commitment to it is exposed as prejudice, no longer fitting facts but only a predefined notion of a
Zeitgeist.
Thus, to believe that pervading imitation “emancipated” music or its composers from the “tyranny” of
the cantus firmus, however thrilling or gratifying it may be to us personally, only makes problems for us as
historians. For one thing, it renders us unable to understand how it is that imitation and cantus firmus
techniques can coexist so happily—and especially in Josquin’s work, as we may see in Ex. 14-9, the
beginning of Benedicta es, coelorum regina (“Blessed art thou, O Queen of the Heavens”), a sequence
motet that circulated mainly during Josquin’s “posthumous” period (that is the period of his widespread
dissemination in German prints). Benedicta es was a particular favorite of Glareanus himself, and
popular, thanks to him, with all the German humanists.
In fact, like so many ancient musical techniques, cantus firmus writing has never died out at all.
Imitation no more replaced cantus firmus than (to recall an analogous discussion in the first chapter of this
book) literacy replaced oral practices. The one joined the other, affecting it, to be sure, but never
altogether supplanting it. Cantus firmus technique is still an available option, and one universally studied
by aspiring composers even now. So neither literacy nor pervading imitation can be simply understood as
liberations. Their histories are far more complex—and far more interesting—than that. And that is one
more reason why the narrative in this book is making such strenuous and self-advertising efforts to avoid
concepts like “The Middle Ages” and “The Renaissance.” When turned into dueling Zeitgeists they are
obstacles, not aids, to seeing things, let alone understanding them.
EX. 14-9 Josquin des Prez, Benedicta es, coelorum regina, mm. 1–10