Benedetto Marcello: The Italian Composer Captivated by the Music of the Synagogue

Is There Really Such a Thing as “Jewish Music”?

One sometimes hears the claim that today there is no longer such a thing as Jewish music: after nearly two thousand years of exile, all that remains are musical mixtures absorbed from foreign cultures. This assumption—whether made unwittingly or deliberately—has created a sense of cultural emptiness, leading to a perceived need to seek out foreign musical traditions.

Benedetto Marcello, one of Italy’s foremost composers, argued precisely the opposite. He maintained that we possess a treasure. He believed that our musical tradition is far older than European classical culture.[1] Three-thousand-year-old music. Music of eternity.

Marcello on the Journey to Levite Music

In my book Shirat Ha-Levi’im,[2] I briefly discuss the renowned Italian composer Benedetto Marcello, who transcribed a substantial collection of melodies from the synagogues of Venice and devoted introductory passages—in Italian—to their distinctive character, going so far as to suggest that they might preserve melodies dating back to the time of the Temple.

Marcello also addresses the musical style of the Levites in connection with the question: Did the Levites sing in polyphony?[3]

In this article, I would like to present the complete translation of those portions of the original Italian text that pertain to synagogue melodies, as well as to summarize the observations of scholars who were particularly struck by Marcello’s documentation of synagogue music and regarded it as an exceptional phenomenon.

Since most—and perhaps all—of the scholarship on this subject has appeared in English, I originally considered it worthwhile to make this material available for the first time in Hebrew.

An Exception in the European Cultural Landscape

In the eighteenth century, when Jewish customs throughout Europe were often regarded as marginal and at times even ridiculed, something unusual occurred: an Italian Christian composer from the Venetian nobility discovered in them a source of sublime inspiration.

His name was Benedetto Marcello—a major composer who ventured to suggest that the melodies of the synagogue were a living remnant of the song of the Levites in the Temple.

Between 1724 and 1727, Marcello published his monumental Estro Poetico-Armonico, a nine-volume collection of settings of the Psalms. In eleven of these Psalm settings, he incorporated melodies that he had heard in the synagogues of the Venetian Ghetto, writing them in reverse, from right to left, in deference to the direction of the Hebrew text.

Music Across the Generations

Marcello did not approach these melodies merely as exotic folklore. He listened for an enduring voice.

According to musicologist Prof. Edwin Seroussi, Marcello regarded the unison singing of the synagogue of his own time as an authentic remnant of the noble Jewish music of antiquity.[4]

Rather than seeing Jewish song as the residue of a dead past, Marcello perceived in it a continuing light—a sound linking one generation to another. He was struck by its simplicity, its lack of ostentation, and its inner power to stir the heart. This was not merely ethnographic documentation born of curiosity, but genuine spiritual inspiration: an ancient and unadorned beauty evocative of the majesty of the Levites’ song.

The song of the synagogue, whose origins reach back to the sacred heights of the Temple and its Levites, passed through the ghettos of Venice and continued to move those who sought genuine beauty—the beauty of faith.

Seroussi presents the Marcello phenomenon as a remarkable cultural reversal: while Jewish composers sought to give Hebrew music a European character,[5] Marcello—a Christian—looked precisely to synagogue music for what he regarded as a pure surviving trace of ancient Jewish sacred music.

Benedetto Marcello thus became an unusual figure: a non-Jewish composer who learned to listen for the sacred dimension within Jewish melody.

His words remind us that synagogue melodies are not merely an ancient musical tradition. They are a living testimony to the Jewish soul—a voice that continues to resonate through the generations and to rise as a pleasing offering before the Creator.

Firsthand Testimony

If until now we have considered Marcello’s conceptual understanding of synagogue melodies, we can also examine how he actually approached them in practice.

Marcello states that the melodies were collected “as best we could, from their own voices”—that is, through direct listening to living performance. His words suggest that he himself visited the synagogues, sat and listened to the singing as it was actually performed, and only afterward committed it to notation—without altering its intonation or refining away its distinctive style.

The phrase “as best we could” reflects Marcello’s conscious effort to achieve the greatest possible accuracy and fidelity to the living tradition.

Moreover, when discussing the antiquity of synagogue melodies, he writes that this is something “as indeed many among them affirm.” The wording suggests that Marcello was not relying upon the testimony of a single individual, but was in contact with members of the Jewish community—quite possibly rabbis or cantors—and encountered a tradition that was widely held among them.

This becomes even clearer in the following example. Concerning the melody Le-David Baruch, Marcello notes that it was regarded by the Jews as “very ancient and widespread.”

More than a century later, similar testimony appears in the writings of Rabbi Israel Moses Hazzan,[6] Rabbi of Rome, who records that this melody was known throughout the Jewish Diaspora and suggests that it was among the most ancient melodies.

The remarkable correspondence between Marcello’s testimony and this later rabbinic testimony—also from Italy—strengthens the conclusion that Marcello was not writing down melodies on the basis of conjecture or imagination. He was documenting a living and widespread tradition, to such an extent that his record now serves as an early source even for traditions later recorded by the rabbis of the community.

This also reveals something about the nature of Marcello’s listening. His interest in synagogue melodies arose from an engagement with an oral tradition—not as a distant observer, but as someone who chose to listen from within.

Hence the exceptional value of the musical notation he brought to print: it constitutes some of the earliest written testimony to synagogue song in Europe.

The Spanish Synagogue in Venice, the Scuola Spagnola, dating from the sixteenth century.

Here Marcello visited and transcribed the melody Le-David Baruch, together with other synagogue melodies.

A Revolution in Notation: Music Submits to Tradition

One of the most unusual and intriguing features of Marcello’s documentation of synagogue melodies is the way in which he notated them from right to left—a complete reversal of the direction of Western musical writing that had been customary since the eleventh century.

From the perspective of a Western musician, this is an almost inconceivable choice. A musician attempting to sight-read notation in this direction would stumble after only a few notes, just as it is difficult to read a text written against one’s natural direction of reading. Even in contemporary collections of Chassidic niggunim, it is generally the direction of the text that is adapted—not the direction of the musical notation.

And yet Marcello does this quite matter-of-factly, without apology and without theoretical discussion.

In his own words:

“And since the Jews write in the opposite direction, the characters belonging to their melodies written above must likewise be read in the opposite direction.”

Marcello himself does not pause to discuss the direction of musical notation as an independent question. He refers simply to the direction in which the characters are to be read—that is, to the written text of Jewish tradition.

For him, the direction of the music follows naturally from the direction in which the words are read. The words are not made to conform to the music; rather, the music submits to the reading order of Jewish tradition.

It is a small moment in the preface, but one of considerable significance.

Marcello does not “translate” the melody into a European framework. He does the reverse: he bends his musical notation into the world of Judaism. He relinquishes convenience and habit, disregarding the expectations of the contemporary musical reader, in order to preserve the direction from which the tradition itself is read.

There is a quiet but profound statement here: tradition does not conform itself to music; music conforms itself to tradition.

From the Synagogue to the Opera Stage

The melodies of the synagogue evidently made a deep musical impression on Marcello and left their mark on other compositions within his body of work.

More than that, seven of Marcello’s synagogue melodies actually crossed the boundaries of the synagogue and appeared in the oratorio Sansone, performed in Prague in 1729 by Antonio Denzio’s Italian opera company—and they were even sung in Hebrew.

The melodies thus did not remain merely an act of documentation or a literary artifact. They entered a new musical life, resonating on European stages.

Marcello’s work became both a source of inspiration and an actual reservoir of melody—not only for Marcello himself, but also for Italian and other European musicians who perceived in it an expression of an ancient and sacred dimension of music.

The Composer Who Went Against the Current

To complete the picture, it is worth noting that Marcello anonymously authored the satirical treatise Il teatro alla moda (“The Theatre à la Mode”), in which he sharply criticized the operatic world of his time—its ostentation and ego, its empty virtuosity, and the sacrifice of artistic truth and spiritual depth for external effect and commercial success.[7]

This offers another glimpse of Marcello as a composer who did not simply follow the spirit of his age or public opinion, but as an independent artist committed to moral principles and spiritual values.

Translation of the Italian Original

So much for the introduction. We now turn to Marcello’s own words, which speak for themselves.

The preface to the first volume of Estro Poetico-Armonico contains two passages dealing with synagogue melodies. The preface to the second volume, which follows, is devoted in its entirety to the musical tradition of the Jewish people.

The English text presented below is based on Prof. Edwin Seroussi’s careful English translation,[8] but has been checked and revised throughout against Marcello’s original Italian, which served as a primary source for refining both meaning and wording.

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Volume I — Preface

First Passage, pp. 2–3

As far as music is concerned, it is above matter, since it requires first and foremost the expression of words and emotions; and for this reason it is usually composed for only two voices, so as to fulfill its purpose more effectively. Nevertheless, for this purpose, and in order better to awaken passions and emotions, it was practiced in unison[9] by the ancient musical nations, and particularly by the Jews, Phoenicians, and Greeks

(for whatever was sung by numerous and different voices, the melody was always one and the same; and this continued until the time of Guido of Arezzo,[10] around the eleventh century, with the accompaniment of one or more instruments, which likewise played the same melody or song, varying the sound from time to time into a higher or lower range; and of these instruments we still possess some indistinct images on sheets of paper. And harmony—which among us means the varied combination of voices and sounds—was in ancient times nothing more than a varied progression of simple[11] or compound intervals,[12] which was the melopeia[13]).

But since our ears today have become accustomed to the concert of several voices—and it would therefore be both difficult and hazardous to attempt to approach that ancient and happily simple melody—we did not consider it inappropriate to compose for two voices and sometimes, as will be seen in the second, third, and fourth volumes, even for three and four parts.

Second Passage, pp. 6–8

And although—as we said above, and for the reasons given there—these Psalms are composed mostly for only two voices, they will sometimes be sung with the reinforcement of additional voices, as will be observed in the course of the work. The reasons we shall give below also provide some idea of the order followed particularly by the Jews in singing their songs and Psalms.

It is said in the Sacred Scriptures that Moses, not alone but together with the Children of Israel, sang the song he had composed after their departure from Egypt and their miraculous passage through the Red Sea, while Miriam, his sister, leading the women with a timpano—that is, a hand drum used at that time—sang the same song.

David subsequently introduced the practice of singing with several choirs in the Tabernacle,[14] and for this purpose composed songs and Psalms to be sung before the Lord and in other religious ceremonies.

The sons of Asaph, Heman, and Jeduthun—who directed the music in the Temple during the reigns of David and Solomon—led twenty-four choirs of musicians,[15] distinguished and separated according to the various instruments they played—which were kept in the Temple in almost countless numbers[16]—and according to the different places they occupied within the Temple.

Thus the sons of Jeduthun played the kinor, that is, the lyre; those of Asaph the nabal, or psaltery;[17] and those of Heman the mezilothaim, a kind of bell or rattle.

Therefore, in order to represent such a multitude of people singing divine praises, it will be appropriate to multiply the voices, though in proportionate distribution: first, in order to have as large a choir as possible, exalting the divine greatness; and secondly, because this music—although mostly composed for two voices—would not produce its fullest effect if sung by only two, nor would it always be easy and readily accessible;[18] and even when it was, it might become less pleasing if heard continually in the same manner.

This effect can therefore be achieved by doubling the parts, as is sometimes required to make the music more solemn or powerful, wherever emotions and words—which among the Jews, as even today, were uttered not by one or two persons but by a large part of the people—are to be expressed more effectively.

In some places, besides Psalms composed for only one or two simple voices, recitatives have been introduced, as well as certain airs to be sung solo or simply by two voices—as was customary in ancient times, when singing was performed alternately—in order to afford the listeners a varied and fitting pleasure through different modern ensembles, and in this way also to approach, to some extent, the method found in the Sacred Scriptures concerning the teachers of the Jewish people.

Altos[19] were used more frequently than sopranos, since the latter, having voices that were too delicate and penetrating, had no place among them, nor among any other ancient people.[20]

We did not consider it inappropriate to introduce some ancient and characteristic melodies or intonations of the Jews, sometimes together with artful counterpoint, since they used—and still use—to sing Psalms in their own particular manner, as will be seen in the second volume, and more fully in the third and fourth.

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Volume II — To the Readers

Here begins the ninth Psalm, with the intonation of the Spanish Jews, לדוד ברוך (Le-David Baruch), which according to them is very ancient and widespread.[21] Written music, however, is not found among the Jews, nor do they sing hymns, songs, and Psalms except according to those melodies which, through tradition, have been handed down to posterity.

Yet in ancient times this nation was no less devoted to music than any other, as may be seen in Exodus 15:1;[22] 20:1; 32:6.[23]

Moses, toward the end of the journey through the wilderness,[24] established three trumpets for three different purposes:[25] the first for solemn sacrifices and religious festivals; the second to announce the beginning of the Jubilee year, the Sabbatical year, and the New Moons; and the third for battle, in order to encourage the soldiers and remind them of the presence of the Lord and of the fullest help He had promised them.

David thereafter, a Prince most devoted to music and a highly accomplished musician, introduced music into the Tabernacle, convinced that it could contribute greatly to the splendor and majesty of divine worship.

He therefore composed songs and Psalms and ordered the construction of various instruments, which he placed in the hands of the Levites so that they might sing everything with their accompaniment.

After the Temple was built, music was practiced with greater order and dignity. Its use was restored after the Babylonian captivity and continued until the dispersion of the Jews under Roman rule.[26]

It is therefore not unlikely—as indeed many among them affirm—that some of the melodies introduced in the present work remained in the memory of those first dispersed Jews and were handed down by tradition, as stated above, to posterity.

We collected these melodies, as best we could, from their own voices, and shall set them down in their simplicity, as one would a text, using the notation of our ecclesiastical canto fermo.[27]

And since the Jews write in the opposite direction, the characters belonging to their melodies written above must likewise be read in the opposite direction.

In order to adapt these melodies to our verses and meters, we have at times lengthened them by means of repetitions, but have never altered their intonation. We have, however, employed certain precise vocal practices or portamenti[28] of the Jews themselves, who, according to whether they derive from the Spanish or German nation,[29] have among themselves certain variations of melody and intonation for the same songs and Psalms.

Where the setting is for several voices, we have introduced and arranged these melodies in one part or another, so that certain counterpoints might appropriately be added with discretion.

This music should therefore be performed plainly and simply wherever it occurs in this work, so that the effect it produces may be perceived to best advantage—an effect certainly very different from our customary manner, in its gravity and naturalness, and distinctive in character.

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Notes

[1] When Jews forgot that they were Jews, there were antisemites who made sure to remind them. One example is the composer Arnold Schoenberg, who formally returned to Judaism in the wake of antisemitism; God willing, I will discuss his story in a separate article. The same phenomenon can be seen in music: Richard Wagner, the antisemitic German composer whose writings were later embraced by the Nazis, accused a Jewish composer of contaminating “enlightened” European music with synagogue melodies—thereby reminding us, paradoxically, that an indigenous Jewish music does exist, and that it possesses distinctive musical characteristics of its own. This basic premise was recognized by many composers, including later Russian composers such as Rimsky-Korsakov.

[2] Shirat Ha-Levi’im, pp. 160ff.

[3] See Shirat Ha-Levi’im, p. 219.

[4] Edwin Seroussi, “In Search of Jewish Musical Antiquity in the 18th-Century Venetian Ghetto,” The Jewish Quarterly Review (2002), p. 196.

[5] Seroussi is referring here particularly to Salomone Rossi. See my article, “Salomone Rossi: Sanctifying God’s Name in a Ducal Palace.”

[6] R. Israel Moses Hazzan, Responsa Kerach Shel Romi, responsum 1; cited in Shirat Ha-Levi’im, p. 160.

[7] Celebrated opera stars dictated their requirements to composers, to the point that the composer ceased to function as an independent creator and became a service provider subject to the demands of the singers.

[8] Seroussi’s translation appears in the appendix to the study cited above.

[9] Unison — a single musical line; that is, all performers sing or play the same melody, as is customary in synagogue singing and in the singing of niggunim.

[10] Guido of Arezzo — an eleventh-century Italian music theorist, one of the foundational figures in the development of Western musical notation and solmization.

[11] That is, the progression of two parallel voices separated by a musical interval.

[12] Compound intervals are intervals larger than an octave, so called because they consist of an octave plus a simple interval. For example, a tenth consists of an octave plus a third.

[13] Melopeia is an ancient form of music based on a single continuous melody, which may at times be sounded by more than one voice, while all the voices proceed together and carry the same melodic line, without division into independent parts or complex harmony.

[14] See Shirat Ha-Levi’im, pp. 134–135; see also pp. 130ff.

[15] That is, the twenty-four divisions (mishmarot) of the Levite singers. See Shirat Ha-Levi’im, pp. 29ff.

[16] See Babylonian Talmud, Sukkah 51b: “and musical instruments without number.” See also Shirat Ha-Levi’im, pp. 97ff.

[17] See Shirat Ha-Levi’im, p. 274.

[18] That is, readily accessible and easily apprehended by the ear.

[19] Altos are medium-to-low choral voices; sopranos are the highest human vocal range.

[20] Notwithstanding Marcello’s statement here, see Shirat Ha-Levi’im, pp. 214ff.; see also p. 96, concerning the Levites raising their voices to the highest tones.

[21] See Shirat Ha-Levi’im, p. 160, based on R. Israel Moses Hazzan, Responsa Kerach Shel Romi, responsum 1.

[22] “Then Moses and the Children of Israel sang...” (Exodus 15:1).

[23] These are the references as printed in the original Italian edition. The latter two appear to be erroneous. In light of the first reference—to the Song of Moses and the Children of Israel—the expected references would seemingly be to the Song of Miriam and the women (Exodus 15:20–21), and to the Song of the Well, “Then Israel sang” (Numbers 21:17).

[24] This was not “toward the end of the journey through the wilderness,” but rather in the second year after the Exodus from Egypt, when the Children of Israel were preparing to proceed on their journey from Mount Sinai to their next encampment.

[25] Numbers 10:1ff. See also the detailed discussion in Shirat Ha-Levi’im, pp. 281ff.

[26] That is, until the destruction of the Second Temple.

[27] Canto fermo (“fixed song”) — a basic, simple, stable melodic line that served as the structural foundation for vocal and choral composition in early European music.

[28] Portamento — a vocal technique in which the voice glides continuously from one pitch to another rather than moving between them in a sharply articulated leap; a characteristic feature of traditional singing.

[29] Marcello is evidently referring to the distinctions between the Spanish/Sephardic and German/Ashkenazic synagogue traditions.