According to a widely circulated story, Count Hermann Karl von Keyserlingk (Bach’s patron) had insomnia. He commissioned Bach to write the Goldberg Variations, to help him sleep. (Goldberg was von K's harpsichordist).
AI Variation 1 -
How might the story been different, had Goldberg had narcolepsy, and needed help to keep from dozing off abruptly?
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The Goldberg Wake-Up Call
A Counterfactual Tale of Baroque Sleeplessness
It is a little-known fact that Johann Gottlieb Goldberg did not, in fact, suffer from insomnia. Instead, the poor young harpsichordist was cursed with narcolepsy, a condition that caused him to doze off at the most inopportune moments—during concerts, at royal banquets, and, on one particularly disastrous occasion, in the middle of a toast to the Elector of Saxony.
This condition was of great concern to his employer, Count Hermann Karl von Keyserlingk, who hired Goldberg as a personal musician but soon found himself hiring additional musicians just to keep Goldberg awake while playing. A typical evening at the Count’s chambers involved Goldberg playing the first movement, only for his head to loll forward into the music stand.
The Count summoned his esteemed court composer, Johann Sebastian Bach, and made a fateful request:
"Herr Bach, I require a piece so engaging, so lively, that young Goldberg will never again slump over mid-fugue. Something that jolts the senses and delivers a well-placed musical slap to the face at regular intervals."
Bach accepted the challenge and locked himself away in his study, quill scratching feverishly against parchment. Weeks later, he emerged with "Clavierübungen IV: Ein musikalischer Espresso."
The Composition: A Sonic Cattle Prod
The work, as delivered, was a marvel of deliberate unpredictability. Unlike his previous serene compositions, Bach packed this piece with:
- Thunderous opening arpeggios, akin to a cannon blast, ensuring that the first few measures alone were enough to send Goldberg lurching upright in his chair.
- Deceptive cadences leading not to restful resolution but to jarring key changes so abrupt they could restart a stopped heart.
- Unstable, frenetic rhythms, including syncopations designed to trick the brain into constant vigilance, much in the way one cannot truly nap when sitting in a wagon rattling over cobblestones.
- Unexpected moments of silence, causing Goldberg to momentarily believe he'd fallen asleep and missed something—only for the harpsichord to explode back in with the force of a caffeinated squirrel.
The Premiere: Goldberg vs. Bach
Count Keyserlingk slid into his gilded chair. Goldberg, unaware of what was about to hit him, placed his hands on the keys.
The first variation had the desired effect: a brisk tempo, dizzying ornamentation, and a left-hand part that demanded near-gymnastic dexterity.
By the third variation, his pupils had dilated noticeably. By the ninth, a bead of sweat had formed on his brow.
At variation fifteen—a particularly devilish, tumbling passage—the young harpsichordist blinked rapidly, hands scrambling across the keyboard.
By variation thirty, Goldberg was now wild-eyed, upright, and alarmingly awake, his fingers moving so fast they were a blur, his wig askew.
As the last triumphant chord rang out and whispered hoarsely, “I shall never sleep again.”
Legacy and Unintended Consequences
The piece became an instant success—so much so that Bach was flooded with commissions from other aristocrats suffering from drowsy musicians, inattentive servants, and even guests who nodded off during diplomatic meetings.
Goldberg, on the other hand, never quite recovered. He was soon found pacing the halls at all hours, muttering syncopation patterns to himself, and composing his own follow-up, Variations on a Man Who Has Seen Too Much.
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Return to our production of wry counterfactuals.
In this one, the rare and formerly lost manuscript is discovered . However, this version plays the same short piece just the same, 32 times.
Obviously, the name Goldberg “Variations” will not fit! Tell the wry tale.
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The Goldberg Repetitions: A Scandalous Discovery
It was the musicological find of the century—the sort of event that sends Bach scholars into paroxysms of excitement normally reserved for discovering a previously unknown fugue scribbled on the back of a grocery list.
Deep in the archives of the Saxon State Library, beneath layers of dust and scholarly neglect, a forgotten manuscript emerged. It bore the unmistakable signature of Johann Sebastian Bach and was dated 1741—the same year as his famed Goldberg Variations. The implications were staggering. Was this an alternative version? A discarded draft? A bold new experiment in counterpoint?
Excited harpsichordists rushed to their instruments. Academics huddled, holding their breath. The first variation began. Then the second. Then the third.
By the eighth, cautious glances were exchanged.
By the fourteenth, the sweating began.
By the twentieth, a noted historian in the front row had abandoned all pretense of dignity and was openly sobbing into his notes.
For what they had uncovered was not a series of variations at all, but rather the same Aria, played 32 times. Identical. Indistinguishable. Unchanged in every conceivable way.
A Name for the Ages
The implications were profound. The original Goldberg Variations were celebrated for their kaleidoscopic transformations of a single theme, a display of Bach’s genius in perpetual reinvention. This, on the other hand, was a grueling 45-minute endurance test in musical déjà vu.
Renaming was inevitable. Among the proposed titles:
- The Goldberg Persistence
- Goldberg, Again
- The Goldberg Repetitions
With the initial shock subsiding, theories emerged.
- A Practical Joke? Had Bach, exhausted from constantly outdoing himself, decided to throw future scholars into a frenzy by presenting them with an insoluble puzzle? A Baroque-era prank of monumental proportions?
- A Radical Statement? Perhaps this was a profound meditation on repetition itself—an 18th-century precursor to minimalism, making Philip Glass look like an amateur.
- A Rush Job? Bach was famously overworked. Could this have been a first draft—one where, instead of composing, he simply scrawled repeat 31 times in the margins and intended to fix it later, only to be interrupted by one of his 20 children needing something or other?
The Performance Debacle
After the manuscript’s authentication, the inevitable question arose: Should it be performed?
The Leipzig Gewandhaus concert hall was packed for the world premiere. The first rendition of the Aria was lovely. The second was charming. The third prompted a few raised eyebrows.
By the seventh, the audience began shifting in their seats.
By the fifteenth, someone in the back laughed hysterically before being escorted out.
By the twenty-fifth, the hall was nearly empty.
By the final repetition, the harpsichordist, pale and visibly shaken, slammed the instrument shut, muttering, Never again.
A New Appreciation
Despite its disastrous debut, The Goldberg Repetitions found an unlikely cult following:
- Zen practitioners, who claimed it induced a meditative trance.
- Avant-garde composers, who hailed it as a “proto-minimalist masterpiece.”
- Sleep therapists, who found that most listeners achieved deep REM sleep by the tenth repetition.
No recordings on major labels are available.
