In 1937, Carl Fischer Music published William J. Bell's (1902-1971) arrangement of Johann Sebastian Bach's Komm, süsser Tod and First Violin Partita for tuba, which he had combined and renamed Air and Bourree.¹ With this publication, the tuba's solo repertoire gained much-needed authority. As we know, the tuba had been virtually ignored as a solo instrument for the first century of its use, escaping the attention of the late nineteenth century masters like Brahms and Dvorak in addition to the classical masters (Handel thru Beethoven) who had passed away before its 1835 patent. Air and Bourree lasts only a few minutes in performance, but it contains technical demands largely unknown at the time to many tubists and, just as importantly, gave them a study piece by the master Bach. So, with this publication, Mr. Bell began to change the idea of the tuba's sufficiency as a solo instrument, but not just that: he also started the development of a historical curriculum for tuba players.

In other words, while the tuba may not have had an original solo repertoire, it now had the beginnings of a formally borrowed body of literature. After this point, and with the right advocacy, this beginning could branch out into its own course of study that filled the gaps of the tubist's virtuosic canon. Thankfully for all of us, that advocate came forward during a meeting, in the late 1940s, between two of America's most brilliant musical minds of the twentieth century.

In his autobiography, the great tubist Harvey Phillips (1929-2010), who was himself a student of Bill Bell, states that he came to live in New York in 1948 and to study at the Juilliard School of Music. In terms of performance, Phillips turned out to be ahead of arguably any tubist in the world during the next decade, but at Juilliard he was nonetheless given the current tuba solo repertoire to study and digest. Immediately sensing the total inadequacy of the music relative to his degree of virtuosity, Phillips sought the counsel of his music theory professor, who was none other than the celebrated American composer Vincent Persichetti (1915-1987). Mindful of the young Phillips' concerns, Persichetti advised:

I want you to know that all the music ever written belongs to you as much as any other musician. I am a composer and I speak for composers who cannot speak for themselves. I speak for Bach, Handel, Mozart, Scarlatti, and others. They want you to play their music. They want you to play it well, in the right style and with serious purpose. So if you hear something you want to play on the tuba, take it, play it. It belongs to you.²

Persichetti also advised Phillips that any effort to improve the original literature for the instrument would have to be his own, because only a tuba player could best advocate for new tuba compositions. Indeed, history has shown us that Harvey Phillips needed no further suggestion to get going. He would live to become perhaps the most significant figure in the history of the instrument, commissioning over 120 new works for tuba and championing its cause among composers like Persichetti, Warren Benson, Alec Wilder, and others.³

It is the first part of Persichetti's statement, however, that most intrigues me. Speaking as a composer, and daring to speak for deceased composers, he identifies a universal and inclusive nature of great music, and the inherent right of any musician of any instrument to perform it. Furthermore, he invests in the performer a twofold mission: First, to be inspired and edified in learning masterworks of the art form, and second, to become an advocate of the music of master composers, using whatever musical means necessary to keep their art at the forefront of the culture. Many tubists and euphoniumists since have believed in this 'Creed' of Persichetti, including Bell:

In order for the tuba player to extend his repertoire he must not only be willing to play transcriptions but must borrow from music printed for string bass, bass trombone, cello, bassoon, voice and even trumpet and French horn...There are innumerable possibilities of this type which every player should investigate on his own. Any tuba player who is such a "purist" as to have qualms over this practice will be extremely limited in the amount of literature available to him. ⁴

And not only them, but composers have also been borrowing from previous works as labors of love and dedication to continuity. Franz Liszt (1811-1886) ambitiously arranged and published the symphonies of Beethoven for his modern pianoforte. Gustav Mahler (1860-1911), sensing the genius of Robert Schumann's four symphonies but acknowledging their inadequate orchestration, freely re-orchestrated them for the turn-of-the-century orchestra. Mahler's pupil, Arnold Schoenberg (1874-1951), in turn transcribed the former's Songs of a Wayfarer and Song of the Earth for chamber orchestra, ostensibly so these works would have a better chance of performance following Mahler's loss of popularity across Europe in the wake of his death.⁵

In the 70 years since, many major composers have taken a similarly friendly view towards performing musicians adapting their works, despite still being able to speak for themselves. Pulitzer Prize-winning composer Caroline Shaw (if you haven't listened to her Partita for 8 Voices, stop whatever you're doing and do that first), for example, has this to say on the topic:

And my general feeling about arrangements is that music should be shared, and I love when people want to bring a piece into a different world of instruments. I don't automatically approve of them. It depends on the piece and the ensemble. But I always love to hear what people do, and I'm generally supportive.⁶

With this kind of advocacy behind me, I will articulate this understanding of historical performance another way: we should not only consider it our right, as tubists and euphoniumists, to borrow music of past masters and arrange it for ourselves, but our obligation. We should learn to arrange and adapt works as soon as we begin playing solos, even going out of our way to present pieces that speak to and continually move us, whether there is precedent of performance on our instruments or not.

I must admit, though, even at this point in my career and with the appreciation I have always had for historical performance, that this philosophy of proactively arranging for tuba still feels strange to me. If everything that artists like Franz Liszt, Mahler, Schoenberg, Bell, Persichetti, and Phillips accomplished makes complete sense, then why do I feel a hesitation to embrace this way of music-making? The answer lies, to a large extent, in our symphonic training, including that of school wind band. Musicologist J. Peter Burkholder, in his New Grove entry on "Borrowing", chronicles a history of Western arranging and adapting of music that represented the norm for over a thousand years, across ages where musical compositions served as convenient entertainment and were quickly discarded after their intended performances. However, beginning in the eighteenth century, he traces the start of a philosophy of 'original genius' for the arts & letters to men like English poet Edward Young:

"An Imitator shares his crown, if he has one, with the chosen Object of his Imitation; an Original enjoys an undivided applause. An Original may be said to be of a vegetable nature; it rises spontaneously from the vital root of Genius; it grows, it is not made: Imitations are often a sort of Manufacture wrought up by those Mechanics, Art, and Labour, out of pre-existent materials not their own."⁷

By the middle of the nineteenth century, this philosophy began to permeate European music, as audience and critical demand created a symphonic canon in addition to a pantheon of 'original' geniuses like Haydn, Beethoven, and Mozart. The works of these composers were not only preserved and performed by their succeeding generations but sanctified as well: the 'intentions' of compositional elements like instrumentation, affect, tempo, etc. needed to be rendered as absolutely as the notes on the published scores. In the last 70 years, many in the field of musicology inadvertently perpetuate this cult of classics by arguing for an urtext, or authentic and pristine performing edition, for the significant works of these composers.⁸ As Malcolm Boyd points out,

...the concern for historical accuracy in the performance of older music, which has gradually gained ground since about 1950, has profoundly influenced attitudes towards arrangements in general. ⁹

So, this understanding of a composer as an original genius has inevitably produced the category of master composer (a term I have even used in this article, of my own accord), a type of artist whose creativity is borne not out of necessity and craft but an almost divine insight. An oddly common refrain in my own music education - 'in the works of ____, there isn't a note out of place' - was the highest possible praise, and seemed to be reserved for men like Beethoven, Brahms, Mozart, and of course, JS Bach. If I decide to perform Mozart's Bassoon Concerto on the tuba, and transpose a section by an octave for ease of playing, would I, while trying to honor Mozart's legacy, actually be doing it harm by literally taking notes out of place? Kenneth Phillips puts forward a similar belief in a modern choral pedagogy text:

There is a lot of choral literature to perform, and choral directors today can avoid choosing music of master composers that is arranged by someone else for other voicings. An SSA [soprano I, soprano II, alto] arrangement of Handel's "Hallelujah Chorus" is not a good idea - Why tamper with genius? With sufficient SSA music available, choosing an arrangement that misrepresents an SATB masterwork is not necessary. Some arrangements merely simplify a work at a less demanding level. Again, the choral director needs to be suspicious of arrangements of masterworks, unless it is known that the original ideas of the composer have not been violated.¹⁰

I respectfully disagree with Mr. Kenneth Phillips and others who believe in strict authenticity. Whatever G.F. Handel had to say about his own posterity, I agree with Mr. Persichetti and Ms. Shaw - great composers in their own right - that artists should be creative as well as faithful, and that musicians who can no longer speak for themselves would want their music to be played, regardless of the medium available. So how should this be done for the tuba and euphonium?

Well, to create a repertoire of historical works, the tuba player must seek out the music that best does justice to their musicianship and the achievement of composers, which is the chief concern of critical musicians like Kenneth Phillips. Whatever they decide, it must be music that:

1) is challenging to their overall conception of musicality,

2) can be reasonably performed, and

3) can yield new aspects of quality with each new performance.

A glance at the current tuba literature reveals one composer whose music satisfies these criteria and that has often been selected for performance (according to the ITEA's Official Standard Literature List for tuba/euphonium, as many as 25 major published arrangements ¹¹): Johann Sebastian Bach (1685-1750). Yet, despite the clear value and appeal of his music to tubists, there is at least one Bach masterpiece, from his vast St. Matthew Passion, that has until recently been left untouched by our community.

"Erbarme dich" is a substantial countertenor song from Bach's Matthew Passion (1727); it is a highly lyrical, poignant aria that uses a falling melody, extended harmonies, and seamless flow of music to effect pure despair. The context is the biblical scene of Jesus of Nazareth's judgement before the Sanhedrin council, and the Apostle Peter's cowardly denial of knowing Jesus for fear of similar condemnation to death. The words and emotions depicted belong to the deeply-ashamed Peter.