40. gestation

24. Against the muddy tide

SOURCE:  scan of Dirk Stoop's engraving Aqua Triumphalis (Aug. 23, 1662, preceding the wedding of Charles II) at the National Maritime Museum; available at http://www.historyextra.com/river

Images like the one above are a healthy reminder to me that George I was not the first to have elaborate festivities on the Thames.  And yet the date that will always be most associated with such water parties must surely be 17 July 1717—the impending tercentenary of which I simply must mark with this post.  As musical water parties are known to have happened in each of the three preceding summers, the eye-catching 7/17/1717 date may not be the first performance of Handel’s Water Music, but it is the earliest documented performance—and it is very well documented indeed.

Water Music fits into a long tradition of music for a social occasion; but as a musical structure itself, the work is shockingly innovative—an orchestral piece of unprecedented length and variety.  Are there any predecessors to rival it?  In a way, Water Music represents the first maturity of the orchestra—and, maybe except for occasional performances of Corelli concerti grossi, it must be the earliest music that can be said to fit into the established orchestra repertoire.  While modern symphony orchestras have largely abandoned the Baroque, edged-out by their HIP rivals, Water Music is still performed by all sorts of ensembles, and seems to be a perennial crowd-pleaser.  New recordings (and cheap reissues of old ones) emerge year after year, and twice in recent years (2003 and 2012) there have been conspicuous performances on the Thames itself—conspicuous enough for me to have noticed, anyway.

SOURCE:  Daily Mail image of the 3 June 2012 Jubilee flotilla on the Thames; the Academy of Ancient Music website has some entertaining videos concerning their part of the festivities.

Probably the work seldom gets performed intact.  The 22 movements that comprise what we call Water Music do not cohere in any traditional pattern, and that has caused problems for Handel scholars in the past.  Lacking an autograph, it was assumed that the strange sequence of movements indicated that something had been garbled in transmission.  Here is a handy index from Christopher Hogwood’s Cambridge Music Handbook:

SOURCE:  cropped scan of pp. 18-19 of Handel:  Water Music and Music for the Royal Fireworks (2005)

As indicated by the catalogue numbers of the Handel Werke Verzeichnis (HWV), Water Music has been allotted three entries—the movements in F (and two in D minor) are HWV 348; those in D major are HWV 349; and those in G major/minor are HWV 350.  HWV thus presents three “suites” together making up a larger collected work.  Lacking any further evidence, this division would be wholly reasonable—and it is more practical in performance, as each suite is unified not only by key but by instrumentation (with trumpets appearing only in the movements on HWV 349, and no brass at all in HWV 350, which instead features flute and recorder).  The idea that the conglomeration of movements that we think of as “Handel’s Water Music” actually comprise three separate works goes back to Handel’s time: some manuscript copies dating from the late 1730s and early 1740s, together with  the 1743 Walsh keyboard arrangement presents the movements grouped together into the three suites.  That sequence took over the received history, and thus the three catalogue numbers.  The work had appeared as three suites in the Hällische Händel Ausgabe (HHA) in 1962, and that imprimatur led to a myriad of recordings that present Water Music so allotted.  And it works:  I was at a concert not that long ago that had the F major suite at the beginning of the program, a smattering of Bach and Telemann in the middle, and the last two suites as the conclusion, the whole making a very satisfying musical experience.

SOURCE:  scan first page of score (f. 2) of 1718 ms.
in the library of the Royal Society of Musicians [no shelfmark];
scan from https://museums.eu/event/details/120375/handels-water-music

Given Handel’s default modus operandi, it would seem a little unusual if Water Music wasn’t to some extent a thing of shreds and patches.  Terence Best points at the solo violins in the fugal section of the French overture, suggesting that that sort of writing would have been inaudible in the open air, and thus likely to have been retained (unthinkingly?) from some preëxisting work.  And yet, as Best is also at pains to point out, all of the earliest manuscript copies not only mix movements of the D and G “suites” together, but in fact they all preserve most or all of the 22 movements in very nearly the same order.  The 2004 discovery of the earliest known manuscript copy (datable to 1718 [and the first page is shown at right])—which gives the 22 movements in precisely the same sequence as the first published full score (ed. Samuel Arnold in 1788), a sequence familiar to us because Arnold’s edition was the primary source for Chrysander’s in the old complete works volume (1886).  We do not know Arnold’s source (although Best [p. 102] argues reasonably that it was indeed this source), but the newly-discovered copy is enough to verify that this sequence of movements was known within a year of the supposed 1717 premiere.  The HHA has thus now issued a new volume (2007, co-edited by Best and Hogwood) to supersede the old.  (This pair of editions would make an ideal topic for my series of “moving targets,” but I haven’t done sufficient homework comparing them to write that up yet.  Eventually.)

So what about that unusual sequence, now being restored to favor?  It is a curious hybrid of suite and concertante forms, and it doesn’t even settle down to just one sort of suite.  It opens with a French overture, interrupted before a final cadence by a solo oboe number; following that is really an Italian overture (fast-slow-fast) featuring the horns; then a series of conventional dances or dance-like numbers (menuets, bourrée, hornpipe, “Air”).  After all the F major movements are done, there follows a d-minor number displaying Handel’s orchestrational technique at its most forward-looking—but which is hardly either a closing or an opening to a suite.  Thereafter, in Hogwood’s words,

“From this point in the suite both the scoring and the changes of tonality become more varied, a strategy that seems designed to maintain attention through an hour-long performance—the length of time of a full act in an opera, but no other musical form to date.”  [p. 35]

The brilliant brass writing that follows is closer to Handel’s (subsequent) concerti a due cori than to anything else—in other words concertante writing again  The remaining dances are diverse and diverting, but there is no conclusion as substantial as those of Telemann’s Tafelmusik; the “Trumpet Menuet” that de facto brings the whole thing to a close seems perfunctory, and to my ear the weakest part of the whole set.

SOURCE:  discogs.com

Given his later scholarship on this work, I was curious to revisit Hogwood's own recording (1978).  It is inevitably a product of its time.  Hogwood not only followed the three suite model of the original HHA, but also interpolated two much later F-major reworkings of the two central D-major trumpet/horn numbers.  Wonderful music as these are, their inclusion here only muddies the textual waters.  And to confuse things further, Decca several times reissued only either the “horn suite” or the “trumpet suite” from these sessions.  Hogwood’s dominance in the recording market place in the 1980s and 1990s has surely meant that—for better or worse—these performances have played a large role in shaping our sense of the work.  (Or works?)  I’m not even sure that it is a problem, but it is worth acknowledging.  (A similar issue came up in a post concerning Bach’s Brandenburg Concertos.)

I tried an informal experiment for this post:  listening to a recording with the CD or MP3 player set on SHUFFLE, hoping to see if any resulting sequence of movements would be viable.  It won’t, at least for me, but if we were to view the whole thing as a sort of compendium of music to keep the party going, a number of routes might work.  A crucial difference is to have a musical intelligence making the decision, rather than just a mechanical randomization.  In other words, it requires a deejay.

22. Sourcing nostalgia

In his brilliant volume The Ingalls Wilder Family Songbook, which comprises all of the music mentioned in the “Little House” novels of Laura Ingalls Wilder (1867-1957), Dale Cockrell allows that

“As object, no such songbook ever existed.  As a representation of the common musical experience of a given era and region, however, this heretofore hypothetical songbook might well have informed the musical understandings of more Americans than many a real bindings-and-paper edition.” [p. xiv]

SOURCE:  A-R Editions

So Cockrell (with the editors of the distinguished Music of the United States of America series) gives us a bindings-and-paper volume manifesting this imagined collection—and a hefty tome it is. This is an anthology of disparate materials.  It is a fascinating read, even for one relatively unfamiliar with the Ingalls Wilder novels.  (I need to borrow them from my kids.  I’ll do that.  Eventually.)

Cockrell’s sequencing of the items is sensible and does exactly what he says he wants it too:  it exhibits the broad range of repertory that formed such an integral part of family life in the Dakota Territory.  The first section, encompassing music that Wilder would have known from the oral tradition, has sections for Children’s Songs, Fiddle Tunes, and Folk Songs (although of course all of Cockrell’s sources for this are published, some from much later in the twentieth century)  The second section comes from music that would have been disseminated in print in Wilder’s time. It is an interesting list, which he amply justifies in his preface.

Concert/Theater Songs   [Cockrell parses this as music originally intended for public entertainment]
Hymns/Sunday School Songs
Parlor Songs    [for domestic entertainment]
Scottish/Irish Songs
Singing School Music

For this conglomeration of disparate repetoire, Cockrell has had to devise criteria for selecting his primary source for each item.  He describes three ideal critieria:

1)  “If there is physical evidence that Wilder was actually referencing a specific titled publication or a title from a published collection, then that, ipso facto, would be chosen for editing.” [p. xlii] 

This is true of seven items in his repertory, all from the 1871 songbook Pure Gold for the Sunday School.  Sometimes Wilder herself even cites the page number in this collection.

SOURCE:  screenshot of title page from archive.org scan of Pure Gold for the Sunday School (1871)

2)  “If there is compelling circumstantial evidence that Wilder was actually referencing a specific titled publication or a title from a published collection, then that would be chosen for editing.”  [Ibid.]

For example, Cockrell argues persuasively that The Conqueror (1880) was the singing school book purchased by Almanzo Wilder at the singing school in De Smet in the fall of 1884, when he became engaged to Laura Ingalls (as recounted in These Happy Golden Years).  Thus The Conqueror becomes his primary source, trumping a different collection that remains to this day in the Wilder estate.  (For the full compelling argument you must read Cockrell, p. xliii.)  Incidentally, The Conqueror contains the most exciting advertisement I’ve ever seen in such publications.

Cockrell's third criterion proved to be too idealistic:

3) “For titles without such evidence, the musical source most consistent chronologically and geographically with Wilder’s narrative of the Ingalls family would be chosen for editing.  Ideally, this would mean an imprint or collection from the 1870s or early 1880s out of Chicago or the upper Midwest.”  [p. xlii]

As Cockrell explains,

“It quickly became clear that the madness in these few words far outstripped the method.  Few of the titles referenced in the Little House books were published in Chicago or the upper Midwest during the books’ chronological period, and some earlier published numbers were no longer in print at all during the 1869-1885 period.  A rigorous application of the selection criteria left many exceptions to justify, ultimately an affront to the faith in order in logic that underlies the scholar’s craft.  It was time to rethink the rationale behind the criterion.”  [p. xlv]

I am less troubled by these chronological problems than he is.  When I remember the printed music of my childhood, I think of the contents of piano benches in my grandparents’ homes, and there nothing was more recent than three decades before my birth, and quite a few things were then forty or fifty years old—tattered, torn, taped, and clearly family favorites.  I can only imagine that in Wilder’s youth—when printed music was even harder to come by—such publications would be retained for decades after purchase too.  In any case, his more practical revision to criterion #3 fixes the problem, even if to my mind it goes to an extreme:

3 [rev.])   “For all other titles, the first publication or collection in the United States would be chosen for editing.”  [p. xlvi]

Admirable a project as this is, however, I am disappointed because the product is not what it might have been.  Although it is part of MUSA (Music of the United States of America), a series of scholarly editions that has featured a range of creative editorial approaches, I wonder if the forethought of the offprint series Laura's Music—the considerably cheaper and more practical issues aimed at an educational market—had any consequences on the production of this parent volume.  The main consequence that concerns me is how neat and tidy it all is.  This volume preserves the look of the MUSA series, in that every item has been newly computer-set.  Standard as this practice is in music publishing, in this instance I think it would have been better to leave some (if not indeed the majority) of these as digital scans of the source material.  Although of course some expense would be associated with acquiring the high-resolution scans needed, a considerable expense was already used in the new setting of the music, and the multiple stages of proofreading it.  In the spirit of “teach a man to fish...,” I believe this would be considerably more useful volume if it were to instruct the user how to read the nineteenth-century sources (in all of their notational variety) than to present polished twenty-first-century standardized versions of the texts.  (In a sense this complaint follows from the end of my previous post, quoting Peter Williams about editors willfully misrepresenting sources in order to present them in a standardized new edition.)

For example, why can the reader not be trusted to learn how to deal with a score layout for four-part harmony that puts the melody on the third stave?  At least Cockrell retains the open score (that is, a staff for each voice); but why must he move the melody to the top?

SOURCE:  detail of scan of p. 149 of The Conqueror as available at archive.org

SOURCE:  detail of scan of Cockrell edition, p. 318.

Not only would I say that the clean, new presentation does not offer any real advantage over the source text, it actually loses something—namely the notational conventions of the source.  This loss was of course intentional, but I feel it is a pity.

Cockrell also generally removes the mid-bar phrasing barlines characteristic of nineteenth-century hymnals, arguing that “[r]etention of the now archaic barline-convention would, I believe, cause much more confusion than illumination” [p. 343].  In heaven’s name why?  Does he expect the user of this volume to be too dense to understand such a basic practice?  (Omitting these extra barlines substantially simplifies the computer-setting (a subject of a prior post), of course, but that’s no justification.)

Similarly, preserving more recent notation practice, in some instances Cockrell makes minute modifications to rests and repeat signs “to accommodate all rhythmic contingencies” [p. 349].  See the adjustment here to the last bar of each strain:

SOURCE:  detail of scan of p. 5 of Ryan’s Mammoth Collection  as available at violinsheetmusic.org

SOURCE:  detail of scan of Cockrell edition, p. 19.  (I was surprised to see no comment in the critical notes to indicate that many sources give the first sixteenth-note of b. 4 a tone higher, but as Ryan served as his sole source for this item, I guess there was no obligation to note this oddity.  Curiously, though, Cockrell's note does not record that he has omitted Ryan's D.C. indication )

In the fiddle tune “Money Musk,” Cockrell imposes repeats in order to make it conform with “conventions observed in the fiddle tune tradition” to yield a repeating AABBAABB... pattern.  By relying on one source only, he can’t discuss whether other fiddle tunebooks have these repeats.

In his efforts to track down all of the music referenced by Wilder, he only once fails to locate anything—“The Red Heifer”—and his account of it is consequently one of the most interesting in the volume:

SOURCE:  cropped scan of Cockrell, p. 354.

Nonetheless, in other instances I had my doubts that he had settled on the right version of the tune.  His source selected for “The Girl I Left Behind Me” gives the tune more or less as I know it, but it doesn't match the scansion of the lyrics that Wilder quotes, which made me suspect that she had a different melody in mind.  (“Let the toast pass” is a similar situation.) The fiddle tune “The Devil’s Dream” is a stand-in for one Wilder more than once refers to as “Devil’s Hornpipe,” which according to Cockrell is otherwise undocumented.  He sagely notes “it is not uncommon for autonomous tunes, especially ones with local dissemination, to escape collection.”  I am not surprised that the vernacular fiddle-tunes seem to have the most slippery textual problems in this volume.

I shouldn’t be complaining.  Cockrell set himself a Herculean task:  locating and evaluating the disparate sources of Wilder’s musical autobiography, starting essentially from scratch.  Even if he didn’t fulfill this in the way I might want it, he nonetheless fulfilled the task very well.

19. (im)posing

which is the sixth installment of the Settling Scores

In this post I consider an edition of a central item in the Bach keyboard repertoire, BWV 971, the Italian Concerto from Clavierübung II.  The edition at hand was the work of Rosalyn Tureck (1914-2003), and it was published by G. Schirmer in 1983 under an imprint revealing that it was to be the first of many:

SOURCE:  cropped scan of the title page of Tureck’s 1983 edition

The series nameplate combines three terms that do not necessarily mix well:  critical edition, performance edition, and urtext.  (Later issues in the short-lived series add facsimile to the namplate, and this is accurate as each one includes a facsimile reproduction of her principal source(s), although sometimes these are reduced in size or too faint to be very useful.)

A critical edition is particular type of scholarly edition:  it is the product of the studious application of some text-critical method involving multiple sources.  In musical editions these methods are usually deployed in pursuit either of the earliest version penned by a composer, the last version as revised by a composer, or (increasingly, so it seems to me) a version that the composer never got down on paper but for which there is some authoritative evidence; but a critical edition need not seek a version known to the composer, but might seek a subsequent version (like Mendelssohn’s or Vaughan Williams’s re-scorings of Bach’s St. Matthew Passion—in either case the usual Bach sources would be generally irrelevant to the text-critical process).  Whatever goal a critical edition is aiming for, I am all in favor of it when it is done well.

Many critical editions also claim the label urtext, which was coined to refer to the original reading of a text, but which in musical editions has come to describe little more than editions purged of interpretive editorial accretions—slurs and other articulation marks, dynamics, fingerings, pedalings, bowings, etc.  In that sense an urtext may not prove to be “critical” in the sense described above.  I would argue that an edition based on a single source—that is, in which there has been no collation of variant readings—cannot be a critical edition in its strict sense, although it may well be an urtext in at least the marketing sense.  (Although a number of webpages credit the publisher Günter Henle as the first to apply the term to music, the OED has a 1932 citation from the TLS referring to “the nearest thing possible in Chopin’s case to an Urtext,” and Breitkopf & Härtel used it for a series of publications in the 1890s.)

A performance edition aims to make visible to the user the various unwritten or obscure conventions that are otherwise invisible on the page—or, indeed, performance practices that are quite far removed from the composer.  Editorial additions to the text in such editions vary widely, and sometimes recognizing them for what they are can be difficult, as you have to know what a composer “looks like” to know when something has been added; at other times the interpretive suggestions are bleedingly obvious.  And—as I indicated in my very first post—I don’t disparage such editions in the least, as they are vital resources in understanding performance conventions of their time.  The goals of urtext and performing editions are  essentially at odds.  While it is a standard practice to adapt a text to modern notation conventions (for example, using treble and bass clefs only for keyboard music), many editions I see marketed as urtexts make more extensive concessions to aid in performers’ interpretations.  Tureck’s does this, but at least she explains in her preface exactly the sorts of interpretive marks she has added.   Nonetheless, her approach to these editions seems to transfer them out of the urtext realm into something else altogether.

The two other issues of the Tureck’s series were the lute suites BWV 996 and 997 adapted for the guitar.  These bear a curious note in which the editor insists that “[t]he Suites in this series, edited for classical guitar, are not arrangements.  This edition preserves the original form of Bach’s compositions” [p. ii].  Indeed?  An urtext for the wrong instrument?  If the word arrangement was too slippery for her to assert authority, why not transcription?  Clearly adjustments have been made in order to make this playable at all:  “Where notes are considered unplayable on the guitar the editor does not omit them.  For the sake of musical completeness they are included within parentheses in the musical text.  8ve signifies an octave above the original register, an editorial solution” [BWV 996, p. v].  An “editorial solution,” that is, to a problem created by the editor.  These are transcriptions—very good ones, perhaps, made by an authority on Bach performance—but they unnecessarily claim a specious scholarly objectivity.  She is posing to be more than she is.

So too her edition of the Italian Concerto (which Tureck significantly describes as edited “for Harpsichord or Piano”), which presents not merely a critically-established text, but overlays it with her interpretation.  The fidelity is not thus to the text of the work but rather to a learned artist’s understanding of it.  She glosses the Italian Concerto so that we can see what she perceives when she reads the music.  Not that there’s anything wrong with that:  I am reminded of Malcolm Bilson’s complaint that everyone uses urtext editions but few know how to read them. Tureck’s profuse prefatory remarks give the impression that hers is—for the first time ever—the text Bach meant.

“No autograph copy of the Italian Concerto exists.  Although several manuscripts in other hands are extant, the most reliable source is Bach’s own corrected copy of the first printing, published in 1735, in which revisions are set down in his hand. [Bach-Digital description here.]  The second printing appeared in 1736.  The inestimable value of Bach’s text is self-evident.  It is a rare instance in the keyboard works of direct contact with the original textual and performance intentions of Johann Sebastian.  The editor employs this musical text [i.e., the 1736 edition or the hand-corrected 1735 edition?] for this edition which, besides being an urtext edition, is also edited for performance on the piano or the harpsichord according to all the original indications in Bach’s corrected copy.  The stem directions, which in the editor’s opinion are of prime importance, have also been preserved as closely as possible.... [p. iii]  It has long been the custom to present a ‘clean’ score with urtext references, leaving the performer to find the way to performance solutions.  This procedure has served two functions:  (1) it has rescued editions from erroneous music texts and anachronistic performance directions[,] and (2) it has reflected scholarly research and orientation.  The bare urtext editions give the performing musician and teacher contact with the scholar’s approach and with increasingly reliable scores which provide a textual foundation upon which an authentic performance art may be developed....”  [p. iv]

The eyes glaze over at some point, and she relies increasingly on an authoritarian passive voice:

“In addition to current editing procedures, performance practices must now be introduced if musicians are to employ an urtext which will contribute to an authentic performance style.  Heretofore, the performer has been left uninstructed, an impossible practice for music composed some 250 years ago. Innumerable specific, historical performance practices are identifiable, and substantial data concerning them are available....  This edition integrates the textual sources with Bach’s own performance indications and historical style, based on Baroque performance practices for harpsichord. These practices, when combined with an uncompromising purity of Baroque style, considerations of the musical structure, and a fitting piano technique, have valid applications on the piano.” [p. iv]

Paul Badura-Skoda blasts this edition in his Interpreting Bach at the Keyboard, particularly in a section he calls “The Urtext Problem: An Imaginary Interview” [p. 188-200], where he imagines all the questions he wants to be asked and so that he can respond pithily.  In particular he takes Tureck to task for her radical proposal that in the second movement the accompanying alto line may be ornamented.  See her note before the beginning of the movement:

SOURCE:  digital scan of Tureck ed., p. 8

Whatever else one might say of this edition, it doesn't have the look of an Urtext.  As promised, it is laden with interpretive information.  These alto-line embellishments are a step too far for Badura-Skoda:

B.-S.  Look, if a professional musicologist comes up with a sensational claim such as, for example, that in the second movement of the Italian Concerto the alto voice should be freely embellished throughout, then he or she should adduce some evidence to support it.  I know of no Italian or German treatise written during Bach's lifetime that suggests the embellishment of accompanying (in contrast to imitative) inner voices.  Thus one might expect from Dr Tureck some evidence or explanation for such a claim... 

DR C.  Doesn’t she point to the fact that the thirds in the lower system of the Andante have two tails [stems] throughout, thus proving that they are two distinct voices? 

B.-S.  This is simply a naïve remark and doesn’t prove anything.  Everyone who is acquainted with the keyboard music of the eighteenth century knows that it was common notational practice to add tails to all thirds, sixths, and so on.  This even occurs in Haydn and Mozart.  If what she says were true, one could also, in the Italian Concerto, set about enriching the accompaniment of bars 30f., 46f., and 129f. of the first movement with ornaments. 

DR C.  But Tureck points to bar 17 of the second movement, where, in the first edition, there really is a Pralltriller sign in the middle voice... 

B.-S.  ... which is almost certainly an engraver’s error...  [p. 195f.; the ellipses are his]

He belabors this point at some length, adding that her suggested execution of the trill is wrong “because the Pralltriller formula she adduces is not found in a single treatise before 1757, seven years after Bach died.”

This notwithstanding, the only thing that irks me about Tureck’s edition is that she overreaches, imposing her way as the one true path to Bach.  Badura-Skoda does the same.  Maybe this is an occupational hazard for performers, but particularly for one who communed with the composer as “the high priestess of Bach.”  And, like any editor, Tureck is delighted when she can restore some textual variant in order to give us the truth:

“As a result of this comparative analysis, the editor brings to light an error in the first movement which appears in well-known 19th and 20th century editions including the Neue Bach Ausgabe.  At measures 13-14 the figure in the soprano had been altered to match measures 175-176 in the closing da capo section.  This figure is restored in this edition to its original version.”  [p. iii]

The figure to which she refers is this:

SOURCE: composite; my own transcriptions (clefs updated) from the first edition (1735) from IMSLP #417409

Tureck makes a big deal of this, but other editors before her have noted the oddity and opted to regularize.  Badura-Skoda’s response: “In the other Bach concertos initial and final tuttis of a movement are identical, which means that this discrepancy goes back to an engraver’s error that Bach overlooked” [p. 198].  Just off the top of my head I can think of one closing ritornello markedly different from the opening—the first movement of Bach's second “Brandenburg” concerto. (When another example occurred to me, I find that it is slippery—so slippery that, rather than digress here, I will plan to get back to it a future post; if you want to whet your appetite, you can see it here.)

In any case, “Original version” may be too much for Tureck to claim, as it appears that this figured had changed a bit before the 1735 publication.  A manuscript copied by Johann Christoph Oley (1735-1789) held by the Boston Public Library (details at Bach-Digital here, but a scan is available at the IMSLP) presented an earlier reading of the text which Oley subsequently updated to match the published version (altering even the title page to conform—see the account in the NBA Kritischer Bericht).  Wherever they might be placed metrically, these twiddles seem to have been second thoughts.  In these and other instances Oley has originally written 16th-notes, and then crammed the extra note in to make a pair of 32nds.  (Note that here, in addition to the cramped space, often the stem of the added note does not cross the closest beam, although in the places where Oley originally wrote 32nds (as throughout the second movement), the stems cross all the way to the main beam.)

SOURCE:  cropped screenshots from Oley MS, at IMSLP #302163

Even here, Oley doesn’t quite match the printed text: in bb. 73-74, the 32nds are early (by which I mean, on the first half of each half-beat); in bb. 175-76, the first pair is early, while the other two pairs accord with the printed reading.

Tureck’s labors devoted to Bach interpretation are admirable—especially her “progressive anthology” series, An Introduction to the Performance of Bach (3 vols, Oxford,  1960).  Most interesting there is a sort of etude in which she has rewritten the C-major 2-part invention (BWV 772) so that the hands are essentially reversed “for the development of flexible thinking in two parts”:

SOURCE:  cropped page scan  from Tureck, An Introduction to the Performance of Bach, vol. 2, p. 14

This series is naturally a product of its time.  (See especially her discussion of the sources of the Aria Variata, BWV 989, in vol. 3, p. 7)  The same is true of the Schirmer series from the 1980s.  This edition of the Italian Concerto remains in print, and it is part of a long tradition of instructional editions.  Its presumption to be more than it is probably does no harm—but a phrase from an earlier Badura-Skoda publication come to mind (co-written with his wife, Eva):  “[i]t would be a good thing if the use of the word ‘Urtext’ were protected by law...” [p. 129], rather like Champagne and organic in some jurisdictions.  It sells well, but is the label accurate?