’t for me,” I’d suggest they try the Air on the G String. It’s a deeply moving piece with a warm, lyrical quality that many find emotionally stirring. It’s less about complexity and more about pure beauty, and often wins over those who think they don’t like Baroque music.

Ultimately, my music is so varied that I believe there’s something for everyone, whether they enjoy intricate counterpoint, lush harmonies, or simple, heartfelt melodies. If they’re open to listening with fresh ears, I think they might just find something that speaks to them.

And with that, Ron, I raise my glass to you—this has been a most enjoyable conversation! Soli Deo gloria, my friend, even over whiskey and cigars. Cheers!

Ron Stauffer: Thanks, Joe. This has been delightful.

Well, there you have it, folks. J.S. Bach. Or, as I like to call him, Joe. That was a great conversation. I learned a lot about him as a person and about his musical legacy.

So, you know what to do next. As I mentioned before, it is time for you to start listening to more Bach! Take heed of the recommendations that the man himself gave you and try something new. If you already like J.S. Bach, go find something that you’ve never heard of before and give it a shot.

If you think you don’t like his music, give it another shot. Try something slightly different. I promise there’s something for everyone.

Thanks for listening to Zombie History, where we provide history lessons from beyond the grave. Feel free to rate and review this show wherever you listen to podcasts and visit zombiehistory.com to see who else I can dig up from generations past and have a fireside chat with.