Anyone who interviewed lutenist Fred Jacobs about, for example, the forgotten 17th-century Italian composer Johannes Hieronymus Kapsperger then went home – somewhat dizzy – with a treasure chest full of knowledge. Because music reflects the world in which it arises, Jacobs believed. And the composer Kapsperger was with famous contemporaries such as astronomer Galileo Galilei, Pope Urban VIII and sculptor Gian Lorenzo Bernini. So Jacobs gave you a treatise on politics, religion, science, architecture, art and philosophy from the first half of the 17th century for free.
“If homo universalis still existed, he would definitely be one,” says soprano Emma Kirkby. “Fred knew more about my English heritage than I did.” Kirkby and Jacobs toured with 17th-century British songs. “A favorite song of his was ‘Grant Me Ye Gods’ by John Blow, which begins: ‘Grant me, O gods, the life that I love.’ And Fred loved it. Everywhere he went – as a musician or as a person – he exuded a zest for life.”
Revelation
Jacob’s love for the lute began in his mid-teens. He grew up with his younger brother Rob in Asten, Brabant. Their father worked in the office of the Te Strake machine factory. The local music school offered a limited choice of instruments, Jacobs started on violin and guitar. As a student at the Peelland College in Deurne, he discovered Baroque music and sang 16th-century pieces in the choir. But his violin could not produce that magical sound world.
The revelation suddenly came in the mid-1970s. He got the album Julian Bream plays Dowland gift and fell in love with the British guitarist’s playing. “For two years, every morning while making my bed, I listened to it. Only when the cassette tape gave up the ghost did it stop. I have not heard a recording more often in my life,” he said in NRC. Since then, Jacobs wanted nothing more than to dedicate his existence to the lute, the instrument for which Dowland (1563-1626) wrote his pieces.
Fred Jacobs in 1985.
Photo private archive
The path of study he chose required financial sacrifices from the family. “We’ll do it,” his father concluded. “But then you have to become very good.” Words that Jacobs carried with him for the rest of his life – he wanted nothing more. He started at the Maastricht Conservatory and, as soon as the opportunity arose, moved to Amsterdam, where the British musician Anthony Bailes played and taught the lute.
He got into the veins of their music. He was one with his instrument
Both string instruments were rediscovered around the 1970s with the rise of the early music movement, after having disappeared from view for about a century and a half. “I’m glad I wasn’t born in the 19th century,” Jacobs always said. From the 1980s onwards he developed into a pioneer in resurrecting the lute and theorbo. It was the time when he forged close musical ties with conductor Jos van Veldhoven, among others.
“Fred was more English than the English, more French than the French and more Italian than the Italians,” says Van Veldhoven. “He got into the veins of their music. He was one with his instrument irresistible game he lured people in its circle of sound.”
The two worked together for about three decades in the Dutch Bach Society. “Outside the concert hall, Fred remained a native of Brabant, who loved socializing, drinking and eating, the latest gossip and anecdotes. And he did not mince his words. I remember a concert of the Bach Society around the Peace of Utrecht, with many high guests including Queen Beatrix. The cramped stage did not take into account the two-meter long theorbo. Fred almost sat on the queen’s lap, whereupon he said the legendary words: ‘Your Majesty, would you maybe want to move up a bit?’ She did it without complaint.”
Meaty sound
Jacobs was a driving force in various baroque ensembles. For the longest time – forty years – he played in the British Gabrieli Consort and Players of Paul McCreesh, who “without exaggeration” consider him one of the best lutenists and theorbo players in the world. “Besides that, Fred was blessed with a sense of humor and elegance. I saw him in jeans exactly once. And he had a quality that we British appreciate: self-mockery. We once did Henry Purcell’s ‘The Fairy Queen’ in the immense Royal Albert Hall. I wanted to play the final dance on guitars. Fred didn’t like it. “You can do that,” I said. “Of course,” he grinned. “But you don’t think I’m going to walk around London with a guitar case, do you?”
Jacobs found the refinement he loved especially in French music. “He always looked for the sublime,” says former student Arjen Verhage. This was inspiring and at the same time difficult for his pupils at the Amsterdam Conservatory – he demanded the same surrender from them. Yet they all stayed with him until the end of their studies.
“His tone formation was special,” says Verhage. “He aimed for a meaty sound: the use of the entire fingertips. ‘In the strings’, he called it. Compare it with the difference between harpsichord and piano. In the harpsichord, a hook – in our case a fingernail – makes the string vibrate. That gives a somewhat nasal tone. On the piano, hammers with felt hit the strings, which produces a round, sweet tone. That was Fred’s style.”
Playing became impossible
Six years ago, Jacobs suffered from tinnitus and later from osteoarthritis in his playing hand. “Twice before, Fred had had a tough time with neck and back complaints,” says his partner Jan Spee, with whom he had been together for more than thirty years. “He came out of that. Even now he continued to search for healing, but this time in vain. Playing became impossible. An unbearable thought for Fred. Making music was his source of life, from which everything came.”
Soprano Johannette Zomer, with whom Jacobs made many albums, also saw how he “felt pushed into a corner by his body. We said: ‘You know so much, pass on that knowledge, write books, give lectures.’ But he was fused with his instrument. Fred always stepped forward as queen of the partyfull of life, one cloud of energy, musically searching for new horizons. He made others – including me – shine. And I thought he was even more phenomenal solo. Then he turned out to be in his element, because for once he didn’t have to be of service.”
Spee saw how Jacobs isolated himself. “His world shrank. At the beginning of this year, his mother, who gave Fred a lot of support, died. He didn’t want to anymore. I saw him suffer. He talked to a doctor about euthanasia, but that would have been a process that dragged on for years. Finally he decided to take control of his death into his own hands.”
Fred Jacobs died on August 29, at the age of 63.
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